At the Seams

Chapter 17: Consciousness

Chapter 17: Consciousness

When she returns to the cave, Mary lies on the cold ground in a ball and holds herself. She floats, disconnected images and impressions drifting through her mind. She thinks she might cry again, but doesn't, only soaks in the warm, familiar river of her own consciousness.

"Mary, are you ready?" Karn's voice from behind her, prodding her, impatient.

Mary sits and turns to look at her disembodied guide. Am I really doing this? Karn grins. Mary nods in reply to its question, and gets to her feet.

Mary walks toward the opening in the cave, a swath of silver silk in a black world. She notes the intensity of the dawn on the other side has not changed since she last beheld it, though she was away in her body for almost a full day.

As she approaches the gateway to another life, Mary takes stock of herself. The last several days turned Mary on her ear, and she never quite bothered to come to terms with everything. Between Karn and her inability to comprehend her physical state, there was no time to consider how to feel about the new developments. She takes the time, now. It might be her last chance.

As she walks, Mary looks inside, like looking into a mirror. The last three days remind her of a time she went rafting with Sam and toppled from the kayak. It was spring, seven thousand feet up in Colorado, and the water was ice cold. The fear and pain and even the instant hypothermia vanished as a small, clear voice spoke from the base of Mary's mind, directing her; she had survived easily. Later, when Mary told Sam about it, he asked if she was scared. "No," Mary said thoughtfully, "I didn't feel anything. I didn't think about anything, either. I listened, and I survived. Strange, yeah?"

Sam looked at her with wide eyes. "Listened to whom, Ree?"

Mary shrugged. "Who can know? I'm here; that's what's important."

Was Karn with her even then? No, not likely. Besides, Mary doubts Karn would have been able or willing to talk her through the accident, not with its self-proclaimed nature at work. The voice in the river was her own brain, some brilliant, silent part of herself that only comes about when it is needed. That voice is strong, but subtle, easily ignored. Only if Mary is very quiet, as she was the instant she hit the frigid water that day long ago, can she hear and will she heed that voice.

Where have I been, Mary wonders, while I relinquished myself to Karn, to the mad fantasy he peddles? Why have I not struggled, bitten, as I know I would? Mary knows, in the case of Karn and her locked down body—as would have been the case in the raging, white waters of the May Big Thompson—had she thrashed, she would have sunk.

Mary looks at herself, now. Everything within her is muted, save for curiosity and nervousness. A bizarre beast of circumstance has dragged her through the last three days. Mary has felt much and thought little. She has been very quiet, and now she listens again for the voice from the river.

Mary stands at the exit from her cave, in the misty, gray light that barely penetrates the gloom. As if gazing through a gossamer sheet, she can see no details of the outside, only layers of shifting brightness. Mary closes her eyes and focuses on her emptiness, listening.

After a calm moment, words come to Mary, as if through the opaque curtain before her. "Come forth." The voice does not belong to Karn, may not. It is the voice for which she has been waiting. The voice expands, enchants, invigorates, displays no emotion. Not human, the voice still reminds Mary of her mother, her father, herself. It is that deep, brain voice, and Mary remains quiet and listens, as she did before.

"Karn," Mary says, "I'm ready."

The strange smile once again stretches wide. "All set, then? Goodbyes said and tears shed?"