MILES: Chapter Two, pt. 6

She began to draw in the sand above the riverbed; she arced the dowsing rod in a slow spiral. Next to the spiral she carved several characters – symbols in language that Miles found somehow familiar, but he could not imagine why. The language disturbed him; it penetrated deeply through him and nuzzled a tender, uncomfortable part of his mind. The woman continued speaking, seemingly unaware of his growing unease.

“The ground began to swell and shake, and the sea began to boil. And one man rose above the tide, and lashed out with furious anger. ‘I have built a temple of worship; fall to your knees and praise me.’ And as he walked he gathered his flock – those who were not strong enough to fight him – and he poisoned the blood of the earth, and everything in his wake fell to bone and ash.”

The woman continued scratching madly as she rambled on, the shapes and symbols stretching out at her feet. Miles felt the blood drain from his face. A cold chill trembled down his spine.

“This city is unique in many ways. It was built in a still place’, in a place where no currents cross it. It is disconnected, completely free of the web, the network of energy. There are other cities like it, but the phenomenon is rare. This riverbed is the line between two places. It is called the grey, where one may look across the threshold into the light. But you must be cautious. How is the phrase: know that when you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back.”

Through this monologue Miles remained silent, stunned by the woman who gracefully balanced the line between madness and sanity. Her color flickered while she spoke, red and orange as her voice rose, and then cold blue and back to white. He tried to calm his own racing mind, tried to bridge the gap between their minds and find out who she was and what she wanted. She was closed off to him, barricaded; either she was a veritable black hole or she was very, very powerful. Miles found he was surprisingly off-balance, uncertain of his own strength. Miles closed off his mind, forcing himself to focus, but the lines on his face betrayed his worried mind.

“Who are you?” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

He felt the smile in her voice before he saw it. “A nomad, like yourself. Someone looking for answers – only I’ve been looking for a very long time.” She paused. “I know you chose this place because it is quiet, because here you can pretend you are free.”

Something inside Miles snapped. He whirled around and faced the woman.

“I am tired of this. What the fuck do you–”

The woman was fast, much faster than Miles expected. She touched his temple and his head snapped back, jolted with a bolt of electric energy. He cried out in pain and stumbled, the wind knocked from him completely. “What... who are you?” he breathed heavily.

“I told you,” the woman said, but she was clearly affected by the exchange as well. She had a distant look about her, as though she was experiencing something neither of them could see. “I am much like you. I am a sensitive.”

“I am an old woman, and I have watched this world for a long time; watched, and waited. It is a cruel world, but it does not have to be. Men make it cruel; of this you are acutely aware. Men, and their greed for power. There is bad blood in the veins of the world, and it must be cut out. I am dying, Miles. I haven’t the strength to fight this battle. I wish I could fight by your side, but those days are long gone. You will not be alone, though. A man – a burly, clumsy man – will join you. He has a good heart.” She smiled at something Miles apparently could not see. “And the woman–” Her smiled widened, and her eyes twinkled.

“The woman?” Miles muttered curiously.

“The woman from your dreams. The pretty one. She is coming. She will find you here.”

“How do you–” he began, but the woman was not stopping. She spoke to him, but spoke as though she was dictating a message, as if Miles was not standing right in front of her. Her eyes lost their focus, and when she spoke she was breathless, as though delivering this message was sapping what energy she had left.

“He is rebuilding the engine, Miles. He is trying again. He cannot succeed. You must go home; you will learn of what you have lost, and what you have gained. Your father – he is waiting for you. And then…"

The woman stopped, her eyes regained their focus and locked onto Miles, paralyzing him. Her mouth dropped open. She was suddenly very visibly afraid.

“He already has you. I am too late. He is watching.” The woman looked near tears, then turned and ran. Her voice trembled as she fled. “You are beyond my help. God be with you, child! God be with us all.”

She scaled the embankment with surprising grace. The driver waited with the door open, and the car swiftly pulled away. Miles watched the two strangers leave, completely unmoving.

Miles was alone on the beach, and for reasons he could not quite explain, he was suddenly very afraid.

MILES: Chapter Two, pt. 5

“You’re quite good at that.” The voice behind him was tinged with a French accent. Miles pretended not to hear her, hoping she would lose interest and leave him alone. She didn’t.

“Do you know what this is?”

He turned, only mildly curious. A thin grey face wrapped in a tightly wound scarf peered up at him. Her tiny frame was bundled in a heavy, multicolored coat and she held a tree branch, a forked rod that jutted from her tiny hands like an arrow. She continued without waiting for him to answer.

“It’s called a dowsing rod, or a diving rod, depending. Something used for seeking precious metals. Often used for seeking underground streams.”

“If you’re looking for water,” he said. “I don’t think you need a magic wand.” The river gurgled and splashed, not fifty feet from where they stood.

“Not magic,” the woman corrected him. “Just a focus. And you should learn to be more respectful. I’m an old woman, and I know when I’m being made fun of.”

“Sorry,” Miles mumbled, narrowing his eyes. The woman was silent a moment, so Miles turned back to the river. Skip, skip, splash.

“So... not many people just stop in Battle Mountain to look at the fucking river. Not exactly a tourist attraction.” The words escaped him before he realized he had started speaking. He immediately regretted saying anything that might encourage her. The whiskey tickled his fingertips and weighed heavily in the back of his head, and he desperately wanted to be left alone.

Though he could feel her color change as he spoke. The white light shifted and shimmered, changed in hue to a cold blue, and then corrected itself. White. Nothing.

“The river is a looking glass, a portrait of the future and the past. It is a precipice over a great chasm, a view from above, a balancing point between two worlds.”

“Look. lady. I’ve been drinking since about noon, so if that was supposed to make any sense–”

“The man builds a machine; it shakes the bowels of the earth. You can feel the tremor, the great earthquake that will swallow the world.”

He stopped skipping rocks. Something bothered him about the woman. He momentarily considered returning to the bottle of whiskey by his side; his buzz was slowly wearing away. There was a funny copper taste in his mouth, and a low thrum began to pound behind his eyes, and was slowly building.

“The bottle will not save you from drowning. Just because you cannot hear the voices does not mean they have ceased to speak.”

Miles glared at the woman. He picked up the bottle and – partly just to spite her – took a long pull. Licking his lips, he edged slowly away from the woman, looking for a polite opportunity to walk away. She stared at him, an uncomfortable, beady stare. He met her eyes a moment, then broke his gaze and stared again at the water.

“I know you have felt him; his eyes are ever watching. That is why you hide. You stand at the water’s edge, watching the sea boil and tumble around you, but you are afraid to swim. You are afraid to drown. But he watches, from the top of tower and from the bottom of his cave, and he would cut open the earth just to hear it scream.”

“Oh fuck, lady. You’re hurting my head.” He took another swing from the bottle. “Is there a reason you’re telling me all this? Or do you make a habit of accosting strangers?”

“Do you know why you are here?”

“Cos I fucking walked here. Is it a trick question? You going to guide me from my evil ways of sin? Bask me in the love of Jesus or some shit?”

“Neither.” Miles felt the smile in her voice, and it disturbed him. “But faith is as much a part of this as anything. Do you know what’s significant about this place? Why you chose this in particular to take your rest?”

“I came here for peace and quiet, not to play twenty goddamn questions.” Whatever had passed for curiosity awe was swiftly evolving into irritation; Miles was growing tired of the old woman and her bold sense of familiarity.

The old woman smiled again. “You came here for absolution; peace is a natural byproduct of that. But you found neither.”

Miles opened his mouth to speak, but found he had no words, and closed it again. He pursed his lips, not sure if he should be more startled or angry.

“When people used the dowsing rod they sought underground streams, not for drink but for fulfillment. They believed that the water a source of power, that currents flowed under the surface of the earth like currents of electricity, and that power could be drawn up from them. Someone with a particular gift, a sensitive, could seek out those underground currents and draw the power into themselves. It was also believed that these currents were connected, like a great net or web, joining the powers of the earth together.”

MILES: Chapter Two, pt. 4

A car pulled up into the small lot above the riverbed; the sound of tires in the gravel drifted down along the wind. Miles sighed and closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind. An older woman, perhaps in her seventies; and a man, younger than her but not by much. Miles reached for more, but came up empty. A married couple on a lazy Sunday drive, perhaps. Something didn’t feel right about that. The woman was unusual; something radiated off her that unsettled Miles, that made the tips of his fingers tingle. There was nothing unusual about the man; Miles could sense very little, especially at this distance, but where the woman should have shimmered in his mind like a firefly she burst with the light and energy of a bonfire. Something gnawed at his mind; something crawled up from his spine and crept up to his temples. He shook his head, pushed the interference aside, tried ignore the intruders on his solitude, and returned his attention to the water. The half-empty bottle of whiskey hung heavily in his hand. Miles took a swig from the bottle, and let his mind relax.

Something was out there. The voice hummed; not a discernible word but a noise, a vibration. The feeling spread, the vibration took his entire body; small tremors shook his hands. He had to fight to stay balanced. Images flashed by, snapshots behind his closed eyes. A hospital room. A dying woman. A fire. A man dressed in nurse’s scrubs, eyeing Miles from behind a clipboard, his mouth peeling back into a cruel laugh.

Miles exhaled suddenly, as though he had been punched in the gut. The slideshow was over; Miles was back on the beach. He took a step back, his head spinning. He regained his composure, dizzy and frustrated. He put the bottle down and blinked his heavy eyelids. Something ominous hung on the horizon, some residue from the fleeting images.

The river was a borderland for Miles, not just a physical separation of land of water, but a threshold between worlds. There was something about the water’s edge – something he had never felt anywhere else – like staring through a window at a thunderstorm from the safety of the indoors. Everywhere else in the city the voice was quiet; he only felt the rush from individuals, and small town folk were easy to understand and easy to ignore. The river was the gateway, and on his strong days he would walk to the edge of the water and stare out while the tides washed past him, feel the energy ebb and flow, and try to understand what was out there, and what made him feel so distant, so different, so alone.

Miles walked a few more steps and the unease in the back of his mind settled. Distracted, Miles picked a few flat stones from the waterfront and threw them out into the water. They skipped: two, three, fours times before splashing under the surface.

He felt her as she approached; the woman joined him on the beach. She glowed, sparking like a flaming torch in the back of his mind, and he was annoyed to realize he felt nothing else. For most people he could feel something more on the emotional horizon, some kind of intent or purpose but her landscape was pure white and completely indecipherable. He ignored her, irritated, and continued throwing stones out into the water. Four, five skips, and splash. The man remained by the car, on the pavement above the beachhead, watching them.