Abigail. I could not have ever imagined anytime during my last thirty years that I would end up, debatable still of course, in an early twentieth century scriptorium as Madam Keeper of the Journal, no less a sacred position as those of my predecessors. Along with a slightly demented screwball who says he’s been born some twelve hundred times and that this life is worth all of those put together, who also has the power to sooth my restless soul when needed is my chosen partner during Armageddon, Free’d. He is a good man, and we are a good fit! Who knows, he could have been one of those cloaked ancient scribes huddled over some makeshift board for a table with candlelight, copying some text for future readers.
When this room or rooms since, were found, and I first breathed the stale air of cloistered books in stages of mend, I hid my tears. Oh, my Goddess! There couldn’t have been a more exquisite suitable landing place then this building whose parts are healing those according to need. There’s the roof greenhouse array, lookout post, a crow's nest for our floundering passions to find calm and reflection, the labyrinthine stacks for the old joy of the immersive dive into an alternative realty, a dimensional time machine before AI that transports, the kitchen, converted downstairs bedrooms, the basement storage area that is still giving away its secrets, this gem and the new promise of a natural habitat and garden outside. Just like that, we have avid gardeners, a landscaper, a tree expert, all with visions of a fashioning utopia that’s within our grasp. But..
But there’s help dear future reader that dare I say, none of us are well prepared. The thirty-six of us, three dozen fighters who left empty homes, dead parents, broken neighborhoods and dangerous weather, came with a yearning so great for our home planet that any fear was erased by the white-hot anger for the wealthy who, through their actions, denied any space or attention to Meltdown. They had enabled the killers.
After a few weeks and especially after the first food drop, we began to breath naturally, relax enough to read a good story, work in one of the houses, help out in the kitchen or with inventory or cleaning or minor repairs. Some formed a book club, some worked on capturing rainwater, others on a stronger antenna for reception. An illustrator began his own illustration journal of his time on the streets, and now here. Life has resumed. But now something has entered our nest and infected us. Infected might be too strong of a word but whatever it is, it changes everything. The young are still na?ve despite their battle scars that they wear as proudly as did once some with their tats. The sirens are calling from the rocky shores of evolution, superpowers, a way to survive what’s coming, they say, is spreading through the ranks with nary a whisper but a kiss.
Our bedroom has the door to this special place. All the submissions to the journal are to be here by six pm. My job is to simply place them between two cover boards, one plain sheet apart and date it. It’s been two and a half months and for all of it, I have regarded it a sacred act, not just for the reason of preserving a moment in history but possibly a last moment. It is why I have told a white lie.
I wait until all is quiet, go down to the mending room, light the lantern and read the newest entrees. But before I say a little prayer to whoever may be listening.
‘Please forgive me but as Keeper, I desire to keep the best interests of this small group of artists close to my heart that they will not only survive but thrive as we build a new world community amongst the rubble. This must be paramount to all else so in wisdom and good graces I walk with thee into this new wilderness.’
And then I meditate, emptying thoughts and concerns, opening up to the universal, becoming larger than my small human frame. The shadows flicker, the quiet energy and scents fill me with what past scribes must have felt as a higher calling. I read the entrée carefully, sometimes more than twice, feeling the stirrings between the lines. There hasn’t been one that was absent of a caring soul, a deep yearning for home, a fierce spirit that fights on to survive. I press the pages between two blank sheets, date it and cover it with the handmade cover, wrap it with twine and lock it in the wall safe where I found a few rare first editions including The Fall of Usher.
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The next part of this spiritual ritual, I speak through writing to those who listen. And now for my own confession. When Cuma came upstairs that night, I followed, keeping hidden while she read to Tris. As soon as I saw that girl in pigtails and not a spot of dirt on her except for the obligatory smudge on the cheek, every red flag I ever owned went up and, for the first time since childhood, got a body full of prickling goose bumps. And the message sent was that whatever looked like an innocent girl was just a costume, a mask on something new under the sun. It knocked quietly a half hour before dawn and led me up and out to the steps where we sat.
‘I want to offer you the same as I did to Cuma. You will watch as your small group shed their binding karma and develop the powers that once unleashed, will bring our Earth back to sustainability. You are still children playing with what your limited neural capacity can only comprehend. No fault of your own and finally being fixed. Since you are the Keeper of the journal, your third eye of perception must be opened for you to see beyond seeing. As you grow into your third strand, you will understand just how important your mission is here and simply maintaining a journal isn’t enough, like someone has said, rearranging the deck chairs on a sinking ship. If you agree, I’ll transfer my serum into your mouth with a kiss.’
So, after deep reading each, spending time with that person's most intimate thoughts and feelings, I open my own journal and make my own observations. Here’s the beginning of Day 63.
The more I live with my white lie, the more deeply troubling it gets. I believed telling them that no one was privy to the journal, even me, was to provide a safety net for them to unload in whatever way they wished, without judgement or favor. To adequately reflect this moment in time, one's truth is gold and to quarry that gold, they needed to know that no eyes would gaze upon their most intimate stirrings and so unread and locked it would stay.
I wondered out loud to you whether this saliva would affect everyone the same, if it had been extrapolated out to all genetic lineages to understand the consequences! You answered my growing worries last night in an intense dream that eventually free’d interrupted by shaking me. The scientist was a woman in jeans, a tie dye shirt and headband propped up against an enormous tree with prosthetics for both arms and legs which I believed to be an android. She told me that some only get their ancestral karma removed while others get the powers without the connection to nature and empathy for the great nurturing Web and others the whole nine yards, which you call ‘volvers. She said that Tris carried the enhanced saliva that detects the genome for the second and is triggered to default on its instructions thus doing nothing. Unfortunately, there are eleven that were created during the first trial that consciously seek those that lack the critical set of genes that pulls us into Natures Matrix so our mission is to be a step ahead of them while searching for the eleven to retrofit a solution.’
‘So, the collectives advice is to proactively get in front of it by warning all to be aware of strangers bearing false hope. First advise your people to wear masks outside, not to accept spit from anyone other than Tris for now and actively test out your new powers, becoming comfortable with them as they, to use your word, come online. And as always, a collective heart felt embrace with so much gratitude!’
I also wanted to add a few other things on a more personal level. With the lucid recollections that come soon after, the third strand begins developing, the understanding that as each new thing takes hold, it prepares you for the next. The lucid memories aren’t just a snippet of a highly detailed memory come to life, it also comes with a fresh perspective, new eyes that see so much more while it's happening. I’ve talked to Free’d about this, and he made the observation that it’s even better than reliving a piece of your childhood as the adult you’ve become like the fantasy of being you at thirty in your old eleven-year-old self. You sense everything in depth in whatever space you’re in, hear others thoughts, feel their emotional baggage, understand exactly the absolutely right action to take without risking your life. You get to organically edit yourself or your ancestors' negative patterns or challenges that hindered their personal growth. Wow! And that's how it starts, where you're
at.
