“The asteroid, now . . . Asteroids and comets are mechanistic; they do not have choice as we perceive it. Thus, given adequate information, they are far easier to predict. But they are not absolutely predictable. The physical plane has laws of operation, one of which is ‘uncertainty,’ which goes well beyond what is known by statisticians and quantum and chaos physicists.
“So even this afternoon, it wasn’t known where, after its long trip, the asteroid would impact. It could have struck almost anywhere—China, England, America . . . even the Antarctic icecap, in which case the long-term results would have been extremely interesting.
“Meanwhile the human species, along with all of life, the universe, the Tao, continues to evolve.”
Lee sat quietly, staring out a window at the lights of an approaching town. “I think I need to sleep on it,” she said.
“Good idea. Dreams knit up not only ‘the raveled sleeve of care,’ to quote the Bard, but sometimes the diverse threads of understanding.”
She reclined her seat and closed her eyes. The diverse threads of understanding! Vague memories of dreams moved in softly, dreams she’d seldom remembered for longer than seconds. Then she slept . . .
. . . To awaken groggy and disoriented, when they parked at the Fort Smith airport. Walking to the chartered turboprop, she sorted the dregs of dreams from the reality around her. It was across the aisle from her that Lor Lu chose to sit, and after she tilted her seat back, she spoke quietly to him.
“What are you smiling about?” she murmured.
He countered just as quietly: “You tell me.”
“You’re smiling because Dove’s not dead.”
“Not dead? We watched his death on television together.”
“He’s not dead. He simply vacated his body. I can feel him hanging around.”
Lor Lu’s smile broadened to a grin. “Really?”
“You’re teasing me. You’ve known it all along. And he’s not somewhere ‘up there.’ He’s right here. Heaven . . .” She paused. Not heaven; the word had too much baggage attached. “Wherever he is, it’s not ‘up there’; it’s all around us.”
She paused again, then continued thoughtfully. “You know, your old organization chart wasn’t very good, but it functioned. My project was useful but not essential, and there are other consultants who could have helped you. Why me? Why fly all the way to Connecticut to recruit Ben and me?”
Lor Lu spoke as softly as she. “You have much to share. You’re only beginning to discover how much. And you have been a part of Ngunda Aran’s people in other lifetimes, both you and Ben. Also, you had agreed in advance. Thus you were gathered.”
She didn’t reply, didn’t even examine his answer. She simply closed her eyes, and within a minute fell asleep again.
Another dream was waiting.
Acknowledgements
Before I could begin to write this novel, I had to decide on what Ngunda’s teachings would be. It was not a serious problem. The teachings in Chelsea Quinn Yarbro’s four “Michael books” are the most interesting, coherent, and rereadable I’ve run into.
I’ve also been influenced by that remarkable compilation of inspiration, dogma, folklore, history and poetry known as The Holy Bible, by volumes of commentary on it, and by decades of absorption via cultural osmosis. And by numerous other books read over the decades, their authors as diverse as (in alphabetical order) Jacques Barzun, Alfred Korzybski, Jerry Simmons, Huston Smith, Jan Christiaan Smuts, D.T. Suzuki, Paramhansa Yogananda, and Gary Zukav. If my memory was better, the list would be longer.
I owe thanks to several author friends for their critiques of my first draft: novelists Mary Jane Engh, Jim Glass, and Jim Burk, and sociologist/author Dr. Jerry Simmons. The first two in particular really beat me up, and properly so. Sue Jones of Auntie’s Bookstore in Spokane read and commented on an early draft from the point of view of an informed and dedicated Protestant Christian. Thanks are also due a Catholic religious historian and a Jesuit brother for their time, tolerance, and comments. (I was assured there’ll never be an Irish pope, but I wrote one in anyway, for my Irish-born grandmother. Forty years ago, who’d have predicted a Polish pope?) And to novelist Patty Briggs, for her extensive comments on a later draft. Kathy Healy, of the Spokane Word Weavers, gave her relentless critical attention to details in two drafts.