Stones: Theory (Stones #4) (21 page)

Jessica’s feet feel like they are going to burst from pain and swelling. She reaches down and touches the skin. It’s hot and sensitive to any pressure, like it’s on fire. The inflammation is traveling further up past her ankles toward the knees. A burning thirst tears through her throat. She starts to cough. The air is hot and dusty. A wave of sleepiness crashes down. Her eyes drift shut.

The dreams begin.

Matt is standing on a dark street holding Yarah’s hand. The sheer walls of towering buildings rise up on either side. A Stone glows white in his fingers.

Don’t go after Ryzaard. It’s a trap.

Shadows pass over her eyes. The world falls into blackness. Agitated voices drift over and around her. First a man, and then a woman. Jessica tries to make out what they are saying, but the words are foreign, vaguely reminding her of French and Japanese. She hears shouting. Running feet. Children laughing. Fingers run in lines over her body, stopping at her ankles and bare feet. More women’s voices, this time more urgent. Jessica tries to look up, but her eyelids are too heavy. Powerful arms slide under her back and knees. She feels a warm breath that smells of butter and cheese.

It all ends with a sensation of floating away from her body.

M
iyazawa dreams.

He smiles at the shouts of adulation floating up from the throngs below him. A sea of white robes stretches out on a broad plain extending away from him to the foot of the low green mountains into the distance. Directly beneath him, the white sea ends in a crisp line where it merges with the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.

His worshipers are gathered on the beach to pay homage and to seek his blessing.

He stands in front of the glass door of the transport. With a wave of his hand, the glass parts into the open air. The smell of sand and seaweed fills the cabin. A breeze lifts and plays with the stray locks of black hair on his forehead. The crowd bows before him in humble reverence. They begin to look up, infused with intense joy. Their arms reach out to him. They are filled with hunger for his presence.

Then the singing within his body begins. It is the same sound he felt coming from the tree. It starts to resonate in his chest, almost imperceptible beneath the white tunic. Like a river, it flows out through his body. As it increases in a gentle crescendo, the white-capped waters of the ocean below become as still as a single mirror spreading out to the right and left.

A hush falls on the mass of people. They hear the singing coming down from above. It fills their hearts with rapture. Tears flow from their eyes.

Miyazawa reads their hearts. They are filled with desire for him to come down and become one with them. He feels himself drawn out of the transport through the open doors.

He floats in the air above them, arms outstretched.

“Sir, we just arrived in the airspace above Rio De Janeiro. The mayor of the city awaits your presence.”

His assistant’s voice filters down into his consciousness as Miyazawa awakes from the dream.

Eyes slowly opening like the soft petals of a blooming chrysanthemum, Miyazawa smiles and raises himself to a lotus position on the bed, the palms of his hands coming together just above the belly. Several deep breaths later, he stands and stretches out his arms in the shape of a capital T. Attendants move to his side with the robes of a master Shinto priest, the head of his order. He waits patiently as they fit the vestments to his body. The soft blue undergarment, the bilious white breeches, the stiff outer tunic with its knee-length sleeves, the wooden
geta
sandals, the black cap sailing atop his head.

All of it will only be worn once on this occasion. After the dedication ceremony, he will make a contribution of the entire wardrobe so that it can be displayed in a Shinto museum to be constructed next to the main shrine. Future generations will rejoice in seeing the garments of a living god.

When he has been properly clothed and perfumed, Miyazawa walks to the glass doors of the transport. Just as in his dream, a sea of worshipers dressed in white cover the open spaces from the city down to the edge of the water on the beach. The sun hangs in the sky above the emerald mountains. The faint smell of the ocean comes through circular air filters on the side.

He allows his gaze to drop to the throngs below. The faint sound of adulating voices penetrates the outer skin of the transport. Miyazawa recalls his dream.

I could do it, if I wanted. Walk out the door. Float in the air above them.

They would be amazed.

Better to wait.

“Take us down,” Miyazawa says.

The transport floats in silence down to the water’s edge above the heads of the waiting crowd. Miyazawa wonders where they will land in the sea of people. AS they drop below 500 meters, police in white uniforms work their way into the crowd and push back the white-clad supplicants with lithium-alloy rods pulsing purple with live electric current.

“Rather barbaric,” Miyazawa mutters.

An aid standing on his left nods. “We were told that there might be problems with crowd control. It seems that our offer to build a shrine has been met with an overwhelmingly positive response from the Catholic population. Everyone wants to see you. Local law enforcement will be employing methods of crowd control that are customary for this part of the world. Please don’t be alarmed.”

Miyazawa nods.

The ship gently touches down on the sand. Police stand shoulder to shoulder and forcibly open up a long corridor in the crowd from the beach to the torii gate and shrine fifty meters away.

The transport rotors slow and stop.

“When you’re ready, sir.” The aid moves back from Miyazawa so that he is the only one standing in front of the closed glass door.

Miyazawa takes in a long, deep breath and lets it slowly come out. His chin drops down a centimeter in a subtle nod. The glass doors of the transport part, and the heavy, wet air of Brazil floods into the interior, carrying with it the smell of a mass of humanity.

He steps out onto a white path made entirely of pearls.

All whispering and chatter ceases. Even the seagulls soaring above the throng seem to understand the importance of the moment. Their usual cacophony of cries goes silent.

Miyazawa moves forward and gracefully pulls a flat wooden stick from the inside of his sleeve. Grasping it vertically in his right hand, he walks over the white path of pearls, never venturing a gaze to the right or left. Focused solely on the form of the torii gate, he observes its two vertical beams and two horizontal crossbeams gleaming vermillion and black in the morning sun.

There will be no other dignitaries taking part in the dedication ceremony. Miyazawa has turned down the offer from the Pope to share the stage.

As he walks through the corridor of humanity, faces bow in reverence and look up. Miyazawa is well aware of the tears streaming down onto the sand. A hand ventures through the cordon of police officers to brush his robe. It is immediately met with a sharp blow from a purple rod. The sound of electric shock on skin floats up into the priest’s ears, followed by a whimper and muffled cries.

Miyazawa hears it all, is aware of it all, but doesn’t flinch or pause until he stands exactly below the crossbeams of the torii gate. Bringing his black wooden sandals together, he bows deeply and moves under the gate, going from the world of the profane to the world of the sacred in one step.

He enters alone. Strict instructions have been given that the ten meter square containing the shrine and gate is to be kept ritually pure during the ceremony. It is off-limits to all others, even to the priests that will take over administration of the shrine after the dedication ceremony ends.

At the foot of the granite stairs to the shrine, he pauses once again. Palms come together in front of his chest. Then he ascends the stairs, slowly and gracefully, until coming to rest at the top where he turns to face the gathered faithful.

White smoke from incense burning around the outside of the shrine premises fills the air with a sweet odor. The fresh cedar wood of the shrine, raw and unpainted, gives off its own unique aroma.

Inhaling the air, Miyazawa bows to the crowd. Reaching into his left sleeve, he pulls out a two-inch wide strip of rice paper folded like a fan. Grasping each side in his fingers, he pulls it apart and gazes down at the Japanese characters written in rich, flowing calligraphy. Reading from top to bottom, right to left, his lips move as he chants the ancient writings in a robotic monotone voice.

The sea of white bows and claps their palms together.

When the chanting stops, Miyazawa brings the two ends of the paper together as it folds itself back into a perfect white strip. Placing it in his sleeve, he turns away from the crowd and faces the shrine. One by one, he touches long black tubes of incense sticking out of a beam at waist level. As his fingers make contact, the incense bursts into flame and settles down to a slow burn. White smoke wafts up to the shrine roof.

Murmurs of amazement ripple through the gathered humanity to his back.

With his left hand, he reaches into his sleeve and pulls out a silver bell mounted on the end of a black stick. Shaking it in rhythm to more chanting, at predetermined points, his body shoots forward in deep bows as he calls to the
Kami
enshrined in a golden box.

His skin tingles as excitement builds behind him.

Miyazawa replaces the bell in his robe and picks up an incense stick in each hand. Slowly turning, he holds them in his hands out to the crowd. White smoke drifts up from their ends, blown out across the masses by a subtle breeze. Arms and fingers reach up through the thin smoke, cup it and bring it down upon their bodies.

The moment of absolution and purification has arrived.

Miyazawa waves the incense in broad arcs over their heads. Thousands of hands stretch out to him, receiving the proffered gift. Long suppressed voices begin to chant. Whispered at first, the chanting rises in volume and power until it rocks Miyazawa and the steps he stands on. He opens himself to it, channeling the waves of sound through his body.

Replacing the incense sticks, he moves down the steps onto the pathway of pearls.

The adulation bears him back to the open doors of the heli-transport. He turns and bows deeply to the faithful. The chanting has long since turned to yelling, screaming, begging. As the hysteric masses surge forward, police step in front with their lithium poles and bar the way.

Miyazawa allows a faint smile and backs into the interior of the transport. The glass closes, and the silent rotors pull it straight up and away.

Miyazawa stares down.

“Magnificent!” an aide says. “The way of the
Kami
has been opened in yet another corner of the world. It will flow from this spot to fill all of South America.”

Without bothering to respond, Miyazawa opens his arms and legs into a spread eagle and waits for the aids to remove the robes, shoes and cap. Their upper bodies bow at right angles and move away. Ryzaard walks to the left, and the doors to his personal quarters open. He passes into the room as the doors silently come together behind him.

Staring down through the transparent floor of the transport, the coastline of Rio de Janeiro peels away.

The throngs of white disappear beyond the horizon. He reaches into a drawer and takes out a blue cube. With practiced movement, he peels off a thin derm patch and lays it on his wrist.

The rush is immediate, engulfing him in a world of white and weightlessness.

J
hata wonders how long it will take for the
Lethonen
to discover that she’s been snooping around in the planetary network they discovered and revealed to Ryzaard.

If they are monitoring this magnificent structure, she guesses they will soon appear to investigate. Indeed, they may have already detected her presence. It will likely force them to make an appearance and see what is going on. Once she figures out how the Lethonen connect to the network, she’ll need to sever the nexus that gives them access to it. Then she can make it her own.