Manifestations (27 page)

You left me.

They took me here.

Here ...?

On the islands, Anchali. That’s where you are.

The islands!
Her mind rippled with alarm and she swooned over.
No
.
They can’t
...

I’m sorry, Anchali. It’s all my fault.

~ * ~

Anchali got better as the days went by. She could walk and talk and move about the common rooms, but she hardly spoke to Peter. What she knew of the outside world spread quickly amongst the inmates, stirring them up. The Weave broadcasts had kept news of the psi rebellion from them, but she made sure they knew about it now. Many of the inmates began seeking her out so she could share herself with them directly. More and more she disappeared to private rooms and he saw her less and less.

Sometimes he found her glaring at him. He knew what she was thinking. All the telepaths knew he’d been an agent, and life for him became that much harder. When he walked through the corridor, people knocked him with their shoulders, or the benders tried to kick out his feet from under him.

He heard their thoughts — he tried not to, but they twittered like birds inside his head.
Agent. Traitor. Spy.
Peter spent more and more time in his room and only stepped out when it was night and most of the inmates were asleep.

He was on his knees before the mirror, his reflected face red from crying. ‘Help me ...’ he begged.

‘How can I help you today, Peter?’ she asked.

‘Please, send me to another island.’

‘The other islands are the same. You will be rotated in your turn.’

‘I need to go now.’

‘You aren’t very good at making friends, are you?’

Pete swayed in position. It was like his answers were balls rolling around an empty barrel, unable to find their way out of his head. He just had to find the timing to release the words. ‘That’s you, isn’t it, Prime? That sounded like you.’

‘Do you so rely on the authority of others? No, Peter. I am not the Prime. I am only your reflection. I am an automated voice program built from your own records so I can ask you the questions you should ask yourself.’

‘What should I ask?’

‘That’s easy. Why don’t you remember who you are?’ the mirror asked.

‘I’m Peter ... I ...’ The answers seemed to spin around his head, marbles that rolled away before he could grasp them. Where were his memories from before the manifestation? Where had he been for twenty years? Why couldn’t he remember ...?

‘Pierre,’ he said.

~ * ~

The next night Pete found Anchali lying face down in the corridor, head to the floor and moaning softly. She was wet and a puddle grew around her.

Anchali, what happened to you
?

I... I tried to swim away.

Oh.

I had to get away. I can’t stay here.

‘Where is your room?’

‘I don’t...’

‘The number?’ Her collar had a number on it in faint light: thirty-eight.

Her wet clothes soaked into his as he led her gently through the spiral until they reached her room. Peter helped her place her hand on the palmlock and the door opened. The room was exactly the same as his own. Pedestal bed, an alcove and a dispenser. He filled a cup with water and helped her drink.

‘Try not to move your head,’ he suggested.

You’re Peter.

That’s right. Peter Lazarus. You were my nurse, remember.

Yes. Where am I?
she asked.

We’re on the islands, but please don’t
—

Oh
...
that’s right.
It all came back to her. She too found it hard to remain oriented here. It must be the same for all of them.

Anchali, you once told me about some people you worked with. Can they help us?

She shook her head.

No
...
they can’t help.

But if we could contact them? There must be a way.

Peter ... I was the one sent to help you.

And you did, you did help me. Don’t you remember? I was in hospital.

I remember. And now we are here.

Anchali rolled back and clutched her pillow to cry into.

Pete straightened up to go, but her fingers caught at his sleeve.
Stay. I need to show you something.

You can’t. You need to sleep.

He was confused. Her mind was completely disoriented. One moment she didn’t know who he was, then she hated him, the next she wanted to join with him.

But I must. There’s so much you don’t know. I need to show you what we are fighting for.

We aren’t doing much fighting here. Except between ourselves.

That is why I must show you. I must show you La Gréle’s dream.

Who is this La Gréle?
He had heard the name in the thoughts of other inmates many times.

La Gréle is our leader. She will guide the psis to freedom.

Do you really believe that?

Her hands reached up to touch his face and she directed his eyes down to meet hers.
Let me show you.

What do I have to do?

She patted the mattress for him to lie beside her.
Get as close to me as you can. We have to become a part of each other. Do you trust me?

Do you trust me?
he asked back.

I do.

Anchali began humming a song she had known from her younger life, and with it every memory of when she had heard it. He felt the comfort of her mother, the friendly kinship of the village she was raised in. The lapping of the waves in the bay, the warm press and push of skin on skin.

Relax, Peter. Be calm. We cannot join our thoughts with your mind pulling in a thousand directions at once.

I’m concentrating.

Don’t concentrate. Think of something else. Think of the ocean.

He slipped easily into the familiar memory: sand being sucked through his toes; water washing over his ankles, sinking his feet further into the beach. Away and return. Deeper and deeper. Then all of a sudden his mind was overcome by darkness. He was in that other place.

Where have you taken us, Peter?
her thoughts asked.

I woke up here.
He was on his back in the greasy mud under Atlantic. Blood dripping from a hot cut on his head.

What do you see?

Black. Just black and stars.

Do you feel anything?

Cold. Water.

I can feel it.

Are we communing now?

Not yet. You must relax. Try to find my memory again, as I have found you.

Then Tamsin was leaning over him. Her hand cradled his face, holding it steady.
Tamsin,
he thought to her.
You came back.
She didn’t hear him; she was only a memory.

Tamsin dabbed at his face. She said something but the words were too echoey for him to understand.

Then she was standing up. Peter tried to hold onto her, but she pulled free.
Don’t leave ... take me.

He felt the cold and black once more. Water washed around him, sinking him into the grimy sand.

Let it take you
, a voice said.
Follow me, Peter. I am the water
...
I am all around you. Pulling you into the sun ... That’s it. Sink in the sand. You are the sand and I am the water. Can you feel me around you?
the waves seemed to say. Pete’s feet were sand, the water drowning them, grains lifting and swirling in the currents.

Anchali?

The water pushed up and around him to his thighs, hips, chest. His body collapsed into slush that then dispersed into the waves. He began to disappear.

Don’t lose yourself. I am the water. You are the sand.

The grains of him were pulled through the currents, from cold and dark to deep blue and up towards the sun. The clear water pushed him onto a bright beach. Sunlight drying him until he was crunchy and crisp and yellow. The water was turquoise and bright with day. A tanned girl looked down at the sand under her toes, smiling at him.

It’s me, Peter,
Anchali said.

Where are we?

We are back in my memory now. This is my home.

Her family was part of a fishing tribe living off the bounty of the sea and the land. It was a peaceful life, with little contact to the outside world.

When she was fourteen a woman came to the island. She arrived on a silver skiff wearing a long white beach dress, and a tinted shade hat over silver hair. The girl, Anchali, reached up to take the woman’s hand and she heard her voice in her head.

Hello, Anchali. Do you know who I am?

She did know. When she was asked she found she could see into the woman’s mind. She had come a long way and made many stops to meet children like her.

La Gréle stayed in the village for days, joining in the daily routines of the tribe and getting to know Anchali’s family. They didn’t know about their daughter and the woman didn’t tell them. It was their secret.

Anchali was thrilled to have a friend, someone who truly knew her, and they spent hours conversing silently. One night there was a bonfire on the beach. A pit was dug next to it and filled with layers of potatoes, leaves, fish, chicken and vegetables. Coals from the fire were heaped on top for it to cook. While they waited, La Gréle joined in the dancing with the elders, forming a large ring around the fire and the children. As La Gréle circled around she spoke to Anchali.

Feel what I feel. Know what I know.

Anchali stared deep into the fire, watching the licks of flames and the logs beneath breathing orange and red. She felt La Gréle’s mind all around her and she began seeing another place.

Where are we now?
Pete asked.

They were in a child’s bedroom where a toddling girl was playing music on a handscreen.

Is that her
?

La Gréle. When she was young.

The child suddenly looked worried. She stopped batting her hands on the screen and frowned. Quickly she went to her cupboards and began packing a bag with clothes. She was ready with coat and shoes when her father ran into the room and picked her up.

Don’t be scared, luvvy. We’ll be okay.

Have to go, Daddy! We have to go!

Her mother was outside in the hover, revving the engine to warm it up.

Mummy!

Darling, it’s okay. Hang onto your father.

They sped off, never to know for sure if they had just evaded capture or whether no one had come for them at all.

The people were scared, that’s all. It’ll calm down,
they told her.

They lived in the mountains for years, making their way. With the WU came surveillance, and rapid expansion. They retreated as the cities advanced. Always keeping to the wilds, away from everyone. But one night others came without warning. La Gréle woke up, feeling her parents choking.

Run, darling. Go,
they pleaded.

Outside she could feel soldiers stalking closer. She turned one on the other, forcing them to shoot their comrades. Then the drones came, humming in, smashing at the thin walls, tiny laser shots firing at every movement.

She could feel her parents slipping away. They begged her to go.

Anchali was crying. They were back at the beach. Pete felt the sand and the rhythm of the waves.

And I ran,
La Gréle thought to her.
People like us are always running.

Then she showed the girl what she hoped for. Peace, where telepaths and kinetics were Citizens, and together they built a world of potential and harmony.
We can be one. One and many.

La Gréle left the next day. Anchali stood watching her go, waving. Then she just stayed on the beach, letting the sun twinkle her eyes.

This is how we can know each other
, she said to the sand.

The sand looked up at the sky; it was a deep bright blue, and yet it could see stars glinting through. There were thoughts behind those lights. He could sense them.

‘What are those stars?’ he asked. He made them be closer.

‘Peter, what are you doing?’ Anchali asked urgently. The ocean was lifting up around her but her feet were so deep in the sand she couldn’t pull them free. ‘Stop it,’ she cried. ‘You’re taking over my memory.’

The water rose over the island, dissolving the palms and huts. The girl tried to hold on, but she too succumbed to the wash.

The sea rose and he swirled up with it until the water and sky met. The stars were swallowed, pulled from above to sink and swim. He was the water now, he was everywhere.

He filled the white room and spilt in a rush out the door like an exploding dam. He filled the corridor and flooded the centre, sweeping every mind along with him.

He felt each one of them and they him. Then they began connecting one by one, through him and he wasn’t Peter Lazarus. He was something else.