John Hawks - The GoldenCity

As Dressler and Boone climbed the stairs to the gallery, Michael pulled off his shoes and lay down on the examination table in the center of the room. A Taiwanese physician named Lau came over and began to attach sensors to Michael’s arms and skull. Michael smelled Lau’s twist-of-lemon cologne and heard the sound of an air-conditioning fan. The shadows on the wall changed when the doctor moved to the other side of the table.

“All done,” Dr. Lau said quietly. “The microphone is on. They can hear us up in the gallery.”

“Okay. I’m ready.”

Several minutes passed and nothing happened. Michael’s eyes were shut, but he knew everyone was watching him. Maybe something was wrong. If he failed, Nathan Boone would tell Mrs. Brewster, and she would start a whisper campaign against him. Michael remembered what had happened to Dr. Richardson several months ago: the neurologist fled from the research center, but Boone’s men found him on a night ferry heading to Newfoundland and tossed him into the ocean.

He opened his eyes and saw Dr. Lau standing beside the table. “Are you comfortable, Mr. Corrigan?”

“You’ve done your job. Now go away.”

A shadow hand emerged from his skin and then was reabsorbed. Michael forgot about the watchers in the gallery and concentrated on his own body. He was aware of this energy inside him-the Light contained within every living thing. Slowly, the energy gained intensity, and it felt as if he were glowing.

He moved his right arm and something forced its way out of his skin. And there it was, an arm composed of little points of light, like a tiny constellation of stars. Within seconds, the rest of the Light followed, and he broke free of the cage that held him, the awkward heaviness of flesh and bone. He drifted upward and then was gone as the Light was pulled into the dark curve of the infinite.

The four barriers of air, earth, water and fire stood between him and the other realms. He passed through them quickly, moving toward each black space that allowed him to continue on. The fire barrier was last, and he paused there for a second, staring at the burning altar before he entered the passageway in the stained glass window. Something powerful was guiding his light in a particular direction; he felt as if all the atoms in his brain had been split apart and squeezed back together again.

When the moment passed, he was awake and floating in water. Michael panicked, reaching out with his arms and kicking his legs. His feet touched ground and he stood up, blinking and shivering like a shipwreck victim just rescued from the sea.

There was no immediate threat to his life-no sign of any other person or animal. His arms and legs could move. He could think, hear and see. The air was warm and the clouds above him were billowy and gray. He was standing in the middle of what looked like a massive rice paddy, divided by a grid of narrow levees. Every few yards, a thin stick emerged from the surface.

He examined the area around him and realized that whatever was growing here had nothing to do with rice. Broad leaves with thick stems lay on the surface of the water, and floating among the leaves were flowers that looked like cups molded from orange candle wax. Each flower gave off the wet odor of decay.

Before he could explore the area, he needed to mark the passageway back to his own world. Keeping his eyes on the spot, he gathered three sticks and jammed them into the mud, forming a crude tripod. As he sloshed through the water to get one more stick, his leg brushed against a round submerged object about the size of a pumpkin.

Michael reached into the water to investigate and something touched his hand. It was an animal-moving quickly and aware of the intruder in its world. The creature slithered through his legs, and then teeth as sharp and pointed as rows of needles pierced his skin. As he jerked up his leg, he saw a glistening black creature near the surface of the water. It had the body of a snake and the head of an eel.

Shouting and chopping at the water with his hands, Michael ran through the paddy. His wounded leg burned and he wondered if he had just been poisoned. A few yards from the levee, he stepped into deep mud and he had to force his way forward to the strip of dry land.

Pulling up his pants leg, he examined the wound, a jagged V made of little points of blood. Once the burning sensation faded, he stood up and surveyed this new world. The tripod of sticks that marked the passageway was about two hundred yards in front of him and the dark green water of the paddies extended to the horizon. Directly above him were three suns grouped in a triangle and half-obscured by the gray clouds. When crossing over, he moved towards light-the so-called “higher” realms. But there was no golden city in the middle of the dirt levees.

“Hello!” he shouted. “Hello!” His voice sounded weak and plaintive.

Michael pivoted on his heel and saw something he hadn’t noticed before-a bonfire burning in a distant thicket of brush and trees. Staying on dry land, he followed the levee bordering a watery rectangle. A light wind made waves that splashed against the reddish-brown dirt. The only other sounds he could hear were his own breathing and a squishy noise from his wet socks. After awhile, he made a left turn onto a new levee and passed scraggly bushes that reminded him of wild sage and dwarf trees with twisted branches jabbing at the sky.

He heard voices and began crawling through the tangled vegetation. When he reached a thicket of plants with leaves that looked like strips of old leather, he moved cautiously.

Eleven men and women sat around a fire. It was a woeful, ragged-looking group-like the survivors of a flood or a tornado. Both sexes wore wide-brimmed hats woven from dry grass and long boots with the top part folded down at the knees. The women were dressed in black skirts and blouses with red or green trousers underneath while the men’s clothing displayed bright geometric designs-mostly squares and triangles. Each person also wore something around their neck: a red collar about three inches wide with a silver clasp. Their only other possessions were long curved knives that hung from their belts.

The group was arguing about something. When the voices became louder, an old man struggled to his feet. He had bandy legs, stringy hair, and a paunch that sagged over his belt buckle. “He’s a thief!” the old man announced. “He’s a squat-house thief who cared nothing for the boots working beside him. But the trouble is-he’s the thief and we’re the ones that pay.”

A young woman stopped feeding twigs to the fire. “The wet crawlers are on their way here. And now we’re one beneath twelve.”

Michael could understand most of what they were saying, but the rhythm of their speech, the inflection of their words, seemed to come from an earlier time. Trying not to make any noise, he crawled a few feet to the right and saw a dead man hanging from a noose tied to a tree.

He considered crawling back through the undergrowth to the levee, then rejected the idea. Come to us was the message that appeared on the monitor screen. Yes, these people were carrying knives, but the sheaths were stained and smeared with dirt. They’re tools, Michael thought. Not weapons. He stood up, pushed his way through the underbrush and stepped into the clearing. Everyone in the group looked startled and the old man began blinking rapidly, like a cave creature pulled into the light.

“What’s the name of this place?” Michael asked.

“The-the waterfields,” the old man stammered. “That’s the old name. Of course maybe they’ll hammer up a new one.”

“And what are you doing here?”

“We’re faithful servants, sir. All of us. As you can see.” The old man touched his collar. “We’re here to harvest the spark.”