Sleeping Gods: A Novel By

By Michael Hodjera

A young man sets out on a quest to find his biological father. Along the way, he falls in with a plucky band of environmental activists, who call themselves eco-ops, operating in the wilds of Orange County. Each one among them possesses unique abilities. And one is The Dreameran individual with a singular destiny: to weave, at a sub-conscious level, the totality of present and past world events.

The murder of a prominent industrialist and Orange County developer catapults eco-ops into motion. Investigating the murder while trying to stay one step ahead of the authorities, eco-ops uncovers a nefarious plot to overthrow the government. A cynical, wealthy televangelist is engaged in a power grab to implement his sociopathic agenda and impose it on unsuspecting millions. Can eco-ops expose the plot before he and his minions can close the deal?


Sleeping Gods is a mystical adventure thriller combining action and reflection, humor and pathos. It finds unlikely heroes and dastardly villains on a collision course in a world where reality is inextricably intertwined with the magical and mythical.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462019694

Michael Hodjera

Michael Hodjera is the author of a trio of books featuring the fictional present day adventures of Elvis. One of these, The Fear Merchant, was a Darrell Award finalist. A songwriter and composer, he lives in the Santa Cruz mountains. Sleeping Gods is his fourth novel. To learn more visit michaelhodjera.com.

Book preview

Prologue

Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, June 12, 1967, 10:30 a. m.

The west side fog rolls in off the ocean. The young British rocker pulls the leather jacket close around him to ward off the chill. Flower children are already arriving for the afternoon free concert. On the bill are Jefferson Airplane, The Grateful Dead and Country Joe and the Fish. Also featured will be an as yet little known English hard rock band, Armchair Philosophers. The band’s lead singer has arrived early. After a restless night in a downtown hotel room, he could barely wait for his first view of the fabled city, San Francisco.

Bloody freakin’ cold as East London in February, thinks the young performer with a shiver. But this is definitely not East London. It could be Hyde Park on a Sunday. And while it might be raining buckets in England this time of year, there is no rain in sight here. Only this drifting, blowing, ever-changing canopy of fog. And there’s just something about this place, which figures so prominently in the mythology of the late sixties. Something one can’t quite pin down. He finds himself humming, Sunshine came softly through my window today… .

The homesickness that has been eating him since his arrival at SFO just over a week ago seems to be easing. Sun is peaking out sporadically from behind the low clouds now, illuminating and adding color to a scene of diverse and colorful characters arriving to claim their place near the stage area for the afternoon’s music. A beautiful young woman with long, blonde ringlets (not unlike his own) smiles at him. For a moment he thinks she has recognized him as the rock god he fancies himself to be, especially since last week’s debut at the Monterey Fairgrounds. Probably not, he concedes as she moves past him with the fragrance of vanilla trailing in her wake. Just being friendly. Everybody is a star… , he hums to himself.

He is debating heading out to the boulevard to look for a coffee shop, when he finds himself in front of a large tent on the green. Madame La Roche, reads a sign across the entrance. Fortunes Told. Inquire Within.

A quick glance inside informs him that no customers have as yet arrived. The only person present is a woman dressed like a gypsy in layers upon layers of flowing, brightly colored silks and synthetics. She is reaching upward to place a Chinese paper lantern on a clothesline stretched from one end of the tent to the other. She is facing away from him. After a moment or two, she seems to sense his presence and turns.

Oh, don’t mind me, he says, suddenly reticent. Do carry on.

No. No interruption, says the woman, probably as old as thirty, smoothing her long, decorative skirt. Come in. Come in. She waves him impatiently forward.

Sorry, I hadn’t really considered, um, . . . getting my fortune told, he says. Rather early in the morning for that sort of thing, I’d imagine. Listen, I’ll just… .

The woman transfixes him with her expression. She is looking at him oddly, her head canted to one side. No, you are in the right place, she says with certainty. She indicates a chair opposite a card table which rests in the middle of the tent. Please. The way she says it brooks no objection.

He shrugs and thinks, first time for everything. He is hearing the old hit recently revived by the Searchers in his head, Love Potion Number 9. He obediently takes a seat as instructed. What does he have to lose?

Madame La Roche, her eyes heavily outlined with kohl, rests her weighty gaze upon him as she shuffles the tarot cards. She turns over three of these and places them on the table. The first card is the Fool. The second is the World. And the third card is Death.

You are on the cusp of a major change in fortunes, Madame La Roche announces, with what seems the obligatory eastern European accent.

Is it put on? wonders the young British rocker. He is fascinated by her appearance and is only half listening to what she’s saying. This woman has charisma, he thinks.

In a short time—it is either just happening, or is about to happen—the world will be, how do you say it? your oyster. You will be famous beyond your dreams and rich beyond measure. All doors will open to you and no extravagance will be withheld. This can, of course, be a blessing or a curse depending on how you respond to it. I think you will be fine. You are level-headed. You have a good heart. You will prevail. That is until… . She taps the Death card with a long magenta fingernail.

It is not what you think, she says hastily. Maybe fifteen, twenty years in the future you will undergo a major transformation. Everything that seemed important before that time will suddenly become inconsequential. You will find yourself drifting, in limbo. But then your path will become clear. The change will be a great change and difficult, like a death indeed, for you will die to everything you once held dear.

She looks at him intently. It’s as if she is looking through him, past the facade, into something in the distance. The process that will begin in two decades will not be completed until another two decades have expired. You will require a catalyst to achieve this final transformation. You will meet the principal players today. You will meet a messenger from the future. And you will meet a future adversary. All this on the eve of your greatest worldly triumph.

Suddenly she takes his hand and turns it over in hers. Her hands are very warm, even in the cold. She looks him in the eyes once again. You have a singular destiny. A powerful destiny, she says. Listen to me. There will be great difficulties. They will appear insurmountable. Years will come and go when nothing seems to change, when no progress seems to be made. Don’t give up. Do not lose heart. You will be tempted by the specter of death, Again she taps the Death card. Do not give up. Waiting for you is a freedom beyond anything you could imagine. Your greatest accomplishment will arrive without fanfare, unannounced and anonymous, like a thief in the night. But it will have the most profound effect on your existence, your experience of life, and even on the course of world events. You are at the beginning of your journey. Now, on this day, you stand on the threshold of the most magnificent adventure possible for a human being.

They young rocker is hooked. He leans forward eagerly, longing to know more. The fortune teller can see it in his eyes. But she knows she has said enough for now.

Go now, she says, pulling back. All will be revealed in the fullness of time. Your destiny waits… .

MAYA

One

Northern San Diego County, Present Day

They are approaching the gate set in the twelve-foot, razor wire-topped chain link fence that has circumscribed his world for the past year and a half. To his left is Manny Garcia, the prison guard with a face like a basset hound. The expression hangdog could have been invented for him. To his right is prison guard Guadalupe Rodriguez: short, stocky and built like a linebacker. Ace can’t recall ever having seen her smile.

It was a bum rap, Manny is saying. Two years from now the stuff will be legalized, and we’ll be back to chasing real criminals for a change. That judge had it in for you. Wanted to make an example of you bad.

That seems to be the general consensus, Ace says neutrally. Somehow knowing this hasn’t made the time inside shorter.

I guess, it could have been worse. They could have made you serve out the full two years, instead of releasing you after 18 months.

Ace doesn’t really look the worse for wear for his year and a half in the Tito P. Flores Minimum Security Detention Facility in north San Diego county. He still looks like a kid, basically. His blond locks are just long enough to start to show some curl. And he doesn’t fill in the army surplus jacket any better than he had when he arrived.

Still. One and half years for bringing in a lousy few of ounces of hashish, Manny says, shaking his head in disgust. Now that’s… .

A crime? Ace volunteers cheerfully.

Is that a nervous twitch or is that the beginnings of a smile on Lupe’s lips?

Yeah, Manny continues with a sigh. I guess it’s all water under the bridge now. You’ve done your time. Now it’s up to you to make up for lost time.

Does anybody really know what time it is? Ace can’t resist the quote from the old Chicago song.

I guess you got a right to be bitter, Manny says. One and half years. For a couple of ounces of Afghani. How old are you?

Twenty five, Ace says. "And I’m not bitter. If I’d have been on the outside all this time, I could have gotten myself into some real trouble. There’s no telling how much damage to myself and society in general they prevented me from doing, keeping me here."

Again the twitch of Lupe’s lips.

Based on your record here at the farm, I seriously doubt that, Manny says earnestly. I’ve worked the better part of twenty years here. I’ve developed a sense for people. Life threw you a curve when you wound up here. It was just plain rotten luck. And you can’t tell me a year and a half isn’t a long time when you’re in your twenties.

I guess, Ace says listlessly. He is grateful for the thick jacket because January, even in Southern California, is anything but tropical. Right now a brisk, penetrating wind is blowing intermittently out of the northeast. It’s shaping up into another dry rainy season, he reflects. But he’s been in California long enough to know that could change at any time. El Nino could send rivers of mud into the desert arroyos and mudslides into suburban neighborhoods without much warning.

You got any family in the area?

My mom and stepfather live in Oklahoma, Ace replies. He recalls his mother’s visit when he was first arrested. She had helped him find a lawyer and stayed on for the trial. But it was an open and shut case. He’d been traveling in Europe for a couple of years and gotten used to the permissive attitudes prevalent there about dope. He’d simply forgotten about the hash in his toiletry bag. Customs had nailed him upon entry into LAX. He’d ended up pleading guilty, but the judge was not mollified by his display of contrition. He had returned the maximum verdict for a first offense of drug possession and smuggling.

But he could have done a lot worse than the Tito P. Flores minimum security prison, affectionately referred to by the inmates and the employees alike as the farm. It was basically a 15 acre nursery. Trees were grown here to replenish areas around the state that had been clear cut or washed out. The work wasn’t bad. And the inmates were your basic white collar crooks—tax evaders, embezzlers, inside traders, and the like. They had pretty much left Ace alone during his tenure, which was the way he’d wanted it. His closest association had been with the prison guard, Manny, who was now accompanying him to the main entrance to the detention facility. They’d had in common an affection for literature in general, and in particular the novels of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Mario Vargas Llosa.

From jail, Ace had watched as medical marijuana outlets had sprung up all over the state. And now there was another ballot measure to legalize marijuana coming up for a vote in California. Just his luck to get nailed on the tail end of the long and incomprehensibly severe marijuana prohibition in the States.

Listen. You’re welcome to stay with Rita and me in Escondido, Manny says. Until you get your feet under you. We’ve got an extra room. He gets a look from Lupe that says, Oh Brother! Everybody knows Manny is a soft touch. It’s probably why he ended up working at the minimum security prison. Ace can’t picture him in one of the hardcore lockups upstate. Lupe, yes.

Thanks for the offer, Manny. Truly. But I’ve been dying to see the ocean ever since I landed in California, Ace says. I’m thinking I’ll hitch out to the coast and take a look around.

You’ve done your time. Manny says. "And now you get to do what you want to do, for a change. From here on, it’s your show." He stiffens slightly as they reach the gate. This is as far as they go. Funny, Ace thinks to himself. I get to go free. But the guards have to stay inside.

You’re going to be alright, my friend. Manny says. He is taking Ace’s departure harder than he would have thought. Maybe he sees in Ace a younger version of himself, his release as a second chance he’ll never be able to take. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.

Thanks for everything, Ace says with sincerity, shaking Manny’s hand. You guys take care of yourselves. He knows he is being perhaps too generous including Lupe in the scope of his parting wish, but can’t seem to help himself. He feels better a moment later when Lupe salutes him with a slight nod, more acknowledgment than she’s offered him since he arrived.

She then unlocks the gate, and Ace finds himself standing on the other side, alone.

Two

The access road seems to stretch all the way to the coastal mountains in the distance. This is an illusion. Somewhere in the middle distance, beneath the low rising hills, is Interstate 15. On it he could go all the way to Alaska if he wanted to or south all the way to Tierra Del Fuego. His immediate ambition is to find the ocean. It’s been out there during his tenure in this scrub brush wasteland, tantalizingly close, but until now well beyond reach.

It is quiet out here, except for the intermittent bluster of wind in his ears. He knows from time spent at the reading room computers that the Tito P. Flores detention facility lies about about halfway between Los Angeles and San Diego. Here in the arid backwaters of the twin megalopolises, Detroit’s gas-guzzlers apparently go to die. Directly west as the crow flies is Dana Point. But in order to access the coastal areas he knows he must hitchhike north to Highway 74.

First he has to get away from the prison, he decides. Otherwise no sane person will want to give him a ride.

He starts to walk down the road toward the horizon.

After two miles, he finds himself on a road that runs perpendicular to the one to the correctional facility. Traffic is sparse, but he sticks his thumb out anyway, hoping for the best. Ten minutes later an early fifties pickup pulls onto the shoulder ahead of him, raising a cloud of dust.

The driver, a Walter Brennan lookalike, can’t be a day less than eighty years old. Where you goin’, sonny? he asks.

I’m trying to get to Interstate 15, heading north. Actually, I hope to end up on the 74 heading west.

The old Ortega Highway, declares the old man. He has no visible teeth. I can take you that far. But then I go east towards Perris.

Sounds fine, says Ace, climbing into the passenger seat.

Travelin’ light, I see, says the old man. You from the P. Flores?

Should I cop to it? Ace wonders. He decides that he doesn’t have a lot to lose. Yes, sir, he says.

Figured as much. What was it? Drugs? he asks neutrally.

Yes, sir.

Guy your age, I figured it had to be something like that.

They fall silent for several minutes.

You aren’t afraid to be picking up an ex-con? Ace says, curiosity getting the better of him.

Me? Noooo. I could whip anyone in that place with one hand tied behind my back, he says, chewing his gums. Besides, you look like a stiff breeze could blow you over without any extra help.

Used to be inside myself, he goes on after a pause. 10 years. Manslaughter. Upstate. Not in some pansy prison neither. Always had a temper, you see. It was bound to get me into trouble one day. I was released 30 years ago. Haven’t been back in stir since.

The driver is starting to look tougher to Ace than he had a moment before in light of this new information.

The old man eyes his garb. You been in the military?

Army surplus, Ace explains.

The old man nods. Quality stuff, he says. I was in Korea. Them duds will last you a lifetime, if you take care of ‘em.

You live around here? Ace asks to make conversation.

I’ve got an egg farm back in Julian, the old man says. Free range. Certified organic. Grow apples too. Make my own cider. He reaches under his seat as an afterthought and pulls out a ceramic jug with a cork stopper in it. You want a swig? Don’t touch the stuff myself. He pats his stomach. Ulcer, he says.

Ace declines politely. He’s not sure where he’s going to end up today, but he knows he wants to keep a clear head getting there. Half an hour after he was plucked from the roadside near the facility, Ace is facing oncoming westbound traffic on Highway 74, his thumb out.

A gray Suburban pulls off the roadway behind Ace. He trots up to the passenger door and finds himself looking at a woman, rail thin, in a frilly blouse and baggy jeans, a cigarette dangling from her lower lip. He doesn’t much care for tobacco smoke, but beggars can’t be choosers. He hoists himself up onto the passenger seat.

Where you headed? the woman, probably in her fifties, asks him.

Anywhere on the coast, I guess, Ace says.

I’m going as far as Newport, the woman says with that distinctive deep veteran smokers’ voice. I can drop you anywhere along the way. Name’s Sharon.

Ace. How do you do.

They ride along the winding road in silence for a time.

What are you? Eighteen? Twenty?

Twenty-five, Ace says.

Really? You barely look old enough to shave. No offense.

None taken. Been shaving for a few years now, Ace says with a smile.

I’ve got a son your age, Sharon says. He’s career military. Over in Ghanistan. What do you do?

Just traveling.

I’m from Hemet, the woman says. I run an animal rescue out there. It’s a no-kill shelter. I do some waitressing on the side to make ends meet. You smoke?

Used to, Ace says enigmatically. Gave it up.

Dang, wish I could, Sharon says. At my age, it’s one of my only remaining vices. It’ll probably do me in in the long run.

Must be tough, working with stray animals.

Yeah. Seeing the condition of some the critters that come in is downright heartbreaking. But then there’s the other side of it. Finding a good home for an abandoned animal.

Sounds… worthwhile.

Hey, if you ever need work, we’re always looking for help. Doesn’t pay much. But it’s rewarding. It’ll get you brownie points in heaven.

Ace feels inexplicably sad all of a sudden. He feels the weight of his lost 18 months in a way he hasn’t until now. He can see himself working at an animal shelter as well as anywhere, he concedes. The time will come when he will have to decide what to do with his life now that he’s a free man. But with jail only a couple of hours behind him, today is not the day.

I need to stop in Dana Point to buy a few things. You mind? Sharon asks, grinding out the cigarette. She’s tempted to start another, he can see, but for some reason resists the temptation. If there’s anything you need, this might be the time to get it.

Ace’s thoughts turn to the coming night and how and where he might pass it.

When they head north along the coast from Dana Point, Ace has a sleeping bag and a light pack in his possession. The hundred dollars cash he had in his pockets when he started out that morning has been lightened by half. An early dinner at Denny’s was paid for by Sharon. They talk about her work with animals, and Ace shares a little about the places he visited in Europe. Talking about Sharon’s altruistic work gives Ace consolation somehow. He decides that whatever he ends up doing it should be of benefit in some way. Two-leggeds or four-leggeds, it makes no difference.

Charmed by the view from Highway 1 a few miles further north, Ace asks to be let out. Here cliffs lined with expensive houses overlook the ocean, picture windows reflecting orange in the setting sun. Ace chooses an access stairway to a beach chosen at random and descends to sea level.

The winter surf is wild and exhilarating, like nothing he has experienced in his young life. He has seen the Mediterranean, but it was a pond compared to this. And having grown up and gone to college in a land-locked state, he has only seen the ocean on film. He drinks in the majesty of the waves, the sunlight diffused by ocean spray, the noise, the salty smell, the wonder and vitality of it all. It being the off-season, there are only a handful of people present to watch the sunset.

In the last rays of light he explores the extremities of the cove he is in and discovers, as he rounds the corner into an adjacent cove, a deep cave that seems to offer shelter from the ocean and beach foot traffic alike. He rolls out his new sleeping bag on the dry sand within. Then he ventures back out the mouth of the cave to observe the stars from a pile of large rocks strewn there. For the first time in a year and a half there is no curfew, no evening roll call, no being watched, supervised. He experiences a moment of panic at the prospect of an unstructured existence. It’s like a pit yawning at his feet. Taking deep breaths seems to assuage the feeling.

He drifts into a reverie. Time becomes meaningless as he sits gazing at the infinite sky. The remaining beach goers vanish from the scene as the night grows darker and colder. Ace starts to feel the miles he put behind him during the day catching up with him. Growing drowsy, he seeks out the warmth of the new sleeping bag. The clean ocean air is irresistible as a soporific, and he soon drifts into a deep slumber.

Three

Snug inside his bag, he closes his eyes on his first day of freedom in eighteen months. The transition into sleep is seamless. He later remembers gazing at the walls of his rock cocoon.

At some point in the night the damp surfaces seem to come alive with vibrant color, and a glowing light that seems to emanate from within the rock itself. Runes and hieroglyphics flicker before him, full of wonder, yet thoroughly incomprehensible to him. He dizzies himself grappling with what they might mean, trying to decipher the story they might be telling. He is cognizant of being enveloped in the womb of the earth, deep underground, in a place that predates civilization, a place that should by rights be a tomb, but is in fact vibrantly alive. Viewing the ever-changing images on the cave walls, he is reminded of Plato’s cave from his college days. Something about our perceived reality being like images on the walls of a cave. Reflections of Truth, illuminated by Truth, but not Truth itself. He becomes aware of someone near him, a looming, benevolent presence. There is something uncannily familiar about this presence, but who or what it is remains tantalizingly beyond reach. He spends the remainder of the night chasing this something down the corridors of his memory across the years into childhood, before losing the trail. But the mystery gnaws at him. It is important somehow. But its significance is lost with his inability to come up with a face, a time or place.

Gradually he grows weary of trying to decipher the riddle, and he starts to relax… .

He awakens with a sense of excitement and anticipation he hasn’t experienced for as long as he can remember. There’s a song playing in his head. Sleeping Dogs by the seminal British rock band of the late sixties and seventies, Armchair Philosophers.

His elation quickly turns to chagrin as he feels icy water penetrating the foot of his sleeping bag. He jerks into an upright position. He is momentarily blinded by the light of day reflecting off the ocean at the entrance to the cave. When his eyes have adjusted, he sees that the morning’s high tide has found him. Still in the sleeping bag, he pushes himself backward into the cave with the undulating movement of a snail, beyond the water’s reach. The sound of roaring surf amplified by the hardened sandstone surrounding him converges on him from every direction. And he realizes, with rising alarm, that the water is now blocking his escape from the cave.

There are still maybe six feet of dry sand behind him. He pulls his feet out of the bag and sees that his pants are wet to a few inches above the ankle. He dabs at his feet with the dry end of his bag. Fortunately his shoes have eluded the current. They are still there, just at the water line. He puts them on reflexively before realizing his best strategy may be to take the boots off again, hike up his pant legs and wade his way out of there.

Suddenly he hears a voice. He is too busy trying to determine where it is coming from to comprehend the words at first. It takes him a moment to realize that what he thought was a vertical extension of a large boulder several feet beyond the cave’s entrance is actually a person.

I said, wait a half hour, a feminine voice calls above the rushing water. and you’ll be able to climb out of there, no problem. The tide is on its way out.

Thanks! Ace calls back and sits back down on the sand to wait out the water.

As predicted, the tide has retreated enough in thirty minutes so that he can shimmy along a ledge chiseled into the south side of the cave without getting wet. Presently, he emerges into the light of day. His rescuer is there about ten feet away, a diminutive, waif-like girl sitting cross-legged on the boulder, the waves swirling around her. Minerva, the goddess of the sea, thinks Ace. The young woman is facing away from him, seemingly intent on the horizon.

When he has found his balance, he approaches, picking his way along the tops of the biggest rocks. He has his bag in one outstretched hand and his pack in the other, balancing himself with both. He looks like a rather clumsy tightrope walker. It’s tricky finding his footing in this way, and he almost falls into the frothing water a couple of times before reaching the larger rock the girl is perched on.

She has her eyes closed, it turns out, and appears to be meditating. She is in her twenties, native American, from her complexion. Her hair is jet black, short and spiky. There’s something impish and immediately endearing about her. She has on a light blue parka, closed to the chin against the wind and the surf. She is the image of serenity, surrounded by the ocean’s turbulence.

Not wanting to disturb her, Ace starts to move precariously past her.

Hey, she says, opening large, startlingly blue eyes and gazing up at him. Leaving so soon?

Ace is so surprised he nearly goes into the drink. With a lightning movement, the girl reaches up a hand and grabs Ace’s sleeve, giving him the leverage he needs to find his balance and right himself. You’ve got great reflexes, Ace says to her.

That’s what everybody tells me, she says with a grin.

If you’ll excuse me, I need to get over to the beach to get dry, Ace explains when he has regained his composure and his confidence in his own surefootedness.

The girl nods, taking his measure. Name’s Maya, she says, completely unruffled at their close call. Maya Two Rivers.

Ace shakes the girl’s hand briefly before windmilling his arms again to keep from falling. Ace Ramsey, he chirps abruptly.

I’ll see you on the sand, Ace Ramsey, Maya says, letting go of his hand.

Four

Ace makes it to the dry sand of the cove without incident. He lays out the sleeping bag to let it air out in the sun. Then he sprawls on the sand, propping himself up on his elbows, and takes in the scene.

There are two men, a father and a son, playing Frisbee further along the beach. And there is an older couple strolling slowly along the water’s edge. Beach traffic on a Tuesday morning in mid-January is light, observes Ace. There is a citadel of rock out in the water in the center of the arc created by the cove being pummeled by the winter surf. No one is in the water. Recalling the icy sensation that had awakened him back in the cave, he thinks he understands why. The Pacific is plenty frigid in the winter time on the west coast. Ace hasn’t seen much of Southern California beyond what was visible from the correctional facility. But he is learning.

About a half an hour has passed when he observes his new acquaintance approach across the sand. She looks really young and cute as a pixie in the oversized parka and dark blue jeans. But there is a confidence and purpose in her walk, a self-possession that belies her youthful appearance. She is walking barefoot, carrying her Teva sandals in one hand. She flops unceremoniously on the sand next to Ace and unzips her jacket. She is wearing a thin black cashmere sweater over a white blouse underneath. Conservative.

When she is settled, she looks Ace over intently for a minute with her disconcertingly blue eyes. The wordless scrutiny makes him uncomfortable, and he shifts on the sand.

You’re the ex-con, she says finally.

Ace sputters. How could you possibly know that? he blurts out, too surprised to be suspicious. I mean, is it that obvious?

No. I know a few tricks, is all, she says. Actually, Mika is the mind reader. I’m a novice compared to her.

I don’t get it? Do I know you? Do you know me? asks Ace, shaken by her her mind reading demonstration. What other explanation could there be?

I should know more. I wish I did, she says wistfully. I’m responsible for all this, they tell me.

Ace tries to understand what she is referring to. There is just the ocean before them, wild and apparently endless. And the cove. And the expensive houses perched on the cliff. Not to mention a seagull or two wheeling out over the water.

Responsible for what exactly?

Everything, she says matter-of-factly. I’m a Dreamer. I tell the story of the world, this manifestation of the time-space continuum. I invented it.

Ace is flummoxed. Things were going so well. And now this? A pint-sized girl with a god complex.

She senses his sudden wariness. Oh, it’s not that big a deal, she says. There are an infinite number of possible universes. And Dreamer’s responsible for what happens in each one. I’m just the Dreamer of this particular time and space. Or so they tell me.

Who are ‘they?’ Who told you about this special… ability you have?

My teacher for one. My grandfather, Eagle Feather. He’s been trying to help me remember. You’d think being the Dreamer would confer some special status on you, some nifty eclectic knowledge. But it doesn’t. For all intents and purposes, I’m just like everyone else. I’ve had to scrape and claw for every bit of wisdom, every insight about myself and the world and my supposed abilities. I’ve had to flounder and flail around as much as anyone else. So, no. It’s really no big deal.

A cloud passes over her features, but Ace doesn’t know what to say. How can you console someone who believes they’re responsible for the state of the world, as sorry as it is? Instead he remains silent.

Listen everybody is the author of their destiny. Everybody tells their own story. As do I. But I’ve also been tasked with coming up with the framework, the broad brushstrokes that characterize the grand narrative for this time and place. Though I’ll be damned if I know how.

Broad brushstrokes. Still no clear course of action here, Ace thinks. He could say something inane like it’s not really that bad a reality, as realities go. Or worse, Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be just fine. He again wisely chooses to hold his tongue.

You’re from somewhere in the heartland originally? Maya ventures, eager to change the subject, which is all right with Ace. If only she didn’t have those uncanny psychic powers.

Oklahoma, Ace responds, deciding to go with the flow, instead of challenging her about her clairvoyance at every turn. I’ve still got family there.

Maya nods as if this confirms what she has suspected all along. You’re the Healer, she says, as if to herself. I’ve been expecting you.

Five

So, says Ace, his forehead wrinkling into a frown. Wouldn’t being this, this… Dreamer make you omniscient? Wouldn’t you be able to know all sorts of things in advance?"

I wish. As to knowing the future, what would be the fun in that! What’s the point in going to all the trouble of living it if you already know the outcome?

Ace nods. Makes sense, he says.

Not-knowing is built into the system, Maya continues. It’s one of the ground rules of existence. We start out knowing everything there is to know. We’re out here. Maya extends her arms overhead to indicate the sky, the air. We’re everywhere and nowhere. Right? Then we’re shoe-horned into a body squeezed into a womb, and set loose on this planet with a swat on the tush. We become acculturated, right? Conditioned to only seeing certain things and ignoring others by our parents, education, institutions, the media and so on. The scope of what we are aware of contracts immensely as we grow from babyhood to adulthood. Civilization fits us all with blinders and a feed bag, for the most part. Everything—politics, economics, art, religion, science, you name it—depends on our embracing and functioning within the parameters of a very limited view of the nature of our existence and capabilities. It’s like we’re all looking at life down the wrong end of a telescope. It’s a pain in the butt at least half the time, no question. But that’s what’s neat about it too. Everything potentially becomes an adventure, you see, precisely because we are so limited in our perceptions. There’s no end of opportunities to be surprised, amazed, blindsided and otherwise messed with by the world as we know it. Not to mentioning our being mortal, which adds a nice touch of urgency to the whole enterprise. Do you see?

Ace sees. But then how did you know the things you know about me?

Bleed-through, Maya says simply.

Excuse me?

Bear with me a moment. We all have access to information most of us have forgotten we possess, if we take the trouble to look for it. And it is possible to reverse the effects of our conditioning. But it takes a maddening amount of time and effort. No wonder most people are content to just accept what ‘common sense’ or ‘the facts’ tell them, as depressing as they may be. Challenging the current paradigm is the most revolutionary of practices. It’s the sort of thing that could get you nailed up, if you aren’t careful.

So you’ve been working at reversing this conditioning. Is that right?

Maya nods. It’s a process of remembering what you already knew to begin with.

Getting back to where you once belonged, Ace paraphrases Paul McCartney.

Exactly! And, like I said, it takes effort. You develop what people regard as special abilities along the way, because they’ve squelched the selfsame abilities in themselves.

This is crazy, Ace thinks. On the other hand, he concedes, maybe he is ready for a paradigmatic shift. Maybe he is in fact dying for a new perspective, a new take on his own drab and apparently purposeless existence. His life literally has not been anything to write home about for as long as he can remember.

Ace and Maya gaze out to sea in a comfortable silence for a time. Seagulls are wheeling overhead. People arrive, while others depart. The continuing cycle of life at the beach.

OK, Ace says finally. You said a while ago that you’d been expecting me. Expecting me to do what, exactly?

That, Maya says with emphasis, "falls into the category