Between Dreams: 2012

By Kay Whitaker

Is 12/21/2012 the end? Or an opportunity for a new beginning?
Ahman Mason is utterly alone when she meets Stephen Cane, a young man who believes he can predict everything using the Mayan calendar. Uncertain at first, Ahman cannot deny the accuracy of his predictions. So, when he says that her daughter, Kim, will die in 3 days, Ahman has to find a way to save her. She will do whatever it takes...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kay Whitaker
• Release date: Sep 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9780984612307

Kay Whitaker

I live in Indianapolis with my husband Scott and our two schnauzers. I am involved in several philanthropic ventures and have had a successful career in finance spanning more than two decades. I have always had a deep passion for writing and am so pleased to share my first novel, Between Dreams – 2012.You can see a brief video about my thoughts on the book at http://bit.ly/bd12vid

Book preview

What others are saying about Between Dreams -2012

"Initially, Between Dreams launches the reader down a path that feels very familiar, with a hint of mystery; but that is only a temporary state of mind! The storyline takes off like a rollercoaster, surrounded by fear of the unknown and the conflict of lives forced to deal with their pasts, as unpleasant as it may seem. A real page turner that leaves you wanting more!" -Lynn Weatherly

I could not put the book down. It grabbed me from the very beginning and held my interest to the very end. Using the Mayan calendar as a central point of the novel was intriguing. Imagination and a sense of magic pervaded the book with twists and turns that carried me along for the ride. I hope there is a second book for these characters. -Connie Edwards

A beautifully told story that draws the reader into the lives of interesting and complex characters and takes you along on their (and your own) journey towards discovery and hope. A parable for the uncertain and challenging times that we now find ourselves in, that encourages us to explore our own abilities to help those around us and affect both their and our own future. -Pat Caporali

Kay Whitaker

Between Dreams

2012

Published by

Sterling Hope at Smashwords

www.SterlingHope.com

1075 Broad Ripple Avenue #278, Indianapolis, IN, 46220 USA

Copyright ©2010 by KAY WHITAKER

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Whitaker, Kay.

Between Dreams – 2012 : What happens when a cave is discovered that holds ancient secrets of the Mayan Code - is December 21, 2012 the end or is it an opportunity for a new beginning?

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-9846123-0-7

For

Destiny

TABLE OF CONTENTS

RESISTANCE

ASSIMILATION

EXPANSION

DESTRUCTION

RESISTANCE

1

Barefoot, Ahman Mason sat on the farmhouse porch, watching the haze of twilight descend on the meadow. She poured a glass of wine reserved for this moment; savoring the texture as she placed the bottle on the table between the two rockers. Two rockers -- proof she wanted company -- but for now the box filled with books was what she deserved.

Monster, she felt her inner ear tightening as if a giant’s hand squeezed her skull. Ahman pushed short blasts of air through her lips, tapped the spot between her eyebrows, coaxing her mind to move to the next thought. She drained the glass; poured another and wondered if this was how people slid into the abyss. Not her, she was a caregiver, Ahman thought.

Monster, she pinched the skin between her eyebrows recalling the word hurled at her by her ex-husband, her daughter looking on.

The rosebushes beyond the railing swelled and collapsed in a sigh, exposing the fresh shoots on the gnarled canes. She raised her glass in salute. Maybe there could be a fresh start, forgiveness. But, half her life was over. Except for her pharmacist, she was beginning to experience the invisibility clerks reserved for women above a certain age. Not that she had ever been a looker; comfortable was how she was described. The person at the party people lingered with, revealing their stories while she shared nothing at all. Later, they proclaimed how like them she was.

Chameleon, another form of monster, Ahman twirled the stem of the goblet.

She grimaced as the glass grazed the laceration at the bend in her fingers, where the plastic binding on the parcel of moving boxes had sliced through her skin. Ahman shifted the glass, shutting her eyes against the image from two days earlier. The newlyweds cooing into each other’s ears followed her into the U-Haul store. She only wanted some boxes. Her order was shorter. She had already waited while two women younger than her daughter flirted with the clerk who gave them a great deal. And now he was dismissing her, pulling out his order pad and waving a pamphlet at the couple. Dismissing her, she had not realized she said it out loud. The stifling hot store grew silent as everyone stared at her. Ahman had caught her reflection in the window. The trenches running on each side of her mouth and her hawkish nose gave a patrician air at odds with the sweat oozing from her scalp. Her curly hair sprang out from her head; she looked like a confused circus clown. Trying to retain her dignity, she insisted she could handle the parcel the man offered to carry to her car. As she gazed at the healing flesh, she marveled the only pain she felt at the time was embarrassment.

Ahman exhaled and stood up. It was easier not to feel anything at all, despite what her therapist said. Forward momentum carried her through the trouble spots of life. She peered through the deepening haze to the top of the meadow, where the driveway turned into the country road. Envisioning her teenage self, sneakers tiptoeing across this porch, then pounding the dirt, racing toward the muscle car and what she thought was freedom. And, what she thought was love. Both proved to be a disappointment.

Thirty years since she ran off. Thirty years and she had never once returned to the family farm. Until today, Ahman tilted the glass back. Lowering it, she turned for a refill.

The hoot of an owl startled her. She spun and rushed towards the porch railing. Astonished to watch the creature skim the field, gaining speed as it headed directly toward her. The cloying fragrance of the meadow’s exhale assaulted her as the raptor’s wings stroked the air. The creature ascended exposing its magnificent chest, climbing to her rooftop.

Ahman glanced back at the box of books. Owls meant something, or at least they did in dreams. She bit her lip trying to recall if she kept the book that gave the explanation. A lifetime of accumulation, but it only took a month to purge what no longer mattered. In her former life, she longed for time to sit and read. But as she stared at the haphazardly packed box, perspiration beaded on her brow. The pressure on her skull intensified.

She could barely see the trees lining the perimeter of the meadow, dark sentries fading into the night. What made her believe she could press rewind on her life, Ahman thought as fireflies winked, drifting like earthbound stars. She had wanted this solitude, willed it as she had everything else in her life. For she was no longer content to be a voyeur, pressing her nose against a thick pane of glass, the oxygen was too thin on this side. She needed air, fresh air. The owl’s call soothed her -- wise owl.

Holding onto the porch railing, she raised and lowered like a ballerina smiling at the memory of stolen practices. Dance was forbidden by her father -- devil's work. He had forced her to tamp down so much of what she knew to be true and yet somehow she still thought of this place as home. She gulped the wine letting the fluid soothe her. Releasing the railing she pirouetted, laughing as the ruby liquid sprinkled her, splattered the porch. She bent for a refill.

The empty rocker swayed lightly in the night breeze sending a shudder up her spine as she glanced around her uneasily. She shook off the sense that someone was watching and dipped into a slow waltz. Pinching her fingers together as if she held an imaginary gown, she hummed an old love song twirling on her private stage. She closed her eyes abandoning herself to the sway of her body, the sturdiness of the wood and the gentle call of the owl.

The arch of her bare foot rested on something cold. A garden hose, she thought. But, there was no hose. She opened her eyes and peered down, mesmerized at her white flesh pressed against the black scales of a cold, wriggling tube.

Snake!

Ahman vaulted, twisting her ankle as she crashed onto the floorboards. Her face landed inches from the serpent’s flickering tongue. She screamed and rolled accompanied by the muffled pop of the crushed goblet. Crab walking over broken glass, she scrambled to her feet as the snake coiled toward her. She seized the first object she could fit in her fist, and with all her force brought the wine bottle down toward the snake’s head. The tail flipped up and the cold reptile skin grazed her leg. Her body vibrated with the force of her blow against wood. She raised her arms and closed her eyes, thwacking the surface closest to her feet. Wine sprayed her arms and lips. She peeked.

The snake slithered toward the rosebushes. Her rosebushes would become his rosebushes. Ahman stepped forward. She took a deep breath hefting the bottle over her head, certain of her target.

Don’t hurt him. The voice was barely audible.

Ahman strained, listening. Slowly lowering the bottle, she kept a tight grip watching in dismay as the snake slid into the rosebushes. She held her breath scanning the bushes for the source of the voice. The owl’s call raised the hair on her arms. Death -- she remembered now -- owls warned of death. Trembling, she inched her way toward her front door dimly aware the light diminished her ability to see, yet offered the intruder a better view.

She squared her shoulders. Come out. She hissed, embarrassed her breath came in huffs. The ridges of her knuckles gleamed white from the pressure on the bottle. Squinting, she thought she saw the gleam of an arm that receded behind the porch column in front of her. She filled her lungs. I said come out.

A young man moved to the base of the steps. He kept his head bowed. A shock of red hair obscured his features; he held his arms woodenly at his sides. They barely grazed his lanky body. Tall, his tee shirt pulled free from his drooping shorts revealed the pink knob of his hipbone, a taut belly. He reminded her of the half clad model in the poster for the teen store at the mall. Ahman waited, preparing for the attack. Nothing happened. He was immobile for so long her breathing evened out. She placed the bottle on the floor.

What are you doing? She asked.

Standing. He said.

Are you alone? Ahman inched forward. The young man raised his head at her approach. Her heart jumped as she was pulled into a memory of her childhood neighbor’s face, handsome and utterly unavailable. His lower lip puffed out in a pout over a defiant chin, yet, he gazed just beyond her ear. So, you saved me from hurting the snake. She said.

It’s a black snake. They don’t bite. Round heads are safe.

Uh, oh, yeah, I think I remember that. Ahman glanced over at the rosebushes. When you come face to face with one…I guess I looked pretty silly, huh.

He did not reply. She started to speak, but pressed her lips together observing the rise and fall of his chest. The tempo of the owl’s call was the same as her heartbeat and she reached down to gather her left wrist between her thumb and index finger testing her pulse. Slowly she ran her thumb in a circle over the protruding artery, round and round and round. Her father had corrected this gesture, as if she were a child sucking her thumb. She resurrected it at the bedside of her patients; the motion dialed into a deeper part of self.

Ahman closed her eyes against the whispered jibe. That was a decade ago -- more. The nursing home was all she could find. Working nights let her care for her daughter, Kim, during the day, while her husband moved between jobs. She loved the tattered warehouse of the aged, fantasized of becoming a doctor to be able to do what she knew she could. Becoming a respiratory therapist was a stopgap until she had money. But Kim’s father left. Her ideas of better care: respiratory supplies neatly organized and oxygen ready to use rather than siphoned from the same huge tanks the auto paint shop used were rejected by her employer. Her business, Gentle Breath was an accident that took her further and further away from actually caring for anyone by caring for everyone. Stop it, the deeper voice urged. Be intentional now, now. Ahman opened her eyes.

The man was fixated on her wrist. His pupils were tiny pinpricks barely flickering as he followed the rotation. She stopped. I’m Ahman, Ahman Mason. She turned her back on him. I just moved in -- today actually. But, I used to live here. I think I knew your father. What’s your name? She heard the scuff of boot against brick, as the young man came up onto the porch.

What’s your name Stephen Cane? It rhymes. He revealed no amusement in his tone.

Ah, Stephen, I did know your father, Albert right? She turned to face him. He had stopped at the path the snake made through the spilled wine. His index finger waggled in the air, faintly tracing the pattern. You know a lot about snakes. He did not look up.

Ahman retreated to the rocking chair noticing the briars stuck to the thick socks protruding from his boots, the scratches on his hairless legs. His index finger looped back and forth. Did you cut through the woods?

No, I walked.

I see. I used to walk through the woods, along the ridge. Your farm is on the other side. Heard Marge Cane still farms it.

She is my Aunt. He collected his index finger with his free hand and looked toward Ahman. His step to cross the snake path was exaggerated and with two long strides he settled into the rocking chair opposite her.

Ahman tallied a small victory; renewed her efforts. Oh, you live with her?

I’m staying with her while my mother dies. He pushed into a pleasant sway. One time one of Aunt Marge’s crew cut a snake’s head off. The body twitched and sent the blood everywhere, like here. He pointed to the wine stains.

I’m so sorry.

Yeah, he should not have killed the snake. It was only sunning itself on the rock. It had a round head, not a triangle. Stephen shook his head.

Uh, well not everybody knows that I guess. Your mother…no, let me think. Stephen licked chapped lips, slowly scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. Do you want a glass of water? Ahman was already on her feet. The simple act of sipping, swallowing and taking a breath always centered her patients. She hustled around the corner to the door into the front room.

The original house was shotgun style -- front, middle and back rooms all in a line. The wrap -around porch with thick brick columns was added with the indoor plumbing and a huge bedroom. Every room opened onto the porch. As a child she jiggled the unyielding locks of the heavy doors and peered out the wavy glass panes until her father reminded her of a task she was neglecting. Today, before dragging the moving boxes inside, she opened every door. She smiled in satisfaction.

From the kitchen she looked over the counter through the middle room out the front window. Stephen rocked with the precision of a metronome. The metal drawer squealed as she slid it open and pulled out the phone book. Flipping through the pages she found Marge Cane’s number, hesitated. She stopped for gas at the Mini-Mart, which supplanted the church and school as the nexus of the tiny town of Brush Creek. The manager, RJ introduced himself and exchanged more information in five minutes than she typically offered up in her hour-long therapy sessions. The phone lines she passed heading to the farm must have vibrated with the tidbit that the truant daughter had returned. Being watched gave her a strange comfort, and yet she knew the price. She tapped her phone.

At Marge Cane’s voice she plummeted back in time. Ahman spun around catching her reflection in the kitchen window. The same furtive expression she had as a teenager sneaking a call to her boyfriend stared back. Ahman straightened, raised her chin smiling at the gratitude spilling from the phone. Marge was coming over. Ahman began to hum.

She set the phone down and reached for a glass. Crystal refracting light serrated her vision; she pinched her forehead against the piercing pain. Patting the windowsill she knocked against the pill bottle that rattled and toppled out of reach. Just as well, she thought as the pain collapsed leaving her questioning its existence. The first time the light blinded her was in her daughter Kim’s Paris apartment. Ahman quickly pushed the memory aside. There was mercy in the light, and she dared probe no further. She took a deep breath watching the water fill the glass, pleased the prelude of pain was not followed by the torturous headache. Maybe she had been right to return home, she thought as she filled another glass and made her way back out to the porch.

Stephen ignored the water glass in front of him, continuing to rock. She set it on the table between the two chairs. Abruptly he stopped, blew through his lips. She watched as he gathered his errant index finger in his free hand and tore his gaze away from the snake’s path. He reached out and held the glass in both hands, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he drank it all, turned and placed it precisely within the original water ring. He slipped back into the rhythm of his rocking.

So, you cut…walked through the woods and ended up here.

Stephen did not respond.

She wanted to ask about his mother, offer sympathy but that was her need not his. I used to climb up to the ridge and then run to the end, where the creek cuts…makes a big ravine between our land and the park, Serpent Mound. It was my secret spot.

Stephen’s rocking slowed.

Funnel rock, do you know it? The trees just end and there’s this big wide rock. You barely notice it slopes to a hole in the middle until you step on it and it pulls you down toward the center. It’s why I called it funnel rock, but I always wondered what it emptied into. Funnels usually empty into something don’t they?

A cave, there is a cave underneath, Stephen said.

Oh, really, you’ve seen it? This was something new. She had never heard of a cave. As she studied the young man, she was struck by how much he reminded her of his father. The Cane brothers and their older sister, Marge would have explored every inch of the woods and hillside. It was impossible that there was a cave.

Stephen was bobbing his head up and down, then stopped and with great effort shook his head. I sat on the rock and figured it all out. I didn’t want to go near the water. I don’t like water. A tree fell into it.

The sycamore? Ahman tried to imagine it broken; the white barked tree was her knight, guarding her childhood daydreams as she sat hidden, watching visitors wander around Serpent Mound. The native burial ground mounded in the shape of a snake not quite half the size of a football field was forbidden territory. We should walk there sometime, she said.

I walk with Pastormat every day.

Oh, well… Ahman furrowed her brows. Pastormat sounded like Laundromat, perhaps his imaginary friend.

I’d rather walk with you. Pastormat is trying to save my soul. Not my sole. Stephen flashed the bottom of his hiking boot.

She smiled and nodded, recalling the isolated irritation in Marge’s voice focused on the local minister. Where do you walk with Pastor Matt?

Down the road, my Aunt doesn’t want me to go into the woods. Stephen blew air through his lips. We walk to Serpent Mound. It twists like the snake. He pointed toward the wine stained tracks. He looked away and stuffed his hands in his armpits.

The park, it’s a burial mound. In Sedona, I found out Serpent Mound has stronger energy fields than out there. People go just to sit on the red rocks of Sedona to absorb the energy. Here, I got this. Ahman rummaged through the box of books. There was no need to add that her ex-husband, John, made the connection, chalking it up to better marketing of the Southwest than the Midwest. He chided her that she could have simply visited her father in Ohio. John never understood her estrangement from her father. Perhaps he would now, Ahman thought. Her fingertips caught the spine of the slender book, pulling it free from the others she opened to the dog-eared page.

"The sun drops into the Serpent mouth on the summer solstice. The curves of the snake’s body trace the elliptic," she read.

Stephen puffed his lips, voluptuous for a man, and closed them deliberately. Ahman handed him the pamphlet entitled Energy Vortexes, Natural Power Centers. He brought it inches from his nose and she felt she had disappeared. Goose bumps on his arms sent her scurrying back into the front room. Gathering up the throw on the couch, she pressed her face into softness.

Sedona stood out to her as the place she began to see the fissures in her relationship with John as clearly as the lines etched on the red rocks. They never fought. She thought herself blessed in this second marriage. Ahman shuddered pushing the memory of the last time she saw John out of her mind as she mashed the fabric into her face. John taunted her about the farm, her refusal to visit her father. At least her father clearly defined right from wrong. Even if that meant she was in the latter category. Long after her father died, she stayed away from the farm. Had her attorney, Paul deal with the details of the renovation. He kept urging her to sell the property, pointing out they missed the best market. And now she was grateful for her failure. She wondered if she would ever be grateful for all the other failures. She squeezed the throw, lowered it to peer through the window.

Stephen ran his finger rapidly down one page, then the next, devouring the pamphlet. Ahman blinked her eyes rapidly; she thought she saw a lilac glow surrounding his body. But when she focused on the light, it slid away as if shy. Another bolt of searing light doubled her over. She massaged her temples, panted until the pain subsided. She blinked furiously to clear her vision. Everything looked wavy. A cold pack on her forehead and rest would cure her. The doctor said all she needed was to learn how to manage her stress. When she pointed out she had raised a child on her own, became a respiratory therapist, created a successful company and married and divorced without any of these symptoms, he had bent his head and written the prescription. Gazing at his balding pate she knew the medications would be of no use. Barreling forward she knew how to do; full stop was what drove her crazy. Ahman straightened and rushed back out to the porch.

Ahman unfurled the throw before Stephen and waited as he read the back cover of the pamphlet. I brought this for you. It’s soft.

Slowly, Stephen looked up. He reached out and gathered a corner between his thumb and index finger. She took a deep breath before draping the throw over his extended hand. A glimpse of a smile crossed Stephen’s face, as he rolled the fabric between his fingers. Ahman felt her carefully constructed cocoon tearing, as he flung the throw over his shoulders.

They got the Tzolkin wrong. Stephen handed her the pamphlet.

The what?

This has the Tzolkin wrong. He closed his eyes, exhaled heavily gripping the arms of the chair. They drew the Tzolkin with the day signs out of order. Stephen set his jaw.

Ahman scanned the pamphlet and found a figure labeled Tzolkin -- sacred Mayan calendar. It looked like a coin stamped with dots and lines in columns and rows. The outer edge was rimmed with cartoon characters. You can look at this and tell it’s out of order? She held up the drawing.

Stephen reared back; the tips of the rocker smacked the window. Instinctively her hand shot out to grab the armrest. He pulled away from her touch, hugging the opposite side. Ahman stepped back, held up both hands in surrender.

Stephen, I’m sorry Stephen. It’s okay.

It’s not okay. The figures have to be kept in the order the Mayan Priests set.

Ahman was startled to see red flaring around his body. It quickly faded to radiant lavender as he blew air out. She looked up at a moth buzzing the porch light.

It matters. I can predict everything with the Tzolkin.

What do you mean everything, Stephen?

In the distance, headlights swerved off the road and onto the long gravel driveway.

You think I don’t know.

No, I believe you; I just don’t know what you know. Tell me. Help me. Ahman squatted in front of him careful not to touch him.

Stephen pursed his lips and blew out a long stream of air. Gravel crunched as the vehicle made its way toward them. The owl called.

This is the fourth creation. At first people were perfect -- gods. But the gods blurred our vision, so we needed the Tzolkin to see. But gradually only the Priests could see. And then no one --until me.

And you see? Ahman asked.

That’s what I told you. I use the Tzolkin to see until 12.21.2012. That’s when it ends.

What ends? The world? Ahman heard the vehicle stop. She resisted shaking Stephen, who was distracted by the creak of the door.

A woman jumped out of a crew cab pickup, apologizing as she bounded up the steps. Ahman rose and smiled at the sight of Marge Cane who was trying out for boy’s sports before anyone heard about Title IX. Ahman extended her hand, and was pulled into the kind of hug reserved for homecomings.

Stephen, you’ve been gone for hours. Half the county’s looking for you, Marge said as she pulled away.

I was hiking. He stood up.

We even called the sheriff. Marge stepped in front of Stephen, arms at her side, hands flexing.

Am I going to jail?

No, you’re fine. Why don’t you go get in the truck? I brought that Mayan calendar you like to trace. It’s in there.

Stephen, I’m glad you found me. Ahman held her hand inches away from his back, feeling a light vibration. Anyone can sense the energy of another inches before the touch, she thought. As her hand hovered in the air she saw a flash of lilac shimmering all around Stephen, inexplicably flooding her heart with joy. Ahman let her hand fall and the light vanished. She really was overly tired; her eyes were playing tricks, she reasoned. She might rummage through the books from Sedona; there was one that described auras. Nonsense, Devil’s deeds -- her father’s words intruded on her conscience.

Stephen paused at the steps, raised his head. She could see the muscles of his jaw working. He turned stiffly, facing her with a wrinkled brow. You were not lost. He marched down the steps toward the truck.

His Dad brought him that Mayan calendar when he was tiny. He’s been fascinated ever since. Marge waited, leaned toward Ahman. Did he tell you where he was? Hiking?

Is that unusual?

Unusual? There’s duct tape on the floor to get him through his morning routine. Unless you get him started talking about the Mayans, then watch out. And Pastor Matt just dumped him off. Can’t believe that man.

Do you trust him?

Who, Stephen or Pastor? Stephen’s as honest as God, boy can’t tell a lie. The Pastor’s a little short in the responsibility column for my money. Oh well, who am I to judge? Sorry for your trouble Ahman. Marge stepped back, studying Ahman who hastened to cover her wine stained shirt.

You look like your mother; eyes like a cat’s.

Her