The Celestine Prophecy: An Adventure (3 page)
“I guess I got totally absorbed in my work,” I said.
“So did I,” she replied. “At the paper it was one story after another. I didn’t have time to look up. I forgot about everything else.”
I squeezed her shoulder. “You know, Charlene, I had forgotten how well we talk together; our conversation seems so easy and spontaneous.”
Her eyes and smile confirmed my perception. “I know,” she said, “conversations with you give me so much energy.”
I was about to make another comment when Charlene stared past me toward the entrance to the restaurant. Her face grew anxious and pale.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, turning to look in that direction. Several people were walking toward the parking lot, talking casually, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I turned to face Charlene again. She still appeared alarmed and confused.
“What was it?” I repeated.
“Over by the first row of cars—did you see that man in the gray shirt?”
I looked toward the parking lot again. Another group was exiting through the door. “What man?”
“I guess he’s not there now,” she said, straining to see.
She looked directly into my eyes. “When the people at the other tables described the man who stole my briefcase, they said he had thinning hair and a beard, and wore a gray shirt. I think I just saw him over there by the cars … watching us.”
A knot of anxiety formed in my stomach. I told Charlene I would be right back and walked to the parking lot to look around, careful not to get too far away. I saw no one who fit the description.
When I returned to the bench, Charlene took a step closer to me and said softly, “Do you suppose this person thinks I have a copy of the manuscript? And that’s why he took my briefcase? He’s trying to get it back?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But we’re going to call the police again and tell them what you saw. I think they also ought to check out the passengers on your flight.”
We walked inside and called the police, and when they arrived we informed them of what had occurred. They spent twenty minutes checking each car, then explained that they could invest no more time. They did agree to check all the passengers boarding the plane Charlene would be on.
After the police had left, Charlene and I found ourselves standing alone again by the fountain.
“What were we talking about, anyway?” she asked. “Before I saw that man?”
“We were talking about us,” I replied. “Charlene, why did you think to contact me about all this?”
She gave me a perplexed look. “When I was in Peru and the priest was telling me about the Manuscript, you kept popping into my mind.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I didn’t think too much about it then,” she continued, “but later, after I returned to Virginia, every time I would think of the Manuscript, I would think of you. I started to call several times but I always got distracted. Then, I received this assignment in Miami that I’m headed to now and discovered, after I had boarded the plane, that I had a layover here. When I landed I looked up your number. Your answering machine said to contact you at the lake only in an emergency, but I decided it would be okay to call.”
I looked at her for a moment, unsure of what to think. “Of course,” I finally replied. “I’m glad you did.”
Charlene glanced at her watch. “It’s getting late. I’d better get back to the airport.”
“I’ll drive you,” I said.
We drove to the main terminal and walked toward the embarkation area. I watched carefully for anything unusual. When we arrived, the plane was already boarding and one of the policemen we had met was observing each passenger. When we approached him, he told us that he had observed everyone scheduled to board and no one fit the description of the thief.
We thanked him and after he had left, Charlene turned and smiled at me. “I guess I’d better go,” she said, reaching out to hug my neck. “Here are my numbers. Let’s keep in touch this time.”
“Listen,” I said. “I want you to be careful. If you see anything strange, call the police!”
“Don’t worry about me,” she replied. “I’ll be fine.”
For an instant we looked deeply into each other’s eyes.
“What are you going to do about this Manuscript?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Listen for news reports about it, I guess.”
“What if it’s suppressed?”
She gave me another of her full smiles. “I knew it,” she said. “You’re hooked. I told you you’d love it. What are
you
going to do?”
I shrugged. “See if I can find out more about it, probably.”
“Good. If you do, let me know.”
We said good-bye again and she walked away. I watched as she turned once and waved, then disappeared down the boarding corridor. I walked to my truck and drove back to the lake, stopping only for gas.
When I arrived, I walked out to the screened porch and sat in one of the rockers. The evening was loud with crickets and tree frogs and in the distance I could hear a whippoorwill. Across the lake, the moon had sunk lower in the west and sent a rippled line of reflection toward me on the water’s surface.
The evening had been interesting, but I was still skeptical about the whole idea of a cultural transformation. Like many people, I had been caught up in the social idealism of the Sixties and Seventies, and even in the spiritual interests of the Eighties. But it was hard to judge what was really happening. What kind of new information could possibly alter the entire human world? It all sounded too idealistic and far-fetched. After all, humans had been alive on this planet for a long time. Why would we suddenly gain insight into existence now, at this late date? I gazed out at the water for a few more minutes, then turned off the lights and went into the bedroom to read.
The next morning I awoke suddenly with a dream still fresh in my mind. For a minute or two I stared at the bedroom ceiling, remembering it fully. I had been making my way through a forest searching for something. The forest was large and exceptionally beautiful.
In my quest I found myself in a number of situations in which I felt totally lost and bewildered, unable to decide how to proceed. Incredibly, at each of these moments, a person would appear out of nowhere as though by design to clarify where I needed to go next. I never became aware of the object of my search but the dream had left me feeling incredibly upbeat and confident.
I sat up and noticed a beam of sunlight coming through the window across the room. It sparkled with suspended dust particles. I walked over and pulled back the curtains. The day was radiant: blue sky, bright sunshine. A stiff breeze gently rocked the trees. The lake would be rippled and glistening this time of day, and the wind chilly against a swimmer’s wet skin.
I walked outside and dove in. I surfaced and swam out to the middle of the lake, turning on my back to look at the familiar mountains. The lake rested in a deep valley where three mountain ridges converged, a perfect lake site discovered by my grandfather in his youth.
It had now been a hundred years since he had first walked these ridges, a child explorer, a prodigy growing up in a world that was still wild with cougar and boar and Creek Indians that lived in primitive cabins up the north ridge. He had sworn at the time that one day he would live in this perfect valley with its massive old trees and seven springs, and finally he had—later to build a lake and a cabin and to take countless walks with a young grandson. I never quite understood my grandfather’s fascination with this valley, but I had always tried to preserve the land, even when civilization encroached, then surrounded.
From the middle of the lake, I could see a particular rock outcropping near the crest of the north ridge. The day before, in the tradition of my grandfather, I had climbed to that overhang, trying to find some peace in the view and in the smells and in the way the wind whirled in the tree tops. And as I had sat up there, surveying the lake and the dense foliage in the valley below, I had slowly felt better, as if the energy and the perspective were dissolving some block in my mind. A few hours later I had been talking with Charlene and hearing about the Manuscript.
I swam back and pulled myself up on the wooden pier in front of the cabin. I knew all this was too much to believe. I mean, here I was hiding out in these hills, feeling totally disenchanted with my life, when out of the blue, Charlene shows up and explains the cause of my restlessness—quoting some old manuscript that promises the secret of human existence.
Yet I also knew that Charlene’s arrival was exactly the sort of coincidence of which the Manuscript spoke, one that seemed too unlikely to be a mere chance event. Could this ancient document be correct? Have we been slowly building, in spite of our denial and cynicism, a critical mass of people conscious of these coincidences? Were humans now in a position to understand this phenomenon and thus, finally, to understand the purpose behind life itself?
What, I wondered, would this new understanding be? Would the remaining insights in the Manuscript tell us, as the priest had said?
I faced a decision. Because of the Manuscript I felt a new direction open in my life, a new point of interest. The question was what to do now? I could remain here or I could find a way to explore further. The issue of danger entered my mind. Who had stolen Charlene’s briefcase? Was it someone working to suppress the Manuscript? How could I know?
I thought about the possible risk for a long time, but finally my mood of optimism prevailed. I decided not to worry. I would be careful and go slowly. I walked inside and called the travel agency with the largest ad in the yellow pages. The agent with whom I spoke said he could indeed arrange a trip to Peru. In fact, by chance, there was a cancellation I could fill—a flight with reservations already confirmed at a hotel in Lima. I could have the whole package at a discount, he said … if I could leave in three hours.
Three hours?
A
fter a frenzy of packing and a wild ride on the freeway, I arrived at the airport with just enough time to pick up my ticket and board the flight for Peru. As I walked into the plane’s tail section and sat down in a window seat, fatigue swept over me.
I thought about a nap, but when I stretched out and closed my eyes, I found I couldn’t relax. I suddenly felt nervous and ambivalent about the trip. Was it crazy to depart with no preparation? Where would I go in Peru? To whom would I talk?
The confidence I had experienced at the lake was quickly fading back into skepticism. Both the First Insight and the idea of a cultural transformation again seemed fanciful and unrealistic. And as I thought about it, the concept of a Second Insight seemed just as unlikely. How could a new historical perspective institute our perception of these coincidences and keep them conscious in the public mind?
I stretched out further and took a deep breath. Maybe it would be a useless trip, I concluded, just a quick run to Peru and back. A waste of money perhaps but no real harm done.
The plane jerked forward and taxied out to the runway. I closed my eyes and felt a mild dizziness as the big jet reached the critical speed and lifted into a thick cloud cover. When we reached cruising altitude, I finally relaxed and drifted into sleep. Thirty or forty minutes later, a stretch of turbulence woke me up and I decided to go to the rest room.
As I made my way through the lounge area I noticed a tall man with round glasses standing near the window talking to a flight attendant. He glanced at me briefly, then continued speaking. He had dark brown hair and appeared to be about forty-five years old. For an instant I thought I recognized him, but after looking at his features closely, I concluded he was no one I knew. As I walked past I could hear part of the conversation.
“Thanks anyway,” the man said, “I just thought since you travel to Peru so often that perhaps you had heard something about the Manuscript.” He turned away and walked toward the front of the plane.
I was dumbstruck. Was he speaking of the same Manuscript? I walked into the rest room and tried to decide what to do. Part of me wanted to forget about it. Probably he was talking about something else, some other book.
I returned to my seat and closed my eyes again, content to write off the incident, glad I didn’t have to ask the man what he meant. But as I sat there, I thought about the excitement I had felt at the lake. What if this man actually had information about the Manuscript? What might happen then? If I didn’t inquire, I would never know.
I wavered several more times in my mind, then finally stood up and walked toward the front of the plane, finding him about midway up the aisle. Directly behind him was an empty seat. I walked back and told an attendant I wanted to move, then gathered my things and took the seat. After a few minutes, I tapped him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I heard you mention a manuscript. Were you speaking of the one found in Peru?”
He looked surprised, then cautious. “Yes, I was,” he said tentatively.
I introduced myself and explained that a friend had been in Peru recently and had informed me of the Manuscript’s existence. He visibly relaxed and introduced himself as Wayne Dobson, an assistant professor of history from New York University.
As we spoke, I noticed a look of irritation coming from the gentleman sitting next to me. He had leaned back in his seat and was attempting to sleep.
“Have you seen the Manuscript?” I asked the professor.
“Parts of it,” he said. “Have you?”
“No, but my friend told me about the First Insight.” The man beside me changed his position.
Dobson looked his way. “Excuse me, sir. I know we’re disturbing you. Would it be too much trouble for you to exchange seats with me?”
“No,” the man said. “That would be preferable.”
We all stepped into the aisle and then I slid back into the window seat and Dobson sat beside me.
“Tell me what you heard concerning the First Insight,” Dobson said.
I paused for a moment, trying to sum up in my mind what I understood. “I guess the First Insight is an awareness of the mysterious occurrences that change one’s life, the feeling that some other process is operating.”
