Black Moon Rising: Solstice Series, #3

By John J Blenkush

In this fantasy romance, magical realism series, a suicidal young girl transforms into the savior of an ancient race.

In Telos, the city buried beneath Mount Shastina, the Remnant Lemurians' DNA strain is at its end.  On the earth's surface, world apocalypse looms.  A surface-equal, a virgin with virtuous heart and pure blood must be found to stave off extinction of the Lemurian race before life on earth is obliterated.  To this end, the Lemurians send their equal, Aaron Delmon, topside to secure a bride.

Rarely does one escape their destiny, or so they say. Julissa Grant just never dreamed hers would include becoming the Virgin Mother to the leader of the New World, producer of pluripotent cells, a manipulator of life-force energy, or an ignor-inferus – one with Lemurian physical traits but lacking the skills and wisdom of a true Lemurian.  After all, she's just a sixteen-year-old Midwestern Catholic-raised girl who wanted nothing more than to find renewed hope after death and despondency crushed her idyllic perception of the world.

After the deaths of her father and a dear friend, Julissa succumbs to disillusionment when her mother uproots and moves her cross-country.  Throwing caution to the wind, Julissa skips class one day to go boy-hunting.  Here she meets the high school's outcast, Aaron Delmon.  She becomes infatuated with the golden-haired, blue-eyed boy who has mastered the Lemurian art of transferring and manipulating life-force energy and who's training to be a Mnemonist – one who remembers all.  As she's drawn into Aaron's world, Julissa is introduced to a surreal Utopian way of life, one which is ruled by the Law of One - that all things are connected.

As their relationship evolves, Julissa uses Aaron as a conduit to explore the Lemurian world into which she has fallen.  When Aaron is suspected of murdering a classmate, relationships crumble.  Loyalties are fractured.  Julissa's tenuous world spirals down.  When Julissa finds out she'll be moving back home to Minnesota, she panics and convinces Aaron to allow her to accompany him to the Sacred Rock on Mount Shasta.  It's here where Julissa is forced to release her core-life to Aaron and dies.  Aaron, in turn, carries Julissa into Telos and donates his bone marrow, restoring her with pure Lemurian blood, thus making her a viable candidate for the surface equal.

Upon returning from Mount Shasta, Julissa and Aaron are forced to part ways, he returning below to Telos to heal, she remaining topside.  Depressed and suicidal, Julissa searches for answers and finds them in a gang known as the Sons and Daughters of Belial, genetic Lemurians turned Atlanteans, ruled by the goddess, Nani Doris.  Lacking Aaron's guidance on how to manipulate and control her life-force energy while discovering she's been embodied with the Holy Grail for healing, Julissa turns to the materialistic, power-hungry world of the Atlanteans to salve her loss and to come to terms with her notoriety.  When Julissa discovers she's being targeted for defilement or death by Nani Doris, she reassesses her choice and returns home to her mother, only to find her life obliterated.

Although considered ignorant and inferior (ignor-inferus) and emotionally incapable of controlling life-force energy, Julissa is the Lemurians' best option for survival.  The Lemurians want Julissa to come to Telos to marry Aaron and produce the offspring HeIs, who will carry on the Lemurian DNA and rule the New World. Little of her surface life appeals to Julissa, as many of those she's loved have died.  Julissa now faces a choice: remain topside to be obliterated with the rest of humanity in the coming apocalypse or escape to Telos to fulfil her new destiny as the savior of the Lemurian race.

      

• Language: English
• Publisher: John J Blenkush
• Release date: Nov 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393552826

John J Blenkush

John J Blenkush is the author of the critically acclaimed thrillers REDDITION and STACY’S STORY, (Kirkus) SANDMAN OF CAYE CAULKER and the epic SOLSTICE SERIES.  A varied professional career in aeronautics, engineering, construction, and IT security requiring extensive travel has instilled in John a wide-angle view of the world and its diverse inhabitants, stirred his imagination, and jump-started his foray into penning stories.  Besides writing, John loves the great outdoors, running marathons, and recreational mountain climbing.  He lives with his wife, Nancy, in Northern California.

Book preview

PRAISE FOR THE SOLSTICE SERIES

The Solstice book series is nothing like I have ever enjoyed reading before. The story of Jules from her humble beginnings to her foretold end is inspiring. Fans of Stephanie Meyer will immediately want to dive into this series. This book is a great read at twilight or dawn or midday. There is the potential aspect that the story could be only akin to Bobby stepping out of the shower. The reader will have to determine how these stories appeal to them. If you are a fan of Suzanne Collins, then this book series is for you too. The constant keeping the reader on edge generates a hunger that feels like a game. The books are a sweeping saga seemingly about love. The love of Aaron and Julissa or is it the love of peace? What is the price of peace and what will you have to put up with or give up before reaching that goal? Read this incredible series and determine that for yourself. Fans of J.R.R. Tolkien will also love this series. I will be shocked if Apple+ doesn't come knocking to create a new tv show out of this series. ~ N. N. Light

"This is a fascinating story full of action, mystery, and suspense. Dead pigs come alive during Biology class, a car is pulled back up over a cliff with telepathic powers, and scorched smelling air are just a few of the events you will encounter. Have you ever wondered about life-forces and how they affect all species? Have you noticed grasshoppers only hop forward, never sideways or backward? When individuals are depressed or sad, the human touch can be powerful. Or you can go from being happy to sad depending on the people around you. Why is this?

I liked this book (Of The Heart) because it made me think about the world around me and how my emotions can be influenced by outside sources. The story grabbed my attention at the beginning and continued throughout the book. The cliffhanger ending makes me want to run out and buy the next volume." ~ Bertha Jackson, Onlinebookclub.org

...Blenkush has created a universe that stands out from the rest, wrapping his main characters up in narratives that are full of mystery, passion, and inspiration. The writing is immersive and descriptive, his characters truly come alive on the page. Julissa is an interesting character, whose traits are used in the utmost extent to deliver a story that is an undeniably a good read. Blenkush spends a great deal of time incorporating within his plot historical information about the mysticism behind Mt. Shasta, the lost city of Telos, Mu (the cradle of mankind), and the Lemurians’ connection with another lost city: Atlantis. Blenkush keeps his story constantly flowing by combining all of the above-mentioned literary elements, as well as including un-hackneyed scenarios and cliff-hanging chapter endings. The Solstice Series offers fantasy romance aficionados a unique and unforgettable storyline. This (series) has the ability to grab the reader and never let them go. (Red City Reviews)

~ Fascinating story line.~ M. Hurst

~ There is intrigue, romance, morals, encouragement in full in these books. The story grips and does not let go! ~ Patricia M

~ Your writing is brilliant. I've never been addicted to a book series like yours before!!! I can't wait til the next book is ready. ~ Sarah L

~ It is a refreshing change from books I usually read. I love fiction. This book is nothing like any other fiction I've read. Very addicting! ~ Joy Q.

~ This series is absolutely wonderful to read and a pleasure to immerse myself in. I am dying to find out how things unfold for our heroes as we come to the midpoint of the series. ~ Jamie M

~ Thoroughly enjoyed both books and can hardly wait for the next. The writing is very good. A great story. ~ Judy C

~ ...can be enjoyed by older folks who like a good story without all the cursing and sex scenes that are so prevalent now. ~ Georgeanna

~ What I liked about the book was the story of the characters and the fact that the life of Julissa was written in a YA style. It was refreshing to concentrate on young people’s friendships and feelings without it being written in a sexual way. ~ Sharon

~ I would definitely recommend this book, (Of The Heart) it's a great start to the series. And what a cliffhanger we are left with, I loved it! ~ Emi Lia

Love is the extremely difficult realization

that something other than oneself is real.

Iris Murdoch

Resurrection

Ihear Bennu, the bird , flying. The thump-thump sound generated by his massive wings reverberates through the mountain passes and resonates inside the hollows of my ears. In the back of my mind, the sound echoes thunderously, threatening to tear me from the black hole I’ve fallen into. I struggle to remain in the universal darkness embedding me. The shadowy cocoon holds me tight, engulfing and suffocating me, but I like it because, here, I exist without fear. Which seems peculiar given my past aversion to suffocation while drowning. In this place I feel at peace. Content. Set free from life’s trivia and tribulations. Loved to the extreme. The way I’ve been taught Heaven would be, indescribable by human words.

I assume I’ve found blissful nirvana, a place I’ve spent most of my sixteen years assimilating while studying the summary of principles inscribed in the Catholic Catechism, memorizing verses of the Bible and reveling in Father Frankee DeGraw’s fist-pounding sermons. Is this place where I’ve landed truly Heaven? I can’t know for sure. But even if it isn’t, I’m drawn here, like metal to magnet. I have no say in the matter, but, even so, I don’t want to move. In fact, I don’t have any energy to give. At least none that I know of. So I remain still. I don’t want to go back. I just want to be. To float, suspended in the clouds. Not knowing. Never searching. My physical self—if one remains—absent of pain and strife. I feel saturated with air, floating sky-high like a balloon, but absorbing it how? For I’m not breathing. A dichotomy worth noting in my illusionary world. Should I resurface.

The thrumming increases, the grating sound drawing ever closer, pummeling my senses. The wind, created by the flapping of Bennu’s wings, scours the exposed skin of my face. Yet I don’t feel cold, as I’m numb, standing apart from my physical self.  I feel alone. Yet I am not, for as I awaken, I sense the percolating breath of my savior soothing my wind-scarified face.

And then my eyes pop open—on their own.

I look up to see Aaron, his handsome face awash in red, his hand jabbing the sky in a flurry of synthesized motion. His eyes ablaze. His mouth opened and hollowed. He’s yelling, yet I can’t hear what he’s saying.  I tilt my head. Look to where he’s set his sights. And I see. The white-out’s dissipated. Vanished. In the distance, I see a red band slicing the horizon, glowing ever brighter.  Cut below in the valley, I see in silhouette Mt. Shasta’s Ghost Mountain. And I know. It’s a new day. Aaron and I survived the night.

But how! I wonder.

I died. I am dead, aren’t I? I relinquished the core of my life-force so Aaron would live on. In the same manner, Garl had died at the hands of Bernard. He, through anger, inadvertently cracked open his core, which released his life sustaining energy into Bernard; me, transferring my core energy through perfect love. Which should have ended my life. And yet here I am. Or am I? Maybe I’ve slipped through. Maybe this is the other side, the alter world known to some as Heaven. I don’t know. I can only guess.

And reflect.

I remember Aaron kissing me on the lips, my heart merging with his, and my life-force jetting out of my core, sacrificing my life for his, knowing, if he lived, if he carried on, my death would not be in vain. And yet here I lay. Alive. Cognizant. Straddled in Aaron’s arms, hanging limp, trusting he’ll not drop me into the abyss below the Sacred Rock on which he stands.

We stood all night? Braved the raging blizzard? And lived!

It’s not Bennu who arrives to rescue us. As I stare out, I see the shiny belly of a machine swinging down from the skies, rushing to close the distance to us. It’s a small helicopter, a two-seater, the carriage painted bright yellow, the tail rotor red. And two people, I see, already occupy the plastic bubble. Attached to the helicopter’s skid is a rescue basket. Only one. Where will Aaron sit? Or is it I who will not return? Could it be I’m seeing, dreaming, doing what those who have crossed over do? And what I think is taking place is not? I reach up to touch Aaron’s face, to lay my hand upon his weather-chafed cheek. To feel the warmth. To feel life. To determine if I am flesh or spirit. Yet my hand does not stir, even though I mentally will it to rise.

As the helicopter nears, Aaron drops to a knee, lowering himself—and, in doing so, lowering me—to avoid being chewed to pieces by the rotor. As the wash from the propellers pummel us, Aaron’s hair remains still. I’m ecstatic to know his life-force energy has been restored, that he’s capable of descending the mountain, but I log my displeasure with him anyway. With blazing eyes. I’ll not go without you!

Aaron sees. He acknowledges. You gotta go, Julissa. They’ll help you, he says as he strokes and pins my unruly hair down, so it won’t whip my tender face. I’ll be all right. See you at the hospital.

And I wonder; why can’t you help me? You’ve done so before. Re-energized me with life-force. I focus. Try to make sense of it all. I gave all my core life-force to Aaron so he might live on. So where’d he get enough life-force to give some back to me? To resurrect me?

I assess him. Aaron stands rock solid, warm-blooded, not even a hint of frostbite, even as the frigid tempest stirred up by the helicopter threatens to hurl us off the Sacred Rock. His pupils are back to abnormal. His normal. I raise my clodhopper arms from their resting place, string them over his neck, and lasso him in close. Nothing about my body feels normal, so I’m forced to override the disconnect and, in doing so, vanquishing any energy I may have left.

I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you. I think I say this, but I don’t hear my words. I float between reality and nirvana. But even if I had spoken, it’s unlikely Aaron would’ve heard me over the drone of the helicopter or the seismic wind.

The pilot lowers the skid onto the Sacred Rock. He guides the helicopter as gentle as a dragonfly hovers over a flower. Aaron rocks forward, slips his arms out from under my torso and legs, and slides me into the basket. He grabs my flailing arms, crosses them over my chest, and holds them down while the EMT blankets me in a cocoon and straps me in.

And then we’re gone. Rocketing up and away. I watch as Aaron shrinks to a speck, soon lost in the maze of rocks, spires, and rubble. Had it not been for the snowless, Sacred Rock he stood upon and his upraised waving hand, he would’ve disappeared. I feel his transference, wishing me God’s speed.

As the helicopter barrels down around the flank of the mountain, I slip back into darkness, for it’s here where I wish to hide away.

WITHIN MY SUBCONSCIOUSNESS, I hear rustling in the background, sounds of stirring, which seem far away but I know are near. Images form, little by little, breaking through my foggy vision. I swim through the soup in search of an exit, drawing near to the light and then slipping back into the dark. An inner voice tells me to remain in the shadows, to stay hidden, to refuse to let the light invade my safe place.

Once I wake there will be no turning back. I don’t know if I can face what lies out there. The chaos of life.  The demands of existing. The knowing I’ll never measure up, that I’ll never succeed to my full potential, and, even if I did, why bother when there are others who know more than I do, who have tamed life, who know exactly what it is the soul needs. I don’t. And I don’t know if I ever will.

But then I remember. I remember Aaron has the answers. His kind, the pure Lemurians, know what it is I need to know. And if there’s a chance, even a small one, I should reconsider. I should open my eyes, bolt from my bed, and embrace life wholeheartedly. Yet I lay unmoving, straddled on the high line of indecision.

I hear voices, words jumbled together, the clanging of silverware, and the smell of chicken-soup. Soup for the soul, I remember, has always been my Mom’s answer to the variety of sicknesses I’ve endured over the years of growing up, whether it was just a common cold or full-blown pneumonia. The voices draw near. The words channel, form in my mind, and become a continuous string. I recognize I’m wrong. There’s only one voice. Dierdra’s voice. It sounds strained, wrought with emotion, weeping tainting every syllable.

I feel hurt, pangs of remorse. How can I be so selfish? I could stay here, lying in the dark, reveling in peace and solitude, welcoming my end for all eternity. But what of those I leave behind?  Is this what my Dad thought?  What Chuck Segovia mulled over as he lay in the hospital ward after surviving for days after near drowning in the frigid waters of a Minnesota lake?  Did they cry out? Struggle to live? Or were they like me; resigned to death, for, upon discovery, isn’t this where one discovers harmony? Finds peace? Relief from infliction? And the pain it wrought?

I don’t sense this nothingness. I don’t feel it. I don’t taste it, see it, hear it. And that’s the pleasure of it all. For it is in the senses, life is lived, endured and, in the end, found exhausting, depleting, many times not worth the effort to plod on. Who can say the risk is worth the reward when life is so full of pitfalls and often lacking conduits to contentment?

If Aaron would have me as his own, if he could turn back time and take me to Mu, the Lemurian paradise, where life doesn’t tear at your fabric every day and in every way. Where, as he said, no man raises a fist to another, where only love is to be found. And the earth and all that inhabit her live and breathe the Law of One. Then maybe, just maybe, I would return.

But to a cold, ruthless world I say no! I want to stay in my cocoon, wrapped up in a world of dark, slipping ever deeper into the bowels of an abyss from which there’s no escape. This is where I’m headed...until I hear Aaron’s voice.

He’s talking in that low tone of his, attempting stealth and succeeding, except there’s no competing sound and my ears are attuned to listening, just as they were on the window ledge of the Crags when he plugged me into the aural world I had forgotten or may have never known from the very beginning. Listen, Grasshopper, I tell myself. Listen deep. Focus on his voice. Decipher his words. Let them into your subconscious. Devour them. For they’re the life-force that can bring you back. Return you from the brink of death and deliver you into life.

And then I hear Dierdra speak. Menacingly so! Words I can’t decode.  Verses and tone, so filled with hatred they lay on me like lead weights, driving me back down deep into the chasm. And I hear Aaron again, the soothing voice, the apologetic tone, the undercurrent begging for forgiveness. His words draw me out, lift me up, set my impression of the world to rights, and restore my vision of what life should be. They grant me a sliver of hope. This I cry for. The other world I despise. And again, as Dierdra opens up a salvo of foment, I shrink back.  Bury myself beneath the physical covers of my bed and the emotive shield I hide behind. But Aaron’s words are drawing me out, pulling at me, tugging at my every nerve. Coaxing, prodding, and prying me from within. I hear him, begging, pleading, prayerful, and Dierdra, still, in words, lets it be known she has no room in her heart for compassion. She wants him out. Gone. Vanquished to hell! I hear her say and intone.

And Aaron goes, leaving, his footsteps fading, the scraping of the sole of his shoes upon the snow-packed pavement of the driveway resound in my ears. And this is what thrusts me back into life, the potential loss of Aaron. He never to return.

I cry out. Not with words, but with a bleeding heart. I don’t have his telepathic ability, his skill to form mental images and correspond. I have no walnut on my forehead. But I do have my heart and it is speaking vociferously and in earsplitting volume. If only he would hear. If only he would turn around, return, and fight the good fight to gain entrance pass Dierdra. This I will live for, fight for, die for if necessary. Aaron is innocent. I am guilty. For wasn’t it I who cajoled Aaron into taking me to mountain high? Forced him to expend his life-force to save the man with the broken leg?  And caused him to deplete his energy while assisting me in climbing the mountain to the Sacred Rock beneath the spires of Casaval Ridge? Dierdra must know. I must tell her. Aaron is not to be held accountable for my near-death.  After all, only he could have saved me. And rescue me he did.

And then I hear another voice. Unfamiliar. Rough in texture, similar to the sound of gravel crunching beneath one’s feet. A male voice, an old voice. Curt. Prodding. Wanting to know. How’s she doing today?

Dierdra responds.  She hasn’t wakened.

I can’t see it, but I hear it in Dierdra’s voice. The concern, the wringing of her hands. And I hear something else, too. She hasn’t been drinking. Her voice is clear, unfettered by liquor, her words set like stringent notes in music.

Both of these souls draw near. I hear their breathing. Feel their fixed stares upon me. There’s noise to my left, hammering at my ear, the sound of heavy cloth—maybe leather—settling down on wood. I hear the lock turned, the clasp pushed open, the tinkering of instruments jostled around. I remember in the movies how the doctors of old would make house visits, lugging their black carriage bags filled with stethoscopes, thermometers, and medicines. And needles!

I feel fingers and hands on me, prodding, testing my pulse, the laying of the palm on my forehead, the squeezing of my finger to gauge blood flow, the lifting of the eyelid—the lifting of the eyelid—and I do not see for it’s not my sight that’s blind to the world, but my mind, heart, and soul. And yet, after my eyelid is allowed to close, I do see. Mental images form in my mind. A man, old and gray-haired. A face worn blunt by age and over-worked living and squinting eyes peering through bushy eyebrows shadowed by the overhang of a push-broom mop. And leaning over his shoulder, my mom, her pleading eyes visible, her mouth pulled taunt, her face contorted by lack of sleep. I silently cry out, torn in two for the pain I’m causing her.

I pull back, mentally, emotionally, but fail to do so physically. I’m bonded to the bed, unable to advance or retreat. I don’t see it, but I hear it. The tapping of the casing on the tube, the squirt of fluid to remove any air bubbles. And then the pain. The sting of the needle. The prick into my shoulder. And then the flood of warmth radiating through my body.

What’d you give her? I hear Dierdra ask?

The gravelly voice grinds out the words. Another shot of epinephrine.

Adrenaline?

Yes.

How much of this can she take?

That’s not the question needing to be asked. What we need to know is if it’s working.

Is it?

Hasn’t had an effect yet. A drawn-out pause. You know she’s lucky to be alive, given her life-signs gave little reason to hope for anything more. Not many live after being exposed to the elements for as long as she has. Or having their prana depleted to the level her’s was.

I hear the clanging of instruments. I feel my night gown pulled opened and the cloth moved to the sides. I know I’m lying naked, my chest exposed. My breasts feel the nip of cold. I feel the brush of rough skin and the slap of metal on my skin. The stethoscope rests easy in the vicinity of my heart. Together, the good doctor and I listen as my heart pumps one beat after the other. It’s slow, lithe, under stress as directed by me to let life slip away. I sense it. And the doctor can too. I’m dying, beat-by-beat, and then something happens.

I don’t know if it’s the epinephrine shot or the fact I see—in vision—Aaron walking toward me. He has his arm extended, his hand out in invitation. I see my hand lace into his. I feel his warmth, his energy surging down his arm, through his hand, into my hand, and up my arm. I feel the jolt jump-start my heart. It pounds in return, escalating my pulse, spreading warmth through my body, energizing my lungs. Breathing deepens, the mind clears, and my eyes flutter and open. Aaron’s gone. The old man and Dierdra peer down at me.

I shove the old man’s hand (and stethoscope) away. Draw my night-gown closed. And yank the covers up to my chin. Mom smiles. A big one. Her eyes bulge with tears. She swipes them away, as if she doesn’t want to rain down and wash away the miracle she’s just witnessed.

Well, young lady, the old man with the gravelly voice says, welcome back.

Who’re you?

Doctor Oakly. Retired, of course. But your mother here, he leans to the side so I get a clear look at Dierdra, needed someone to keep an eye on you. Make house calls. So I offered. How you feeling?

Like crap.

No doubt, given we’ve snatched you from the brink of death.

Dierdra slides around Doc Oakly. She squeezes between the two of us and sits on the bed. I see she’s overcome I’m still alive. She reaches out and caresses my hair, which at the moment feels more like a damp and soiled mop on my head then the soft mane I remember. She leans in, stares into my eyes, and speaks.

Welcome back, Jewels.

I see the doctor gathering up his things. He’s mumbling to himself, something about foodstuff, rattling off a grocery list, because—he says to himself— Can’t be forgetting the coffee this time. I assume he’s going grocery shopping on the way home.

I’ll leave you two at it. Doc Oakly places a hand on Dierdra’s shoulder. You call me if you need anything.

I see Dierdra raise her hand and pat Doc Oakly’s hand. It’s a simple gesture, but it raises an emotion within me. One of distaste. Why should I care if Dierdra touches another man?  Right now it bothers me. And I don’t know why. And yet, when I puzzle through the emotion, I’m enlightened.

I followed in Dad’s footsteps, chased his ghost up the mountain, sat with his spirit on the Sacred Rock, staring out into the white-out, knowing full well my time had come. I greeted death with open arms, allowed the Grim Reaper to escort me out of life and into the unknown. But at the last, I was grabbed away, slung into Aaron’s arms, hailed by the vision of Bennu, and transported to the lowlands by the bird’s mechanical equivalent. Where before I had no closure with my father’s death, I think I do now. So why the revulsion at my mother’s laying of a hand on another man?

I guess why. Dierdra had pushed Aaron away. I heard her. And now she’s pushing Dad away with the patting of a hand on another man. I know this is nonsense, frivolous jealousy on my part. But I come to the realization this isn’t true, either. I’m not envious. I’m not mad at the thought of Dierdra touching another man. What’s bothering me I know is this; if I can’t have Aaron, if Dierdra is going to push him away, then she can’t have anyone either. I’m barely awake, barely alive, yet I’m seeking retaliation? Is the evil in me so strong it’s the last thing to die and the first thing to raise its ugly head?

As I see Doctor Oakly step out through the front door, it occurs to me I’m not lying in bed in my room. Yes, it’s my bed I’m lying in, but it’s been relocated in the living room, near the fireplace. I sense the warmth of the fire as it ebbs out. The heat makes me feel clammy. I push the covers off and down. The smell of stale, seared sweat riffles my nose.

What am I doing here? I demands to know.

Dierdra’s face clouds. She’s thinking one thing, but she says another.

We thought you’d be more comfortable in the front room. It’s so stuffy and cold in your bedroom. Dark with that small window. Not near enough light.

I look around the room as if I hadn’t visited for a very long time. The couch has been shoved off over to the wall opposite the fireplace to make room for my bed in the center of the room. Other than that, nothing’s changed, not even—I see as I turn my head and look—the layer of dust and soot gathering on the picture of Mount Shasta that’s resting on the fireplace mantel. I’ve always kept it dusted. Obviously, Dierdra hasn’t. By the fading light backtracking through the front window, I know it’s either early morning or late evening.

Did the helicopter bring me here? I ask, thinking it must have been quite a show for the neighborhood if the chopper landed in the street out front. Cherrie, I imagine, was beyond herself in my unorthodox arrival via helicopter while I lay hanging on the landing gear in a basket. I can already hear her now, chortling and pricking me with her witty barbs.

Dierdra’s eyes roam, searching, questioning my statement.

Course not. It couldn’t land here. They took you to the hospital first. They brought you here in an ambulance.

In an ambulance? Why in an ambulance?

I see the strain on Dierdra’s face. It’s the same look she gave me the day she thought I had vanished up on the Crags and her emotions entertained the thought I might be dead.

You’ve been in a coma, baby.

I ponder this for a moment. I’ve heard of people suffering a catastrophic event and subsequently slipping into unconsciousness. Chuck went under, sinking into himself, locked away in a coma for two days. Only he never came out of it. Others, I have heard, lay comatose for days, months, years! How long had I been out? I search the room again, looking for answers. For the first time, as my vision and my mind find clarity beyond the near, I see a row of vases lined up on the far wall, displayed on the coffee table. They’re overflowing with flowers, something you might see at a funeral or wake.

Dierdra sees me focusing on the bouquets.  She smiles. You’ve had quite a few visitors, she says as she gets up and walks over to where the coffee table sits. She reaches down, gathers up a thick handful of envelopes, and brings them to me. She raises the bundle in the air. Cards and letters. You’ve got a lot of friends. Even folks from back in Minnesota sent well-wishes.

She says this with a hint of surprise in her voice. I remember how she’d mentioned she was concerned I wasn’t making enough friends. It occurs to me I really don’t have many friends, not the kind who’d run out and buy me flowers and cards simply because I had been missing for a day and, at the most, sick for three days.  What gives? Suddenly, I feel chilled.

Mother, I say, what day is it?

Monday.

Monday. I repeat it. Monday. Climbed Saturday. Huddled with Aaron on the flat rock on the Casaval Ridge Saturday night. The helicopter crew rescued me on Sunday. And now it’s Monday. Three days later. Why all the fuss then? Why all the flowers?  Why all the cards?  The moving of the bed? Doctors coming and going. Dierdra with bags under her eyes, deepened wrinkles, graying of the skin.

Mom.

Yes, baby.

How long have I been out?

That’s not important right now.

"I want to know."

The doctor said you should take it easy. Not to worry about things. No need to concern yourself with what’s happened.

"What has happened, Mom? How long was I out?"

Dierdra sits down on the bed. She pretends to smooth out the covers. Okay, she says, if you promise me you won’t get upset.

Mother, you’re making it worse.

Promise me.

All right. All right. I promise I won’t be upset. How long?

Nine days.

Nine days? Nine days!  I try and sort this through my mind. I remember the helicopter lifting off from the Sacred Rock. I remember watching as Aaron became a small speck as I was transported down and away from the mountain, him standing tall, the swirl of snow stirred up by the helicopter rotors settling down and around him. But not on him. He was safe, tucked away in his bubble, shielded by his life-force energy. I know he made it home. I heard him at the door, turned away by Dierdra, but I can’t remember what transpired between that time and this. How could I have lost nine days? And remember nothing?

As I lay deep in thought, searching for an answer to my questions, Dierdra sets the envelopes aside. She stands and takes to fussing over my bed covers, straightening them, smoothing the wrinkles out with her hands, performing busy work while her eyes dart back and forth, watching me for signs of seizure. Through the denseness that’s settled in my head I hear her mumbling, saying she doesn’t want me catching cold. She’s going to fix me some hot chicken soup and I’d better eat it, because that’s what the doctor ordered. She says Cherrie’s been in and out, many times, and this new girl, oh—what was her name? —came too.

You mean Nani Doris?

Yes. Sounds right. What a beautiful girl. And so nice. Dierdra points. She brought you those flowers, she says, leveling her finger at the largest vase with the biggest bouquet of flowers. She shouldn’t have done that. It must have cost her a lot. Too much, I’m afraid. But she said you were worth every penny. Claims you’re her special friend."

Dierdra stops her fretting. She looks at me. Discord fills her eyes. Why didn’t you tell me you had such a nice friend? She doesn’t wait for an answer. She’s returns to her swatting of the bedding.

Mom. It’s okay. Leave it alone.

I see the hurt in her eyes as she withdraws. The tone in my voice strained. Curt. Filled with angst. What the hell was Nani doing visiting me in my sick bed?  Why would she spend what was a month’s worth of hard labor on flowers for me? She’s not my friend. Not even an acquaintance. Sure, she saved me from further abuse from Wide Body Ann, but it doesn’t give her the right to assume I owe her anything, especially friendship. As far as I see it, we can never be friends. She isn’t my type. Too beautiful. Too pretentious. Too ridiculously confident in her abilities. All rightly spot-on, but that wasn’t the reason we can’t be friends. We’re different. Worlds apart.

In seeing the hurt in Dierdra’s eyes, I try to set things right. Mix it up. Change the subject. I’m sorry, Mom. Thanks for all you’ve done. When did you bring me home?

On Friday.

I do the calculation in my head. So I was in the hospital for six days!

Now it’s Dierdra’s turn to look off, to crunch the numbers. No. Just four.

I backtrack. Friday, Thursday, Wednesday, Tuesday. Mom, you must be mistaken. The helicopter picked me up on Sunday. That’s six days to Friday.

Dierdra leans in. She rests the palm of her head on my forehead, gently working the tips of her fingers back and forth, grazing my hairline the same way she did when I was a child. It was always soothing, always a motherly thing to do, always done in a manner as if she’s saying, Oh child, you sweet, innocent thing. You’re confused. But that’s okay. It doesn’t matter. Mommy’s here. She’ll take care of you.

Mom?

Dierdra withdraws her hand. Tears well up. I thought you were dead. Lost to the mountain. Same as your father. I begged them to look for you, but they said they couldn’t. The white out kept them off the mountain. For four days.

Four days?

Yes. Four days.

I was on the mountain for four days?

Yes. They didn’t find you until Tuesday.

My thoughts swirl, as heavy and as thick as the white-out we’d been caught in on the mountain. My brain freezes, slowing the same way it had on the mountain. And my body grows cold, the same way it had on the mountain. For a time, one lost to measurement, I space. Four days! How could we have survived for four days on the mountain? We couldn’t. Not out there on the flat rock. Not out in the elements. We would have frozen to death.  Aaron didn’t have enough life-force left to encapsulate us in his bubble. I gave my life-force to Aaron, but even so, it was questionable whether he could contact those he described as our saviors. Yet he must have. And, as I dig deeper, the memory works