Gay Hendricks - The First Rule of Ten

“It says ‘Sheriff’!” someone yelled out. “He’s a cop!”

“Do it, before it’s too late,” called another member.

An older man began distributing small paper cups out of a canvas carryall. One by one, the Children raised them high, like chalices. A second man followed close behind, muttering something as he poured viscous amber liquid into each cup.

It was mass suicide-Heaven’s Gate, all over again.

I stepped close.

“I’m not a cop,” I said. “I’m a Tibetan lama. And I’m interested in the same thing you are. Liberation.”

They shifted in confusion. The thing about cult members is they really are children, children in a big family that functions smoothly as long as Daddy’s around. Take the father away and they’re quickly lost. I needed to become their replacement-Daddy, and fast.

Have I mentioned I’ve never had kids?

Work with what you’ve got, Ten.

I felt the rubbled ground through the soles of my shoes. Settled into an awareness of my body … my rib cage opening and closing … my heart pumping blood. I sucked oxygen in and released carbon dioxide out, in and out, deep, cleansing breaths. Possibly because of the thin air, or lack of sleep, or simply the intense weirdness of my situation, my awareness tilted into hyper-alert. I’d shifted into an altered state of consciousness. Yes, I was standing on this outcropping facing an anxious crowd, but another part of me was parked outside myself, watching everything unfold.

I asked that part for help.

Like a guardian deity, a low voice spoke into my ear. I recognized the tone. It was the voice of my lucid dream-neutral, neither male nor female. I opened my mouth and the words poured out:

“You want liberation more than life itself.” I saw a number of heads nodding. “And now you’re here, on this mountaintop, and Brother Eldon has promised you that if you do what he asks, you will find liberation. Total freedom. Right?” They nodded.

“Wrong,” I said, raising my voice. “You are wrong to believe this. Brother Eldon is wrong to teach it. You think liberation is a destination, a place to get to. That it lies somewhere else, anywhere else but right where you are. You think you have to leave your bodies to find freedom.” I found Jacob’s eyes. My voice trembled with conviction. “Don’t you know you can find freedom right here, right now, just with your heart?”

I heard the distant whup-whup of an approaching chopper. Search and Rescue, I thought. They had found us.

Then: “Brother Eldon! Brother Eldon is back!” a woman cried. “Praise God,” a man shouted. “Praise God,” others echoed.

The transport Huey closed in on us from the north, like a giant pterodactyl. It started its descent, then froze in midair, at a height of about 100 feet. I could see Liam’s bandaged face staring down at his flock from the copilot’s seat. Roach was leaning out of the opened side door, an assault rifle close to his side. I guess Liam wasn’t taking any chances with last-minute abstentions.

The chopper moved laterally and slipped behind the cult members. They turned away from me, necks craning upward. The pilot dropped the bird ten feet, illuminated the searchlight, and tilted the Huey slightly, so Liam was smiling directly down at his children, bathed in a circle of bright light.

Big Daddy was back.

Liam disappeared, and reappeared at the opening next to Roach. He mouthed something to his followers, but the noise of the rotaries drowned out the words. Liam held out his hands, as if in supplication, clasped them together, and mimed drinking from a cup.

“No!” I screamed. “Don’t!” A couple of the cult members downed their drinks and sank to their knees, praying. I ran to the front of the crowd.

“Don’t do it!” I yelled again. “Please!”

That’s when Liam caught sight of me.

The ground boiled with flying grit and dust, as the hovering chopper descended another 15 feet. A second helicopter materialized on the horizon, the turquoise A-Star this time, Dardon’s small white face peering wide-eyed through the glass. Right behind loomed the whirling twin turbines of the Sikorsky, a big white bird, its nose and tail dipped in red.

Liam’s mouth opened in a silent scream of rage. He grabbed Roach’s assault rifle and aimed for my forehead.

Where was my guardian deity now? I dropped.

And Liam’s chest was tattooed with bullets-a four-inch grouping at 25 yards. He looked down in astonishment, then tumbled out of the chopper and bounced like a rag doll on the harsh terrain, his graveled grave.

I spun around. Jacob stood behind me, face grim. He lowered his arm. He was holding a Wilson Combat.38 Supergrade, and I was pretty sure it was mine.

The Huey banked hard and executed a lateral lurch, clipping a steep rock face. Suddenly it turned on its side and dropped like a stone into the canyon, sending up a cloud of dust and snow. A moment of utter silence was followed by an erupting ball of flame.

The air reverberated from the explosion, overlaying a welcome sound-that of approaching rescue helicopters.

Jacob handed me my Wilson. It felt just as good in my hand as I remembered. “Nice shot.” I said. “Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. Two tours,” he answered.

“Mind if I take credit for your aim?”

He nodded in relief and hugged his young companion close. She started sobbing uncontrollably.

“This is my wife, Cassie,” he said. His smile was both proud and vulnerable, and I remembered the same mix of emotions he displayed watching that young couple at the farmer’s market. “Cassie’s pregnant. We couldn’t go through with this. There’s been enough death.”

“Congratulations. And I’m very pleased to meet you, Cassie.” She pulled away from Jacob’s chest and gave me a watery smile.

“Your husband is a very brave man,” I said.

This provoked a fresh bout of wails.

“I’m sorry,” she blubbed. “I’m just so emotional these days.”

Even in the midst of all this craziness, another penny dropped.

The air shook with the deafening roar of the descending Sikorsky. Its belly opened and a paramedic was lowered to the ground, holding a canvas duffle. He ran up, unzipped the bag, and started pulling out individual white plastic antidote kits, packed like little lunchboxes.

“There’s only the two,” I said, pointing to the unlucky pair of swallowers. They were doubled over. One was starting to retch. The paramedic ran over with two kits.

More paramedics and emergency personnel dangled from the copter like wasp stingers and dropped to the ground.

“Norbu! Let’s go!”

I looked over my shoulder. Somehow the A-Star had managed to perch on the one strut again, and Dardon was bellowing at me from the opened door. I ran over and leapt on board. I finally had some answers, and maybe a solution. I was happy to go.

We lifted, and banked north. The clustered Children of Paradise watched us float away, their faces tipped to the sky.

I pulled into John D’s place at dawn. The sizzle of adrenaline in my body had dimmed to a background hum; I could feel the dull ache of fatigue in my shoulders and arms, but otherwise I felt pretty good.

I opened the front door and called his name softly through the screen. A slow scuff of footsteps announced he was up. He pulled the screen door open, turned, and shuffled back into the living room without a word. He looked crumpled, inside and out.

I followed him. Dozens of photographs lay scattered in small heaps around his recliner, like autumn leaves after a windstorm. He picked one up and sank heavily into his chair, tears tracing the deep lines in his cheeks.

I walked to his side. He was clutching the photograph of himself and the boys.