Two
For the second
time in less than an hour, Greyson listened to the telephone ring until her
voicemail picked up.
"You've
reached Ami Crane." Her recorded voice sounded in his ear, and he felt the
same rush he always felt when talking to her.
It was always surprising to him, how excited he felt when even just
hearing her voice, an underlay of memories and emotions that made his insides
tingle.
"Do what you do," she said before
the beep.
The phone beeped
and Greyson hesitated for several seconds before hitting the power button on
his phone and ending the call. He'd left
a message the first time he'd called, and he knew that she would call him back
when she was ready. Almost ten years now,
and he knew her habits and quirks. Most
of them anyway—she had the tendency to spring new quirks on him when he was
least expecting it—and one of those things was ignoring the outside world as
she finished a painting. Sometimes even
days before actually finishing a project, Ami would ignore virtually everything
that wasn't absolutely required to continue living. Her finishing time, she called it,
pouring everything she had into the work and getting lost in the lines and
colors.
"Don't
forget to breathe," he would say, grinning at her. She would smile and
roll her eyes without actually looking at him, splashes of paint on her face
and in her hair, as she kept right on working.
Something thumped
above him, the ceiling rattling as two bodies fell to the floor. Greyson cocked his head toward the sound and
listened for the sounds of either laughter or crying. Instead, it was silent, and he couldn't
figure out if that was worse.
"Hey!"
Olivia shouted, and he heard giggles followed by a parade of tiny feet running
from room to room above.
"Dad!"
"Kids!"
Greyson yelled. A door slammed—Olivia's,
probably—and his sons came bounding down the stairs.
"Finn,
Vigo," Greyson said. "You guys
gotta leave your sister alone. She's
trying to read.”
"Dad, I'm
hungry!"
"Me
too!"
“You guys are
always hungry!” Greyson exclaimed, “and you’ve been eating all day!”
“We’re hungry
again!” one of them yelled, but he couldn’t tell which, the voice lost in a
flurry of kinetic energy.
"Well,
dinner will be ready in a second," Greyson said. He poured a box of spaghetti into a pot of
boiling water and stirred. He added some
salt and olive oil to the water and watched the roiling bubbles break the
surface.
"Can we
watch something?" Finn asked. Greyson glanced at the clock above the stove
and winced.
The live
broadcast. For weeks, he'd been looking
forward to the broadcast, following the stories—every detail about the
discovery of the Ctha'nko tribe and the miracle plant everyone was calling the
God Lily. He had paid close attention to
the events leading up to that very evening when the Ctha’nko would be introduced
to the modern world.
It was all very
exciting. Something that would likely
never happen again in his lifetime.
He dried his
hands on a towel, turned on the television and tuned it to the local station,
barely able to contain his excitement.
Commercial break.
Greyson was
tempted to change the channel, certain that every other station would be
covering the event. But WSVN Miami was
doing a special documentary-like program to recap everything that had happened
over the last few weeks. The discovery
of a new people was big news, the God Lily and the miracle drug it produced was
even bigger news, and the stories had gone viral, almost instantly. Greyson had done his best to keep up with
everything, but wanted a full recap before the event.
It was, after
all, happening right there in town. The
President of the United States and the Secretary of State had both arrived that
morning as part of the welcome wagon.
City and state politicians lined up for photo ops with the President,
and of course, the Ctha'nko representatives.
The lost people.
The whole thing
had an almost cinematic vibe. Something
surreal and just a bit removed from reality.
Greyson loved it.
"Daaaad!" Vigo drew out the word in
protest when he realized that they would be watching the news. "We want to watch cartoons!"
"Yeah,
Dad! Cartoons!"
"Hey, why
don't you guys build a fort with the couch cushions," Greyson said, trying
to distract them. The twins fell silent,
looking at him as if expecting a burst of laughter at this hilarious joke.
Under no
circumstances were they allowed to build forts with the couch cushions. It was one of THE FAMILY RULES, no
exceptions. It was Ami’s rule, mostly
because she didn’t like putting all the cushions back together.
But now, Greyson
was giving them a pass. He really wanted
to watch the program, and the only way to ensure peace and quiet was to give
them something to do.
The commercials
ended, and an aerial shot of Port Miami filled the screen, showing crowds of
people pressing against fences and makeshift barriers. The national guard and secret service stood
in front of the crowds, keeping the peace as the President's motorcade
approached and parked near a large white tent.
The whole thing
screamed pomp and circumstance. It was a
spectacle and fit right in line with the president’s persona. He was a spectacle, thriving with any
and all attention he got from the media, be it good or bad.
A knock at the
back door and the twins jumped up from their pile of cushions and pillows and
ran to see who it was.
"Kiddos!"
a booming voice said, and the twins erupted with laughter. A large man with thinning white hair stood in
the doorway. He wore white cabana shorts
and a Hawaiian shirt that was soaked. He
wiped rain from his forehead and eyes, a big smile splayed out on his face.
"Hi,
Don," Vigo said, his tone matter-of-fact, "we're building a huge fort
out of the couch cushions."
"Are you,
now? That sounds like a fun time."
"It's
because Mom's not here," Vigo said, eyeing Greyson over his shoulder
conspiratorially.
"Well,"
Don said, adopting the same secretive tone, "I won't tell, if you won't
tell."
"Dad, it's
Don!" Finn shouted, and then rushed back to the fort-in-construction and
leapt into the pile of cushions. Vigo
followed right behind, giggling more with each step. Don stepped into the apartment and shut the
door behind him.
"What, not
even a greeting?" Don asked.
"Hey, it's
already started," Greyson said, only glancing away from the television for
a split second. He nodded for Don to pull
up a chair.
"I was in
town earlier, traffic was horrible," Don said. He ignored the offered chair and went into
the kitchen.
"Get you
something to drink?" he asked and
grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge.
Greyson mumbled a response but didn’t really answer. Don grabbed him a can of soda anyway.
Returning to the living room, Don stopped and
watched the president standing before the crowd, smiling and waving.
"That guy,”
Don said, shaking his head, “just pisses me off. Why is he even here? A photo-op?
Good grief man, we've got the underpinnings of nuclear war being played
out with the As-ian-ic countries, perpetual unrest with the Muslims, cops
killing black people in the streets, unhinged white folks shooting up churches
and clubs—when it's not an unhinged terrorist, that is. Attacks all around the
world, the country is divided and in worse shape than it's ever been in my
lifetime, and we’ve got a photo op.”
Greyson nodded but didn’t respond. His eyes never left the television. Don shook his head and placed the cold can
against the other man’s neck. Greyson
jumped away, startled. He snickered,
taking the soda.
“Wow, that was
cold,” he said, popping the top.
“You didn’t hear
a word I said, did you?”
“Not really no,”
Greyson snickered and turned back to the television.”
“Old man
rumblings, sure. I’m just an elderly
silver alert waiting to happen. Pay no
mind to anything I have to say.”
Greyson
smiled. Don had been living in the
apartment complex full time for a little more than two years now. Before that, he’d been a corporate lawyer in
New York, only coming to the island for a few weeks in the summer and for the
holidays. They’d been friends all along,
but had gotten to know each other better after Don retired and moved down full
time.
His transition
into retirement had not been smooth. His
wife had died a few months before, and Don had been lonely. And bored.
Visiting with Greyson and the kids had become an almost daily
occurrence, and with every day that passed, Don seemed to spend more and more
time with them. Greyson didn’t mind—Don
was a good guy, and he truly seemed to care about the kids.
“The president is
here,” Greyson said after a long swig of Coke, “because of the God Lily. If it was just the Ctha’nko, then yeah, maybe
not warranted to have one of the most powerful men in the world—”
“Buffoon in
chief,” Don interjected, and Greyson nodded.
“Of course. Buffoon or not, the guy is powerful, and so
is the God Lily. World-changingly
powerful, and it’s going to save a lot of lives. He just wants to be on the right side of that
power, that’s how I see it.”
Don nodded,
though grudgingly, and Greyson was surprised that he didn’t slip into another
tirade about this particular president’s finger on the nuclear trigger. It came up a lot.
Instead, they
watched.
Several large
boats lined the dock, and Greyson couldn’t help but wonder about how the
Ctha’nko handled the short trip on the boats. Until now, their only apparent
method of travelling was in long, canoe-type boats that were used for fishing
and short trips between the islands that made up their home. To board those larger boats—heck, to even see
them—must have been mind-blowing.
Greyson tried to put himself into their shoes,
to imagine what the Ctha’nko people must be feeling and thinking at that very
moment. All the people and lights, the
buildings and even the sidewalks. The
general noise must have been deafening, coming from the relative seclusion of the
islands. It was a wonder they hadn’t gone insane.
The camera cut to
an interview that was taking place somewhere on the pier, with the crowd and
boats in the background. The reporter, a
pretty young woman with a raincoat draped over a red dress, was addressing the
camera. An older man with a thick beard
stood to her left, staring into the camera.
He fidgeted from one foot to the other and did not look comfortable with
the idea of being on the news.
The
reporter—Kelly Ann, as indicated by the bar at the bottom of the screen—smiled
her winning smile.
“—thank you,
Bill. Here, I’ve got Dr. Shepherd, who
was part of the team that made first contact with the Ctha’nko people. Dr. Shepherd is a plant geneticist from the
University of Florida. In the last few weeks and months, you’ve discussed your
experiences on the Santa Anna Islands, and I, for one, am fascinated. Would you give us a brief recap.”
“Sure,
Kelly. And thank you,” Dr. Shepherd
said, taking a deep breath. “It certainly has been a whirlwind.”
“I can imagine,”
Kelly agreed, chuckling.
“As you know, we
stumbled upon the Ctha’nko tribe quite by accident. The expedition to Santa Anna was to locate
the Deuslilium Sanguineum, or the God Lily. While on the island, we discovered
several pathways. At first, we didn’t
realize what we’d stumbled across—the paths were overgrown with vines. But soon, it became apparent that there was a
distinct pattern to the pathway.”
“And this was
significant, because—” Kelly interrupted, but her voice trailed as she allowed
him to answer.
“Because the
Santa Anna islands were previously thought to be uninhabited,” he finished. “We
followed the pathways, which were arranged in a kind of circular pattern that
ended at the center of a lake set in the middle of the island. The pathway continued over the water in the
same pattern, but made with wooden beams and planks that were crudely cut and
bound with vines.
“The Ctha’nko
made contact only after we were on their lake, which we discovered was a sacred
ground for them. Their temple, so to
speak. And it is obvious their sacred
altar has had an effect on the world’s population, and more so as the medicines
derived from the God Lily have become more available. From what I understand, imitation Ctha’nko
Altars have been constructed in many cities across the US—and people are
forming a sort of following to the Ctha’nko, or at the very least, showing
respect for the miracles they have given us.”
The image on
screen suddenly cut to several aerial shots of large circular structures in
several locations. One in the foothills
of Southern California, and another in the forests and fields outside of
Boston. A few smaller structures
appeared in several urban areas as well, including one in Central Park, New
York.
“Yes, Dr.
Shepherd, and we’re showing the audience several places where these structures
have been built. It has been an
interesting development to see the Ctha’nko circles popping up, and people are
actually visiting these places, leaving flowers and offerings. Tell us your thoughts on that.”
“Well, Kelly—”
the image cut back to the two of them standing on the pier, “—I think this is a
difficult time for people. The world is
in a bit of turmoil with no little amount of anxiety, fear and unease about the
future. People see the God Lily, and
they see these people who are untouched by the modern world, and it inspires
awe. It is a testament that even in dark
times, there are miracles.”
“But to build
these structures, doesn’t that strike you as odd.”
“Not really, no,”
Dr. Shepherd said. “We don’t understand
the significance of the structure in the Ctha’nko religion, but we do
understand that it is significant.
People are simply giving thanks in the only way they know how. It’s no different from someone hanging a
crucifix in their home—it’s a symbol of our worship.”
Kelly nodded and
seemed satisfied with this answer.
Greyson thought about that response and didn’t know if sat well with
him. People who hung crucifixes knew the
significance the crucifix was to their belief system, but no one knew the
significance of the Ctha’nko Altar.
Building replicas and imitations seemed somehow naive and blind.
“Pardon the
digression,” Kelly said. “Back to your experience on the island. Tell us, how was contact first made?”
“Very slowly,
very carefully.” Both Dr. Shepherd and
Kelly laughed.
“There was a
language barrier, of course,” Dr. Shepherd continued, “so, for the first few
days, we communicated with gestures and drawings the best we could. Later, one of my colleagues at the University
arrived, Frances Botenga, an expert in tribal dialects in the Caribbean and
Latin America. She was able to establish an oral communication that, while
imperfect, seems to be working.”
“Fascinating,”
Kelly said, “and we hope to speak with Ms. Botenga later in the evening. Last question before we cut back to the
studio. Was the Ctha’nko—I’m not even sure I’m pronouncing that right.”
“Don’t ask me,
either.” Dr. Shepherd laughed, and she joined.
“So, the
Ctha’nko, were they welcoming? Did they
accept you?”
“They are the
kindest people. Good people, especially
considering the shock all of this must be for them. And they saved us all. They gave us the God Lily, after all.”
“Strikes me as a
bit naive,” Don said. He stood up and
went back to the kitchen, where the spaghetti was ready.
“You want
dinner?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
The kids poked
their heads up from the cushions.
“SPAGHETTI!” they
yelled in unison.
Don began serving
up the pasta, and continued, “The white man invades their territory, and by his
own admission, walks right into their sacred places. They walked right up on their altar, their
temple. We can’t communicate with them,
at least not with any level of sophistication.
Yet we assume they are kind and welcoming the moment they don’t kill us. Seems to me that we should be more worried
about their intentions.”
“I don’t know,”
Greyson said, jumping up to grab the plates of food for the kids. He and Don
had had this conversation several times before.
“Maybe we aren’t
their first contact, and they know what to expect.”
“Considering all
the hoopla about all this, I’m guessing that theory has been thoroughly
vetted.”
“I’m saying,” Don
said, “maybe they have met others, and don’t feel threatened. I mean, surely they have seen airplanes and
boats before. There has to be some
explanation as to why they would willingly get on a boat and come to a big
city. Any other group of people that
have been isolated from modern civilization would be terrified.”
“Dad, can I have
some juice?”
“Sure,” Greyson
said. Don made a move for the fridge,
but Greyson waved him back.
“I got it,” he
said and pulled a jug of orange juice from the fridge.
“Does it have
pulp?” Vigo asked.
“I don’t want any
juice if there’s pulp,” Finn said. After
considering a second longer, he said, “but I will have some apple juice.”
Greyson checked
the carton and saw that the juice contained LOTS OF PULP. He rolled his eyes and returned the juice to
the fridge. It was a constant battle between his kids, with Olivia loving pulp,
sometimes, and the twins refusing to even consider drinking the juice if it was
anything but smooth. He was almost
positive that it had nothing to do with taste or texture, but that his kids
picked opposing sides on the pulp battle just to be difficult.
Greyson didn’t
see any other options for juice.
“What about
milk?”
“Yes!” the twins
shouted in unison, completely forgetting about the juice or the pulp. Greyson poured two cups of milk and set them
in front of his kids. He left the milk
on the counter in case either of them wanted more. He picked up a chunk of garlic toast and on
his way back to the living room, leaned up the staircase and called to his
daughter.
“Hey, O! Dinner’s ready!”
The commercial
break ended as Greyson sat back down, chewing on the crunchy piece of
toast. An image of a crowded room
appeared. Reporters sat quietly in the seats,
and cameras from every news station imaginable lined the walls. At the front of the room stood a small stage,
flanked by bouquets of floral arrangements with tropical plants and flowers
that looked native to South Florida. A
simple podium stood off center on the stage, leaving most of the stage empty.
To either side of the stage was a set of closed double doors, a pair of secret
servicemen standing in front of each.
“We have word
that the meeting is beginning momentarily,” a newscaster’s voice intoned. “The President will address us, welcoming the
Ctha’nko tribe to the United States.”
Greyson studied
the crowd and saw that while most of the people there were reporters and
security, it looked like a few civilians from outside had been allowed entrance
to the press conference. He even saw
several children sitting among the adults, but they were most likely children
of people who’d been on the expedition and had discovered the Ctha’nko to begin
with.
A bustle suddenly
swept through the crowd. People sat up
straighter in their chairs, leaning forward.
Lenses and microphones pointed toward the door on the left as it swung
open and the men in dark suits stepped aside.
Cameras flashed,
and people began clapping as the President of the United States of America
stepped onto the stage from the left. He
smiled and waved at the audience and cameras, tapping into that same charm that
had won two national elections, and which hadn’t yet faded in his six years as
President.
Greyson mopped up
some marinara with the heel of his garlic toast and chewed on it slowly,
watching as the President stood at the podium and motioned for the audience to
quiet down.
“Good evening,”
he said, his voice low and comforting. Shoulders back and his jaw firmly set,
the leader exuded confidence and trustworthiness. In a nation with a stark political divide, he
was a voice of reason. A bridge between
two estranged parties.
Of course, there
were people like Don who didn’t see the man as anything more than a clown who’d
fallen backwards into his job.
“Five months ago,
explorers from our country set foot on an island thought to be uninhabited, and
made a discovery that is unprecedented in these times, a flower with incredible
qualities that will change the face of medicine forever. This flower was cultivated and grown by a
group of people untouched by modern civilization, living in isolation—”
“I never trusted
this guy,” Don interrupted, pointed at the screen. “Really don’t know how he
pulled off two elections.”
“It’s the smile,
I think. Seems genuine for some reason.”
“Genuine like a
shark. The guy is still a
politician. The worst—”
“Where’s the
shark?” Finn interrupted, suddenly very interested. Don laughed, turning to look at the boys who
were listening more to his conversation with Grey than to the television.
“Observant kids,”
Don said, still chuckling.
More cameras
flashed in the press room on the television as the President finished his
introduction and the door to the right of the stage opened. A tall man with broad shoulders and a barrel
chest stepped through the door first. He
wore a white shirt and tie, but did not seem like a security guard or secret
service man. Instead, he tugged at his
collar and looked as though he might rip the shirt off his back at any moment.
“He does not look
comfortable.” Don stole the words from Greyson’s thoughts. “I bet he can’t remember the last time he
wore a button-up shirt and tie.”
“That’s Dr.
Shepherd, the first one to make actual contact with the Ctha’nko,” Greyson
said.
“Never could pronounce
that,” Don said. “How they come up with
a name like that I’ll never guess.”
“The ‘t’ is
silent, and you’ve got to be silent too.
I’m trying to watch.”
A very tall woman
who was adorned with feathers and polished pieces of wood stepped forward. A woven shawl-like piece of cloth hung from
her shoulders, the polished bits of wood woven into the material and glistening
in the harsh glare of white lights. The
skin on her chin and neck was a deep purple, and the color continued beyond the
rough material that covered her chest and belly. Tiny dots, the same shade of purple, were
painted on her cheeks and forehead, circling her eyes and causing the irises to
appear almost the same shade and color.
The woman’s eyes—quite
striking and beautiful, Greyson thought—shone with something the opposite
of naivety. She did not appear out of
her element, or even if this was new.
Instead, an old intelligence seemed to be buried deep. Needing no explanation of who he was, she
turned to the President and bowed her head.
Her eyes made contact with his, even as the translator made an obviously
feeble attempt to explain who he was.
The President
nodded and smiled, soaking it all up.
Commentators
continued talking, explaining the event like a sports game on ESPN. It was a matriarchal society, one commentator
said, but someone else in the news studio disagreed. It was clear, however, that whatever her role
among the Ctha’nko, she was in charge at the moment.
A man—maybe a
Ctha’nko warrior—stepped forward, also dressed in a rough, woven cloth. Thin shards of polished wood, about the size
of quilting needles pierced the skin of his face in several places. His mouth moved as he spoke several words,
too quietly to register for the cameras.
In the warrior’s hands was a long, flat box made of the same polished
wood.
Greyson leaned
closer to the television, trying to make out what kind of wood had been used to
make the box. It had a reddish tint,
like from a cherry tree. But as he
focused on the box, he saw that the red was not part of the grain, but instead
an inconsistent stain on top of the grain.
Not like a finish that had been applied to the polished wood, but more
like someone had spilled a glass of wine onto its surface, and the deep red
liquid had spread and dripped.
Wine, or…
The woman opened
the box, revealing a jumble of tiny carved objects, the same color of polished
wood. She lifted the objects, which were
strung together into a necklace, and held it out to the President. The corners of her lips lifted in a faint
smile, and there was something about her smile that was not quite right. For no apparent reason, Greyson felt a
tightening in his stomach. His heart
beat a little faster.
The President
must have also seen something on her face, because his own smile faltered. He hesitated, but the woman motioned for him
to come closer. The President stepped
forward, leaning his head toward her and allowing the necklace to be placed
around his head and neck. He
straightened, taking the woman’s hand in his and raising it above their heads
and facing the camera.
The look on both
of their faces triumphant. The crowd in
the news room began to clap and the cameras panned the jubilant faces. A little girl in a yellow raincoat stood on
her seat in the front row and waved a tiny American flag. A boy who couldn’t have been more than a year
or two older than the girl stood beside her in a neatly pressed suit. They both looked up at Dr. Shepherd, who
beamed.
“In what appears
to have been a show of respect,” the newscaster said over the image on the
screen, “the Ctha’nko matriarch has presented the President with a carved
necklace. A symbol of peace between the
leaders of two tribes.”
The President
stepped to the podium, but before he opened his mouth to speak, the Ctha’nko
warrior holding the polished box moved so fast that his form seemed to blur,
leaving a wispy color trail in his wake.
From the bottom of the wooden box, the warrior pulled a small, wooden
blade. Even as small as it was, and as
fast as the warrior pulled it from the box, Greyson could see it was sharpened
to a point.
The secret
service sprang into action at the sudden movement, diving in front of the
President, but the warrior was faster.
He swung the blade into the President’s neck. The pointed end entered through the back and
exited the front, blood splattering the stage in front of him and spilling down
the President’s white shirt in rivulets of gore.
“Whoa!” Greyson
shouted, jumping to his feet and stepping forward. Don froze on the couch, unable to react. For several seconds, it appeared as if
everyone in the news conference was likewise frozen in place, unbelieving of
what had just happened.
The President
stumbled, and several secret service men rushed to his side, keeping him on his
feet. The President stood, the
expression on his face a combination of shock and bewilderment. In almost the same instant, another curved
blade appeared in the warrior’s hand—this one also carved from a piece of
reddish wood—and he swung it into the President’s chest, driving the man
backward and to the ground.
This second
attack ignited a furor. The men
surrounding the President drew their guns and began to fire at the Ctha’nko
warrior, but the bullets seemed to have no effect as he rushed forward,
swinging the circular blade and slicing into the necks of the two closest
agents. Their bodies dropped amidst
arterial sprays, even as more agents leapt forward and tackled the warrior.
The Matriarch
watched the attacks, her lips curled and her eyes dancing. Blood dripped from her face and hair, soaked
the woven cloth of her dress. She opened
her mouth and uttered several sounds.
The interpreter heard and seemed to understand, staring at the woman and
biting her fist in terror.
More Ctha’nko men
burst from behind the Matriarch, carved wooden weapons in hand. Their movements
were a blur that—like their companion’s before—left behind trails of fading and
blurred color. Screams suddenly erupted,
mingled with the staccato bursts of gunfire.
Bodies clamored over one another in the room, and the camera filming the
event was knocked to the floor.
“No!” Dr.
Shepherd held his hands up in front of the Ctha’nko. They blurred past him, attacking first the
agents with weapons, then moving into the crowd. Smoke filled the air, punctured with flashes
of yellow light from the barrage of gunfire.
The girl in the
yellow raincoat rushed forward to Dr. Shepherd, arms outstretched, calling out
to her dad.
Flames burst on
the left side of the camera’s frame.
A man huddled
among overturned chairs, his arms wrapped around several other figures, his
body shielding and protecting. An arrow
fitted with the feathers of tropical birds suddenly sliced through the air and
pierced the man in his side.
The Ctha’nko
moved through the smoke, blurred shadows.
Screams and
gunshots rose to a fever pitch, melding into a roar of static.
Greyson covered
his mouth, unable to breath.
This is impossible, he thought.
The Matriarch
lifted her hands high into the air and began to laugh.
The camera’s feed
disconnected and the image went dark.
