Mutant Legacy (15 page)

The days that followed were hot, humid, filled with dizzying images of a dozen ritual celebrations and cult activities. Better World had infiltrated Rio, all right. At least, some of it had, as Mundo Melhor, and had immediately been adapted to suit the primal pulse of the macumba drums.

November turned into December, but although I searched I did not catch even a teasing glimpse of Star again. The drumbeats of samba teams began to echo in the streets near the beaches and my time in Brazil was almost over.

On December second I was invited to attend a small celebration of Mundo Melhor at a fine home in the moneyed suburb of Laranjeiras. I was surprised to see that Better World had been embraced by the notoriously selfish upper echelons of Brazilian society. Apparently where macumba went, Saint Rick and his helpers followed close behind, even into the houses of the rich.

The party began at sundown as the
pandeiros
announced their counp width=arrival with a wild eruption of drumming in the garden. The guests hurried out onto the lawn, heads nodding in time, feet tapping. Over here a stately matron was already swirling, eyes closed, her peacock-blue gown’s hem whispering around her ankles, deeply immersed in the mysteries.

The hostess, a slender, pale-skinned woman with thin red hair and huge green eyes, was next, and then the daughter of the house, no more than fourteen but haughty and with a certain precocious sensuality, joined the dance, swaying her slender arms as though she were floating in the ocean.

Soon all the guests were nodding and swaying, chanting exultant phrases, men and women twirling around one another in the humid night until they seemed to blur into one another.

Although I had sworn to maintain an objective distance I found myself caught up in the beat, feeling its pulse vibrate up through the soles of my feet and along my backbone until I could control myself no longer and I was out there on the lawn, nodding, shaking, and capering like the rest of the celebrants.

As the frenzy built I could make out odd bits of chants that translated into “Rick hear us” and “Rick protect us.” I began to chant along. Somehow, it seemed reasonable, even desirable, to be praying to my brother in fragmented Portuguese, nonsense syllables, and even some English. Even as I did so, the quiet part of me that always sits back and watches took notes for later review.

I was drenched in sweat, gasping for air, and yet I couldn’t stop. A curious yet familiar sensation crept over me—it felt like the preliminary moments of trance that occur in a mutant group sharing. The air itself seemed to shimmer and I felt a transcendent connection to all of the people there. We were linked, each of us, by our common humanity. We were one. We were responsible for each other, rich and poor, humble and great. I knew it, knew and believed it, to the bottom of my soul.

And then I saw Star. I hadn’t noticed her in the crowd before, but there she was, serenely swaying not two steps away from me. As I stared at her, she looked up, met my gaze, and smiled.

“
Now
you understand,” she said. “Now you are one of us, Julian. You can deny your brother no longer.”

The drums urged me toward her. Their steady rhythm seemed to pulse in time with my blood: boom boom ba, boom boom ba.

The primal beat broke through my last reserves of caution, scattered my deepest doubts. Boldly, I danced around Star, defining my territory, hips thrusting, pelvis shaking. We were surrounded by people and yet we might have been completely alone, dancing together. The crowd moved back and away from us, or perhaps we moved away from them. Regardless, all I know is that finally we were alone in a room with a door that locked.

I turned to face her and Star held her arms out to me eagerly. Her lips were soft, her tongue maddening, and I pulled her down to the warm, welcoming cushions of the wallseat.

We came up for air. And submerged again. I yanked off her clothing with furious impatience. Her skin was smooth and warm, a delight to kiss. I spent a long, luxurious time on her breasts, sucking and licking her nipples until she writhed beneath me, moaning. But who was ravishing whom? She had her hands under my shirt, in my pants, teasing and electrifying me.

I floated happily, drowning under Star’s sweet weight. After the third time I lost count of our couplings. Somehow, at some time that evening we found our way bac cd odrowningk to my hotel room, ordered some food from room service, and, after eating, showered together. Then we spent what was left of the night reviewing all that we had learned about each other. Star and I slept happily in each other’s arms until late afternoon.

So Star came to me. I don’t think I have ever been as happy.

She asked me if I wanted to accompany her to various Mundo Melhor group rites and I agreed eagerly.

Each meeting was a revelation of sorts. I began to see that Better World, in any guise, had a unique power to draw people together. But I quickly realized that while the techniques of Better World had been adapted to the desperate needs of the Cariocas, the Mundo Melhor meetings were more of an excuse for group dances than an attempt to heal each celebrant of their psychic wounds.

At least, I thought so until I took part in one of their ceremonies.

We gathered in a small house in Botafogo. It was a select group of celebrants, perhaps twenty-five in number. The evening began as it usually did, with the drumming of the
pandeiros
and the chanting of the celebrants. I stood in the back of the living room, watching the Brazilians sway to the beat, nodding my head, sweating, waiting to be caught up by the moment.

“Join hands,” Star said.

I felt a strange electric jolt as my hands were seized—I could swear that every hair on my body stood straight up in shock. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Then the buzzing, burning pain and paralysis ended and I was in close, loving communion with Star. I could feel her essence, read her every thought. We were floating together, the two of us, in loving, intimate harmony. The purity of her intention, the dedication of her life to this cause was sweet and intense. She was beautiful within, consumed by the need to help her people. I wanted to tell her that I loved her and would always be by her side.

But before I could do so, a thousand foreign thoughts crowded into my brain, humming and buzzing like a swarm of insects as they filled the space between Star and me, forcing us apart. My language implant struggled with the torrent of Portuguese and for a moment I felt my legs weaken as though I would sink to my knees under the burden of all these noisy minds.

What was happening here? Why had my telepathic barriers been breached? Always, before this, I had been able to screen out unwanted mental contact. Why had my defenses and training suddenly failed?

The celebrants’ thoughts reverberated inside my head. I was a human echo chamber, amplifying and distorting the mental signals of all the others in the room. It was dizzying, frightening, and exhilarating all at the same time.

Any moment I expected the entire room to collapse around me, but instead of faltering, the celebration seemed to shift into a higher gear, the dancers moving faster, chanting louder. But I was weakening, growing faint, feeling myself being led around the circle, leaning on people next to me for support. My awareness spiraled inward, inward, and I stumbled through a dark, humid place in which jungle birds chattered, men shouted, and women shrieked. Somewhere in the distance a soprano practiced scales as her accompanist attacked a mechpiano keyboard.

Something with wings, unseen, brushed the top of my head. I ducked, stared, but saw nothing. Behind me, the growling, screeching chorus continued, growing louder with each moment. And a deep, familiar male voice was patient ce wwidth="18ly, hypnotically droning a single thought over and over in Portuguese.

Meu nome e Juliano, Meu nome e Juliano, Meu nome—

The thing with wings swooped down again and knocked me spinning, end over end, and then I knew nothing, nothing at all.

When I came to, I was lying on my back on an old-fashioned, lumpy mattress in a dark room. I could hear people talking outside the door in a low undifferentiated hum, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

The door opened and Star came in carrying a lantern. Her eyes were glistening and she looked rapturously happy.

“What did you do,
querido
?” she said. “How did you do it?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

She sat down next to me and took my hands in hers. “Oh, this was wonderful, the best time of all. A breakthrough. Everybody in the circle felt it, so connected, so enlightened. You are one of the gifted, like your brother. You’ve brought us his light.”

“No, Star, it’s not that way, not that way at all.” I tried to explain, to tell her that somehow, through some sort of fluke, I had temporarily become a kind of telepathic conduit. There was nothing mystical about it. I was not a seer nor a holy man. But she would have none of it.

“Your coming here is a sign, a gift. Oh, Julian, I’m so happy!” She threw her arms around me, kissing me passionately. And in between each kiss she told me, first in Portuguese and then, again, in English, how much good we would do together.

With Star’s help I got to my feet and slowly made my way into the next room. A hush fell over the group as I entered, and then a huge cheer went up: “
Quibungo
!
” The
pandeiros
began their drumming. People were hugging me, kissing me, draping flowers over my arms and shoulders. The celebration had been a sign, a signal from Rick that through me he was listening to them.

I resigned from the U.N. committee the next day.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Paula said. “You’re overreacting.”

Margot Fremont-Chai leaned toward me. “Don’t you see what a valuable observer you would make? You have the access to these rituals that is denied the rest of us. It’s crucial that you remain.”

“Wouldn’t you say I’m a compromised witness?” I said. “To put it mildly?”

Yuri Kryuchkov let out a huge, bearlike roar that was, apparently, laughter. “But you have been compromised from the beginning, Dr. Akimura. First by your media connections and again by your knowledge of Better World. Now you can tell us about the transformation of this cult from the inside out. You must stay.”

Only Katarina Otulji seemed to see my point. “He’s right,” she said sadly. “If he remains on the committee, he will contaminate our observations.” She shook her head. “And if he continues to work with the cult on his own, he will contaminate its development here. Oh, this is terrible. Just terrible.”

Well, that set me back a bit. I hadn’t stopped to consider how I might alter the evolution of Mundo Melhor if I stayed here. But how could I leave? The people seemed to want my help. And I was in love with Star.

Sudd cy">t howenly I felt as though my life were some eerie parallel to my brother’s. It was easy now to see how he had been pulled into Better World, and why he had stayed. The expressions of the celebrants after each ritual was enough to bring me back again and again. How much more potent, more basic an experience it must have been for poor, lonely, desperate Rick. I empathized with him even as I celebrated his righteousness.

In that moment I knew that I could no longer serve as a critic of Better World. Nor would I spy upon its development in other countries. I wanted to leave my brother in peace. And to give him my blessing as well. After all, he was helping people. If what I had accomplished here was even a microscopic fraction of what he was doing with his extensive powers, then there was nothing wrong with Better World. Nothing at all.

Despite the protests of the others, I was adamant. I wished them good luck, got up, and left the room.

“Julian, wait.” It was Paula, pursuing me halfway down the hall. “Please, listen to me,” she said. “We’re leaving for the States next Friday. It’s almost Christmas. Are you certain you want to quit now? What will you do?”

“Stay here.”

“What about your job in Boston?”

“I’m already on leave. I’ll just extend it.”

She looked at me, a mixture of exasperation and concern playing over her face. “Julian, I hope you know what you’re doing. Once we leave, you’ll no longer have the protection of diplomatic immunity. The Brazilian government isn’t crazy about Better World, to put it mildly—they see it as a threat to governmental authority. They’re one step away from cracking down on the entire movement. The last thing they want is someone like you—a foreigner—kicking up even more excitement at your girlfriend’s little gatherings.”

I kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t worry about me, Paula. I
do
know what I’m doing. Perhaps for the first time in a long, long while.”

The gods were on display at the Umbanda temple in Lagoas, and the celebrants were stamping their feet, swirling to the drumbeats, flirting, singing, and smoking when the police arrived.

“No permit,” said the balding sergeant in his gray uniform. “No permit.”

The drums kept beating. The initiates kept singing. No one seemed to have heard. Nobody was listening.

“No permit.”