Gillian Anderson - The Sound of Seas

Vol had full control of a system that, once tripped, had no other way of being shut down. Henceforth, the Night of Miracles would be remembered for much more than the folklorish creation of the Galderkhaani. By tonight, the Source and its Technologist acolytes would be a memory. And instead of being slaves of the towers, the olivine tiles would finally be turned over for study by those who wanted to release, not control, their ancient, dormant energies—the Priests of Galderkhaan.

For Caitlin, the vision had the character of a sharp, sudden relapse.

She was medically sedated and yet she was very conscious in her dreamless state. She was floating again, as she’d been in Washington Square Park. She was rootless, drifting, no point of orientation, only darkness. The image was in her mind, not in her eyes, but Caitlin knew that she was not dreaming. She was not hallucinating from whatever drug was pulsing through her veins because there was a solid realism to what she did see.

It was a ring of light. It didn’t grow, it simply appeared, like a lightning bolt that erupted but did not fade. Yet the more she looked at it, she could see that it was not simply a ring: it was more like an ouroboros, a tail-devouring snake. Present in countless cultures, interpreted and reinterpreted in classic psychotherapy, a true human archetype.

Why is it here, in my mind?

She tried to ask it, but the serpentine form did not want to be accessed. The circle just floated in its own soupy white light, set against the blackness, unable to be addressed or touched… yet obviously willing to be seen.

Willing , Caitlin thought suddenly. She felt—she knew —that the serpent had consciousness.

The light snake seemed solid so it surprised her, the more she stared, to see components within its brilliant glow. They were difficult to see, darting within the light like microbes on a slide.

The snake was similar in size to the serpent she had seen in the vision in Haiti, though that had been a darker creature in every sense of the word: black, choking, destructive. She had touched that one and was knocked back by a powerful force.

What about this one? Can I touch it?

Caitlin thought about extending a hand and suddenly she possessed one. It was hers, slightly luminous in the dark, aglow with… life? There was no bracelet on the wrist; the skin wasn’t sun-bronzed. Her fingers stretched toward the light—

No!

She froze inside. It occurred to her that this might be a near-death experience and to go toward the light might mean the end of her life. But there was no retreat either. She could not turn about. And then her options lessened even further—

She was moving toward the ring, as though she were on ice and possessed frictionless, effortless motion with no way to stop. The facets within the form of the ring itself were more visible now, each comprised of writhing lines of light, with more and more lines within those. There were so many elongated particles of luminescence that she found herself becoming overwhelmed, frightened. She was afraid of being consumed, of vanishing, of being subsumed by something that lacked physicality but somehow had gravity.

Caitlin was jerked toward it and her eyes snapped open.

She was breathing heavily and staring at the ceiling of the hospital room. She felt warm but was not perspiring. Her breathing immediately began to slow, and her racing heart rate returned to normal. She moved her fingers and toes, could feel them all.

The experience had had every quality of a panic attack. An unconscious state panic attack. The idea was something she had never even encountered in the literature.

Caitlin heard the instruments humming around her, adjusted to the strangely unexpected presence of substance, of weight, of material things. She looked to the right, over the rails alongside the bed. The door was shut. The chair was empty. Her mother was probably in the commissary or else on the phone. Perhaps she was taking a nap somewhere. No doubt she had been told that her daughter would sleep for hours more.

Caitlin looked at her arm. The IV drip in her hand was giving infusion therapy, probably a cocktail that included a sedative. She had to stop the flow. She hesitated; there was an occlusion alarm.

Just get the damn thing out , she told herself.

She removed the tape from just below the knuckles of her left hand, jerked out the needle, and jabbed it in her pillow so the formula would continue to flow. The alarm barely had time to chirp. There was no immediate response from the staff. She did not want to sleep or be examined. No nurse, no doctor could find what was wrong with her.

No doctor… in this era , she thought suddenly, strangely.

And they would miss what was very right with her: that she was somehow, miraculously, present again in the real world after having spent waking time in Galderkhaan.

Caitlin looked around. There was no window, no clock; she had no idea what time it was. What about her clothes, her belongings? When she had gone down in Washington Square Park she only had what she was wearing and her phone. She looked at the nightstand, didn’t see her phone, saw a small closet. That was to be her first destination.

She snickered—at herself, at the irony of the metaphysical world in which she had been spending so much time. She could travel millennia by pointing two fingers at the ground. She could go God knows where in an unconscious vision. Could she cover two yards in a hospital room without falling?

Caitlin tried to sit by sliding up a little on the bed. She used her elbows for propulsion, moved just a careful few inches and her head responded with a swirl of dark light and a painful jolt. She stopped. She put her tongue against the roof of her mouth to prevent herself from hyperventilating and breathed deeply. She closed her eyes.

Do it slowly, dammit .

This time she placed her palms on the bars and moved back tentatively. Her head swam, but only a little. She waited a moment, moved back a little more. She managed to get herself into an upright sitting position. She waited there, then felt for the latch to release “the cage.” She found it, pressed, and lowered the aluminum side so it wouldn’t clang on the mattress frame. She just now noticed that she was wearing her own pajamas.

Mom , she thought sweetly.

Caitlin allowed herself another moment. She felt like Jacob must feel when he played games on his bed, especially with the lights out, hoping she didn’t hear. As she thought of him a smile briefly turned her mouth; it was followed by a choke. If any boy on the planet could get his footing in Galderkhaan, it was little Captain Nemo himself. Still, she had to get to him and pushed, again, on the sturdy mattress.

As Caitlin slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed, the door opened and a visibly tired Nancy O’Hara shuffled in carrying a plastic tray from the commissary. The woman froze when she saw her daughter. Caitlin was just beginning to pull off the pajamas Nancy had brought.

“What are you doing?” the older woman demanded.

“I’ve got to get out of here.”

Nancy turned to look down the hall. “I’m calling the doctor.”

“Mother, no —don’t!” Caitlin said.

“You’re only half-awake, you don’t know what you’re doing!”

“I do know, just— please . Listen to me.”

Nancy half turned back into the room. She scowled. “You took the IV out of your hand!” she said, just noticing. “Caitlin, I’m getting him now.”

“I did do that, but you have to listen !” Caitlin said. “I truly know what I’m doing.”