Visions of the Future (72 page)
Read Visions of the Future Online
Authors: David Brin,Greg Bear,Joe Haldeman,Hugh Howey,Ben Bova,Robert Sawyer,Kevin J. Anderson,Ray Kurzweil,Martin Rees
Tags: #Science / Fiction
DIANA
Yes, of course I’d love to read for it! I’d love to work with you.
THEY EMBRACE THEN COOKIE GOES TO OPEN THE DOOR.
COOKIE
Grab a seat over there. I can’t wait to hear you read… I have a good feeling about this—I had good vibes as soon as I saw your face. Let’s do this… Page 34, I’ll read Mother Mary Agnes and you read Sr. Kate. Okay with you?
DIANA
Oh my God, yes! Sure.
THEY SIT AT THE COUNTER, COOKIE GIVES HER A SCRIPT.
MOTHER MARY AGNES
(READ BY DIANA, SCOLDING)
You do know that it is a sin to cloud Anna’s young mind with ill thoughts of another of God’s creatures.
(STERNLY)
You do know that, don’t you, Sister Kate?
SISTER KATE
Yes, Mother Mary Agnes.
MOTHER MARY AGNES
Our little ANNA is training to become an associate. Perhaps she would eventually like to join our order. She has quite a bit to think about already. The outside world fills her with quite enough false hope and “theatrical illusions”, don’t you think? I believe truth is to be one of our virtues here, sister. Gossip is not to be taught at this convent.
(PAUSE)
It would be a sin to discourage a possible vocation these days. Don’t you think?
SISTER KATE
Yes, Mother Mary Agnes.
MOTHER MARY AGNES
And this boy, William, to let the seeds of evil sprout on the precious flesh of his young soul. Filling his very being with “disharmony and disease” in the eyes of others… Have you heard what Fr. Peter said about him?
SISTER KATE
Yes, Mother Mary Agnes. I was there.
MOTHER MARY AGNES
I thought that you were with us. Then you must remember that he said that our little choirboy may well be a mystic poet!
SISTER KATE
Yes.
(GRUMBLING)
I heard him say it.
MOTHER MARY AGNES
This child is but twelve years and writes with the eloquence of a scholar and the passion of… Well, have you seen any of his verse, Sr. Kate?
SISTER KATE
No.
MOTHER MARY AGNES
It reminds me of St. Teresa or John of the Cross. It most certainly resounds an air of holiness, Sr. Kate.
SISTER KATE
So I’ve heard.
MOTHER MARY AGNES
(REPRIMANDING)
And for that alone, I would not speak ill of the boy! Be advised that God protects His own… You’d best be wary of your tongue.
SISTER KATE
Yes, Mother Mary Agnes.
MOTHER MARY AGNES
(SHOUTING) I
am serious, Sr. Kate! Do not look away when I am talking to you!
SISTER KATE
Yes, Mother Mary Agnes.
MOTHER MARY AGNES
Fr. Peter is having some of his verse investigated with the Benedictine’s at Carrow. It is not only competent in its English but it’s fluent and flawless in its French as well.
SISTER KATE
Yes, I’ve heard that too.
MOTHER MARY AGNES
Did you hear that Fr. Peter took some of the boy’s work to his friend at the university?
SISTER KATE
Yes.
MOTHER MARY AGNES
Chancellor Lindsey, offered to help him. Fr. Peter wants to see if the boy’s writing, these verses that the boy has written suggest divine reference to manuscripts that had circulated the rest of Europe in the late 1300s. If they do, then we think that the voice the boy hears may be Julian of Norwich. Our little choirboy may well be a channel for a true divine voice. There is absolutely no way he could have learned about Julian’s work. It’s rarely taught at all. And if so, not until post graduate theology school.
SISTER KATE
Julian. Julian of Norwich? I’m sure I’ve heard of him.
MOTHER MARY AGNES
(SHAKING HER HEAD)
No, Kate. He’s a she. Julian was a woman. We don’t even know her actual name. As was the practice, she took the name of the church to which she lived here at St. Julian’s. During the medieval times, these people, their congregation existed on our very grounds; this very same chapel where we stand is believed to be one of the original buildings of St. Julian’s parish. We are not exactly sure about the rest of the buildings here at the East Abbey, but we know that our chapel could well have been landmarks from their original church. Manuscripts, notebooks, journals were found here. They think the author was Julian. Everything was sent to the university years ago. Some of the documents were forwarded to the monks at Carrow.
(PAUSE)
Julian wasn’t very popular.
SISTER KATE
Why? What did she do?
MOTHER MARY AGNES
(SMILE)
I guess you could say that she was something of a medieval spokeswoman for equal rights.
SISTER KATE
In the Middle Ages?
MOTHER MARY AGNES
(SMILES)
Some things just never change, huh?
(THEY SHARE A LAUGH)
It seems that the whole concept of Christian counseling by a woman in the church was frowned upon and got pushed aside by the active church administration. Some say that she had quite a feminist viewpoint.
SISTER KATE
A feminist in the Middle Ages!
MOTHER MARY AGNES
As I said before, she really isn’t studied in mainstream theology.
SISTER KATE
What else do you expect?
MOTHER MARY AGNES
They try to avoid her discourses, but they can’t ignore her work artistically. Truly, she’s a brilliant poet.
SISTER KATE
Is she in our library here?
MOTHER MARY AGNES
Oh, I have a couple of books on her. And I have the one she wrote herself. I’ll bring it to your room after vespers.
(PAUSE)
I guess, it wasn’t what she did as much as what she really said and thought. She had quite a unique tone of voice. Her words, though picturesque and fanciful, exposed her controversial vision of God.
(PAUSE)
Being an anchorite was simply the custom of the day, it was a life of seclusion. It was truly a life of utter solitude, prayer and contemplation; a denial of worldly passions and pleasures; yet the anchorite had to live inside the walls of the church so that she could receive the Holy Eucharist and hear the Word of God daily. People came to her for guidance, in quest of her divine wisdom. They spoke to her by way of a small window on the outside of her hermitage cell. The narrative of her writings tell us that she was gifted with over a dozen “showings” of the love of God. Her visions were often called “dramatic revelations”. At one point in her life she was not a member of the cloistered religious, in fact she had been very, very ill and was even administered last rites at the age of thirty. It is thought that these “showings” inspired her vocation to become the anchorite at St. Julian’s
. (TO HERSELF) P
erhaps her spirit is still with us.
SISTER KATE
She really had to live inside the walls of the church. I’ve heard this before… Perhaps I did study about her at the university.
MOTHER MARY AGNES
Oh, they let you study about her. She’s undeniably a part of history… Like many things in this world Sr. Kate. Will is an anomaly. He’s hard to explain. Hard to explain… But I know one thing. When the voice of spirit calls to us, we really have no choice but to answer that call… There is always a message for us in every lesson learned.
COOKIE
Wow. You are amazing! Even in reading cold. Wow.
(SLOWLY PUTS DOWN HER SCRIPT)
The role is yours if you say right now.
DIANA
Yes! Yes! Yes!
COOKIE
Fantastic! I will call our director at once!
(HUGS DIANA)
This is so cool… Tell me that this wasn’t meant be Diana. Come on, let’s get you a new phone to go with your new role.
DIANA
Oh, yeah… It seems I, uh, I don’t really need a new phone. I got the message that I thought was lost, uh… I think I’ll just hold onto Gabby for now.
COOKIE
Well then I’ll make expresso for us and I’ll bring you up to speed with the show.
DIANA
Sounds great.
(TURNS HER PHONE OFF)
Let me just silence this so we don’t get interrupted.
BLACKOUT • THE END
NEW AGE TEACHER
lawrence a. baines
Lawrence is Associate Dean for Research and Graduate Studies at the University of Oklahoma.
Lawrence works to develop innovative strategies to improve the quality of adolescents’ writing, reading, and thinking. An advocate for effective, humanistic, transformative teaching, he has worked with teachers and students in over 400 schools.
Read his
A Teacher’s Guide to Multisensory Learning: Improving Literacy by Engaging the Senses
at
http://amzn.to/1CJKpKC
and
Going Bohemian: How to Teach Writing Like You Mean It, 2nd Edition
at
http://amzn.to/1EnNUXz
.
In response to a recent decline in test scores, the Ministry of Education announced a new, “get tough” policy designed to identify and punish underperforming teachers. My students had always done well on the end-of-term tests, but this year, half of my students were the sons and daughters of new immigrants from Russia, who had been granted asylum as they fled the Chinese takeover of that country. On the first day of class, I learned that most of them spoke no English at all.
If my students didn’t score high enough on the end-of-term test, then the Ministry could designate me for reprogramming. Currently, reprogramming meant instantaneous removal from teaching, six weeks of sleep deprivation, forced viewing of round-the-clock model lessons, the insertion of a bot-monitor at the base of the skull, and a 50% reduction in pay. To be honest, the cut in pay, sleep deprivation, and bug in my head did not worry me as much as having to watch those insipid model lessons. Word on the street was that watching model lessons had caused an outbreak of
hara-kiri
among teachers in the local reprogramming camp.
I decided to get to school early so I could get to the copier without waiting in line. I had to make copies of a poem for the three hundred students in my ten senior English classes. Of course, the Ministry-approved textbook had poems, but they were by the usual suspects—long dead poets who wore white wigs because they thought they looked cool. If I went into class quoting some pithy, abstruse lines about eternal love from a noodle-headed, tights-wearing troubadour, I might get pelted with spitballs or worse—yawns. I had to find something provocative that would get my students to actually sit up and take notice. Seventeen is not the pinnacle of wisdom for most humans, though most seventeen-year-olds think it is. Russian seventeen-year-olds, in particular.
I found a hologram of Jawhar Glass, who never owned a pair of tights in his life, doing a rap of “Time Capsule.” I thought students could follow along as Mr. Glass read, then they could try their hands at writing a poem using a similar rhyme scheme on the same topic—time, change, and the future.
When I got to the copy room, Helen Trudeau was already there, poking around and cursing.
“Stupid ass machine,” she said.
“The stupid ass has to warm up first,” I said.
Trudeau was wearing the blue dress, a snug fitting cotton outfit that was more like a t-shirt than a dress.
“Oh?” She visibly jumped. “Hey, you scared me. Don’t you know better than to sneak up on a girl?” She looked irritated, so I smiled.
“The inspectors from the Ministry of Education are not due until next week,” I said. “Maybe wait until then to get jumpy, okay?”
“I give up,” she said, tapping the copier. “How do you make it work?”
Trudeau was beautiful and had youthful pale skin, which complimented her wild, red hair. She wore a black leather jacket along with a quiet smile that always seemed on the verge of a little girl giggle. She was hired last year to teach visual arts. At the art show in spring, I got a peek at some of her work. She was fond of children; sad, big-eyed children, looking lost amidst wildflower gardens and crowded train stations.
I had noticed Trudeau on the first day of school and helped her carry in a few bulky, heavy boxes of gear. I taught in the hallway on the other side of the building, so I rarely saw her, except at the occasional faculty meeting. At faculty meetings, she always sat with the old, unrejuvenated ladies who taught choir, drama, and music. I wondered how many of the coaches were hot on her trail, had been hot on her trail since the first day of school.
I walked over to the machine to see if I could help. Trudeau was wearing some perfume that smelled of cloves. She smelled good enough to make me sorry that I had not gotten to know her better.
“You have to hit clear before it will warm up.”
“Where does it say that?” She moved inches from my body and peered down at my fingers.
“Nowhere. But, that’s how it works.”
“The red button?”
I nodded. “Hit it twice.”
Trudeau was attractive in a rare, earthy, unenhanced way. Of course, rejuvenations had become quite popular and it was getting increasingly difficult to pick out who had been enhanced and who hadn’t.
Trudeau was wearing a pink patch on the back of her right hand, a small, round adhesive bandage about a half-inch wide. All teachers were required to wear patches, but they were usually blue or red. Pink patches were reserved for high-distress workers like the riot police or air traffic controllers.
“I am kind of surprised to see you wearing a pink patch,” I said. “Isn’t that a bit strong? I mean, what do you weigh, 100 pounds?”
“Almost,” she said. “Once the Ministry decreed twelve hours of instruction every day, I had no choice. At least if I want to maintain consciousness while teaching.”
