act 6

Act 6: Conclusions

Angeleen

I am Angeleen, manufactured bride, though

completely human. I don't mind.  Custer is 

quite the catch, and not just because I was so

told, over and over by my AI tutor, grown to

be his one true love. He has always been kind,

generous, sympathetic, understanding, though

there is probably no one else he shows these

qualities. He is beautiful, with wavy reddish brown

hair he wears flowing just below his ears.

piercing blue eyes that smile on me, a godlike

form, as I've seen in art, muscular but not too

much. I, created for this one job, to love him,

be his love, raised gently under his guiding

care, do share those intimate feelings, not

because made to. This man I have gotten to

know all through my life, is ultimately lovable

when given the chance. We have been happy

together, within our private romance, mutual

muses, wrapped in our ecstatic dance. Until,

that is, I was struck down by illness unknown

to our medical geniuses, or all the AI annals.

Suddenly, I could no longer do much of

anything. Even breath was a struggle, though

not so terrible that I would want it to stop, or

feel in danger that it might. My mind, however,

does not appear afflicted. My thoughts are clear,

abundant, creative as before. I try to abate

Custer's fears, speak, as I can, haltingly, but

with utmost clarity, let him know I am here,

fully aware, glad of his presence. He wants to

raise my comfort level, offer distraction from

my obvious pain. He perfumes our atmosphere

with beautiful scents that leave no residue to

cloud the air. He covers me with the softest

materials he can command. Feeds me

ambrosial delicacies, of easily absorbed

consistency, does everything he can think of

to intimate a paradise for my pleasure, that

I hopefully not notice what I miss. As part of

this distraction, I know only for my benefit,

since he has no interest in City scandals, he

has arranged a 3D display of that ubiquitous

entertainment, 24/7 Gossip I can passively

enjoy while I lay in bed. I often find their

stories amusing, not a waste of my attention.

When it is on, I let it just a background drone 

unless a feature captures and holds my interest 

for a moment. It's not as if I was ever a part of their 

avid audience. I might have watched it for

occasional entertainment when Custer was

otherwise occupied. Today, as I allow the

stories to play, strangely, as if

synchronicity reached out to touch me,

I see, hear the commentary, a young woman

in the Barro is healing people with incurable

diseases. Of course, Barro medical expertise

is severely hampered by our technologies

being forbidden. Perhaps these illnesses she

cured would have been easily alleviated in the

City. It was but a short clip, not offering much

pertinent information, only meant as

entertainment. They did, as an aside, remind

us that features from the Barro are quite rare,

since their City audience knows no one there,

unless a City migrant worker is heavily involved.

The last time, in fact, was before I was aware of

such broadcast stories. Apparently, this one was

unique enough to be on the loop for close to

two weeks, according to the time stamp, shown 

randomly, depending on programming priorities. 

As it happened, we had not seen it before. It's not 

as if we spent much time watching gossip, nor are 

we generally aware of what everyone currently knows.  

Custer, of course, immediately seized upon the meat,

the possibility of healing me. He called forth servants

to investigate the particulars, to discover if what the

commentator said was true. When the basics were 

confirmed, medical professionals were queried for 

recommendations. With this information, he knew

what he must immediately do. "I will send

representatives to bring this girl here, ascertain for

ourselves her ability to make you well," he exclaimed,

filled with elation. I countered, as strongly as I 

could muster, demanded he understand the 

unfairness of his plan. I entreated that if she were

transplanted from her Barro home to serve us here,

she would never be allowed to return to her life

as before. We cannot do that to this beneficent

innocent. What a horrible reward for her curing

me, I implored! Because it was me making this plea, 

he agreed. He altered his vision, insisted we fly to

the City Compound in the Barro, along with servants

to make appropriate arrangements once there. They

would need to secure a place for treatment, locate

this girl and tell her where and when to meet us.

A'glee with happy anticipation of me, hopefully,

emerging from this curse, to return as all I was,

he sends a man to do as he has decided must be

done, arrange for a robocar to fly us to the Compound 

on the morrow, execute his plan. I feel some trepidation. 

What if this situation does not play out as he expects?

How will he be assuaged, his sorrow mollified?

Yet, I also feel excited, in mind if not body; maybe

my plight might disappear. I may regain my life

and his. At least we have a changed perspective, if

only for this interim, a chance to break out of our

current limited routine. It all, this whole interval,

somehow seems unreal, as if an extended dream,

from the time I fell ill through this new

eventuality. Perhaps tomorrow I will awake,

unharmed, uninterrupted. In any case, tomorrow

will be an adventure. Late Spring, they say, warm

and sunny weather to enjoy on our way to what

may greet us across the River.

Bonnie

Curiouser and curiouser, a season of change?

New challenges, terrors, every day? I was

well adjusted to my job's errata. One expects

medical needs to show up unexpectedly, to

present without warning, be overwhelming, not

subject to following routines. My family dramas,

especially regarding Alee, have been difficult,

but not outside what I can absorb, deal with

usefully Yet, too fast, picking up speed, is how,

more and more, that situation seems. I had

never imagined my private concerns would break

out publicly, to, without consent or consideration,

turn our already confused, upset family into

somehow accountable celebrities. Sophia told

us about Alee's appearance on the City broadcast,

"24/7 Gossip". She assured us City folks would regard

this as mere entertainment, their healthcare options

so much better than ours. Meanwhile, we have more

immediate issues, here. The Stakeholders' Meeting

did calm our neighbors' agitation for the most part,

yet pockets of complaint persist. Now, today, I 

encounter this new twist. Some Upper's servant 

has come to the Clinic to insist I provide a treatment 

suite for his employer and wife to meet with this Barro 

healer. She is perilously sick, has been for months 

without relent, appears ever less alive, so I am informed.

Of course, they had consulted with their City practitioners

of Upper privileged medicine, but found no relief,

no cure. Obviously, the next step, now that they

have been made aware of her existence, is to find,

try, this unlikely healer's ability. I grant access to our

facility, as I appear to have no other recourse. I don't

know what to say about Alee, our relationship, her

situation, so I remain professional, give only what

I am asked for. The interview concluded, the stranger

departs, after ascertaining a block of time on the

morrow for his employer's reservation. I take a long

breath, call Sophia. I have too immediate a need for

information; a text won't do. She, of course, is busy

at the School all afternoon, but understands I must have

her attention. She advises me to calm myself, relax, get

back to my job. She will be here with me to discuss what

has happened as soon as she can. Naturally, I call Cas.

I know he can help me relax just with the support of his

soothing voice, almost hypnotic aura of peace. I tell him

of my meeting with the Upper representative, that I didn't

know how best to respond to him, so I told him nothing of

my knowledge about Alee. Cas, as always, understands my

emotional overload. He assures me we will figure out how to

proceed. I inform him of my call to Sophia, that she intends 

to join me as soon as she can get away from the School,

her job obligations. Then she will be able to speak with me,

offer what she knows of how Uppers operate, what ought

be my best course when they arrive. Having shared my

fears, ameliorated by panic, I do as advised, get back to work.

Certainly my ordinary chores still need doing. Their

familiarity will keep me steady while I await my family's

aid in preparation for tomorrow. Alee is still to weak to

access her healing power, though every day she promises

she feels it almost ready to emerge. She says she sees this

image in her mind of a potent candle to be re-lit, that she

tries to find the right ignition, keeps moving closer as she

dances in a trance of inner exploration. We can see she is

so very tired, yet at least equally inspired by her mission

to regain her mojo, as those in need of her help wish for 

her as well. She seems so small, frail, and yet still magical. 

I believe, we all do, that she speaks from visions she has

the ability to manifest, but how long will that take?

People, in aggregate, are not patient, get testy when made

to wait for what they think they are owed. Presumably,

Uppers, arrogant by nature and long experience as 

self-appointed superiors, are not about to tolerate delay.

I finish my professional obligations for the day, make

space for Sophia and I to strategize. Then, we head home

together, to share what has happened, elicit a greater

circle to advise.

Sophia

Bonnie had called me in a panic. She has been

approached by an Upper servant who flew here

from the City with his employer to demand she

reserve a treatment suite in the Clinic for a meeting

with this Alegra, the healer. She complied, having

no idea what else to do. After he left, apparently

satisfied, she contacted me to verify her suspicions,

the efficacy of her response. At that moment, I was,

unfortunately required at the School to teach my

class. As soon as that ended, released, I met Bonnie 

at the Clinic. By then her shift was done. We spoke,

for a bit in her office, then on the walk home. On

arrival, we discovered our news was but a piece of

a reason for concern. Alee had, in her turn, received

the Upper's messenger's command to meet with his

employer and ailing wife to perform her cure. Alee,

knowing she is in no position to fulfill this command,

having yet to regain that power, tried to decline. She

attempted to explain that she was not yet ready, despite

her efforts to relight that faded flame. She promised,

assured, when she was able, she would immediately

inform whatever agent they might provide. The servant

would have none of it. He was clear on his mission, that

Sir Custer not be given cause for disappointment. He

warned Alee to be at the appointed place and time, on the

very next day, mid-morning, so preparations could be

arranged before she arrived at the Clinic treatment suite

Bonnie had made available. Having nothing he would

hear to offer, Alee made no reply. Taking silence for

assent, he left, presumably to inform his employer of

what had been done. I've never met this Custer, though

I've known of him from common knowledge, historic

tales. He is an elder, from the first generation born on

City soil. Life extension technology has presumably 

advanced since back when his pioneering parents had

started using it, before their relocation, and for their son,

once he was gestating. However he has managed it, he has

been around for a very long time, well over a century.

Thus there are stories dating from his later youth, once

he was noticed enough to be spoken of. Youthful

appearing still, having stopped his aging once he

reached his physical peak, while continuing

challenging activities to maintain his strength,

endurance, physique. Considered arrogant, even

among a class strongly associated with that trait,

he was not generally well liked, or welcomed, in

social coteries. This was fine for a time. He preferred

his own, to him superior, company. Then, I suppose

after a great many decades, his solitary ways become

less ideal. A few decades ago, he began to make plans

for a companion he would create from selected DNA,

eugenic magic, to be his perfect mate. No robo-woman

to pretend to be his friend, but fully human, conceived

and raised to his specifications. Eventually his plan

attained fruition. Now he would be able to enjoy his

folie a 'deux, his imagined blissful union, without 

deference to social conventions. Thus, Angeleen, a

graceful beauty, raised to be happy to fulfill her duty

to the benefactor who made her to be his. Unfortunately

for that charming fantasy, not many years after they

were wed, she fell ill.  Something like Alee's affliction

if reports of her sudden symptoms, ever greater

draining of energy, muscular pain, wan responses,

are accurate. Now this particularly unpleasant

demanding Upper has learned of a Barro healer,

certainly far from a secret at this point, anywhere.

He has decided, in his entitled manner that this is

the cure he has sought, belongs to him to satisfy

his urgent desire for his lover's recovery. Alee

continues to insist that she feels ever closer to finding

inside her mind that image of a candle wick she may

relight, to regain what she must to aid those 

desperately imploring her for a cure to end their

suffering. I tell her, and the rest here gathered, what

I  can from Upper lore I've learned over years of

study. Alee, Jamee, Paul, Cas, Bonnie, Jay listen, ask

questions, worry, searching for a way to make this

situation turn out well. Marta had retired after our

initial revelations, saying it all made her feel ill, that

she had nothing of value to add to our deliberations,

so would take leave of us to lie down. Bobby, Camille,

and the kids, next door, busily crafting preparations

for the Solstice party at the Fire Pit late next week, 

making artistic decorations for the event itself, as well as 

Solstice themed wearables and wares to sell at the Mart

in anticipation of the celebration. These otherwise 

occupied relations, we will tell what we decide, when

we do. Cas looks pensive. He hugs Bonnie, stays close

to her side, holds her hand in his to calm her after her

ordeal, consequent fear. He tells us clearly that worries

won't help us focus as we must. He suggests, leads

group meditation, to raise a more peaceful, productive

vibration. What we can do, so far a mystery, we need to

manifest quickly, aware tomorrow is far too near.

Cas

We, Jamee, Paul, and me, went with Alee to meet with

the Upper, Custer, as we were told he was called, who

had demanded her presence at the Clinic. We thought

to provide her emotional support, back up if necessary.

He was much as we imagined from Sophia's description.

Proud, arrogant stance to emphasize his grandeur, his

ultimate power, yet a man, despite his position, engulfed

in fear, pain, trepidation for a loved one's safety. He

made imperious demands, yes, from vast decade's of

practice; but here and now, it is all about getting the answer

he so desperately wants, to restore what he had thought

lost, to repay his urgent prayers. In the face of his obvious

hostility, I countered, offered my gentling aura of peace.

We made our best effort to assure him we meant no ill or

resistance, that, simply, in this instance our sister no longer

possessed the ability he had counted on. He appeared to

calm a bit, though maintaining his superior air. When he

deigned to speak to we inferiors, it was quietly, with dense

iron behind. He warned, forcefully, yet not much above a

whisper, not to toy with him, that his retaliation would be

swift and likely more than we could bear. Then he stormed

out, left us in a state of puzzled paralysis. Alee began to cry.

Jamee moved to hold her, share their tears. Paul looked on,

painfully helpless. I just stood, waited for the fullness of

this event to make sense of it, to develop a forward plan.

Nothing more to be done here, we went home, after reporting

to Bonnie what had occurred. Marta and Sophia would be

at work at the School. Bobby and his crew were at the Mart,

selling their Solstice themed art before the Fire Pit party at

the end of next week. This salute to Summer celebration is

every year a big deal. The whole community gets together

in an atmosphere of gleeful fun, more than a little

inebriation, for those who so choose, a sacred supplication

for a wonderful Summer, a time of warmth, light, easing

of cares, that joy pervade. I have always loved this coming

together, communal accord, shared celebration, dedicated

to our hopes for happy days ahead. As the interval from now

to then passes, preparations escalating, I am fond of spending

hours at the Mart, watching people display their festive wares,

chatter of this and that, act as a happy collaboration, readying

to each be part of our yearly rite. Over these days of greater

sunlight, when all ought feel benign, I notice a mounting

dissatisfaction, hostility toward my family, questions from those

I work with at the Factory, not with anger aimed toward me,

who they know to be a friend, but still, tinged with suspicion,

with growing, if otherwise directed, ire. At the Mart, after

my shift had ended, I wonder what I  watch as a developing

crowd surrounds a loud speaker, increases as more people 

move closer to listen. There appears to be a contagious agitation, 

unlike any scene I have previously witnessed here. I recognize

the booming voice as that Upper, Custer's. I had heard that

after our meeting he sent his ailing wife back home, to the

City, with their servants, while he remained, staying at the

Compound dorm. I supposed he meant to ascertain how we

might be persuaded to do his bidding, come to his aid, or

maybe undertake an investigation, if he believed we were

faking our inability to comply. Apparently, his strategy is to

incite our neighbors to cry out against us, apply pressure we

cannot ignore as we could a stranger, or escape. To that end,

he exhorts them, invents vicious lies about our motives,

characterizes Alee as a heartless player with lives in peril.

I listen a short while to figure out what he intends, how his

falsehoods are being received by people who should know

better, having lived all these years within this shared

environment. I speak, somberly, quietly, my familiar calm

demeanor a counterpoint to the Upper's screaming wrath.

Those nearest me, here on the open path between Gardens

and Mart, where people tend to gather, listen, assent to

my clear sense. I deliver silently a prayer for peace, while

expressing a public plea for their remembrance of reality,

adherence to sanity. My words of reason ripple through

the short distance to the ever more unsettled group of

Barros that are assembling to figure out what is occurring

here. I metaphorically feel their rising temperature mellow,

if only momentarily. I understand this situation, power play,

Custer's angry answer to not getting his way, may prove

a danger to our communal happy plans, as social unrest

is raised. I wait, patiently, wrapped in my practiced calm,

for Custer to have his thorough say, provoke praise from

his enthralled audience. Once he departs our vicinity,

presumably to the Compound for what he would consider

appropriate sustenance, having no trust for local

establishments, I share my disbelief, correct disinformation

he has spewed, to rip the veil of heightened emotional 

tactics he employed to spread falsehoods, vilify my family.

I see they listen with agreement that this City stranger has

no idea who we are. I behoove them not to lose our festive

mood, not to allow this agitator to disrupt our Solstice

merriment.

Paul

It's less than a week until our big celebration. As I enjoy

my morning perambulation of our commons immersed

in gay preparations, I feel an unexpected pall, almost a

seething veil between what should be a warmly happy

occasion and something, dare I even think it, evil. I keep

hearing an ominous "Custer says" as I wander familiar

spaces along Garden paths. This Upper apparently means

to terrorize our family, out of some weird retribution for

not succumbing. He has stayed here, in the Barro, after

sending his wife and servants back to their home. Now

he hangs out where people tend to gather, drawing crowds

of listeners with his loud voice, imperious stance. I have

not been among them, having better, more productive

uses, for my attention. Still, every day I become more

aware of this disturbance rippling through our common

air. People already working through despair brought on

by loved ones' illness want more gratifying answers than

we have been able to give them. We tell them, truthfully,

Alee is doing her best to regain the ability they ask for,

but it will take time. We don't know how long. I have

experienced no overt hostility, but feel a pervasive

bitter edge in every conversation, as if below their

surface rationality. Despite the urging of seasonal joy,

they appear, subconsciously, ever closer to the

emergence of expressing a desire for restitution or

revenge. These are the people I have been greeting,

working with, serving, always. I have been ever aware

of their appreciation, their respect for me as Mayor.

Yet, these before me today are not behaving as those 

I have forever known. They exude a coldness, even in 

this warmth of Summer's closeness. I want, wait to hear

the joyful noise of holiday gaiety. I fear a very precious

solidarity, communal sanity has been driven toward

a breaking point. This is not the world I have grown

as part of. My people, those I have known for all

these years, I thought well, break my heart. I feel

an urgency of tears brim into my eyes, but decline to

allow them to fall. Instead I head for the Fire Pit to 

watch those who retain the celebratory spirit decorate,

in rhythm to the jamming musicians, taking a festive

break from rehearsing their repertoire for the big

occasion. I wait pensively, knowing Jamee will arrive

after his shift at the Factory, a fair walk to the South,

where he will be coming from. The late Spring weather,

once again halcyon. This season has been filled with

such glorious days, as if wanting to call us out of our

dark thinking. I stand here, alone, looking out at my

people at play, hoping this beauteous Spring a 

harbinger of good fortune, a Summer, a future, in 

which these stupid hostilities have been exchanged 

back to the community I envision.

Jay

Hey, hey, to the longest afternoon of this perplexing

year. Here am I, not soaking up the Solstice sunshine

before the big party, but cooking in the Diner for the

pre-festival crowd. As ever, on such special occasions,

the Diner overflows with hyped up customers who

enjoy this eating together with friends in public as 

entrance to the celebration. This increase in people

requiring meals means Gus must call in relief staff.

Greta and I both support Joseph for his today

elongated shift, extra hours to take us until early

closing to relocate to the Fire Pit. That way, Terry

won't need to come in for a short shift, gets to have

a special day of play. Joseph doesn't mind the extra pay,

nor do Greta and I, who normally would not be working

here these hours. When called to come in, I left Alee,

as usual for her lately, dance trancing on the Theater

stage. She is engrossed in this ritual she believes will

reply with the answer she seeks, the path to re-light

her gift.  She keeps saying she feels ever closer to her goal.

I'm not as sure of that reality, yet I do feel something like

greater energy emerging, as if from an undersea journey,

near to surfacing. Perhaps my desperate imagination, but

Jamee has quite recently said he feels it too. Maybe 

Summer's beneficence will fulfill our hopes, Solstice

wishes. Here and now, at work in the Diner, I feel uneasy.

The mood is not the cheerful, hale and breezy I expect

on this festive occasion. Instead, the waves of conversation

wafting through to my ears appear agitated, even hostile,

the words "Custer says" a repeated theme. This Custer is

the one who had imperiously threatened Alee, the whole

family, when she disappointed his demand. I heard he sent

his ailing wife back to the City, while himself remaining on

this side of the River. He has been raising crowds, curious

about who he is, why this stranger berates their neighbors,

loudly, in our most populated public spaces. Then there

are the malcontents, happy for an excuse to dissent, applaud

their own opinions as they assume Custer's sentiments

reflect them. Dumb asses interfering with our annual festive

community activities, elated mood. I try to ignore their

annoying folly, concentrate on my anticipated evening to

come. I look forward to partying with my people at the Pit.

Alee will be awaiting me there, as Paul and Jamee have arranged

to take her along with them. She seemed more cheerful, flashed

an impish smile when I left earlier. Perhaps this fortuitous

shortest night will be the one we pray for.

Alee

Lights dim, quiet except for the reverent melody I sing as I

dance, slowly, swiftly, intensely, as my body leads me. I try

to discover in trance where that power on switch, magic wick

candle can be found, revived. Isn't this the shortest span of

darkness for the year, a powerful reset between Sun and

Earth? A sacred day we celebrate, open our souls to all

natural blessings, enhanced by the work we add, 

adapting what we need with what we have. My people

feel a simple spirituality. We create rituals, ceremonies,

stories to aver our appreciation, pray our greatest wishes

be fulfilled. In this way, we become more in tune with who

we truly are, with the majestic Universe, Creator, Destroyer,

All That Exists. With a sparkling fondness, which doesn't

interrupt, rather ripples through my trance, I recall Solstice

parties past. Dancing, singing, around the brilliant Fire Pit,

sharing specially made delicacies, jugs of wine, pipes filled

with potent herb, as the ever morphing band radiates our

communal vibrations, players dropping in and out,

continuing the jam we, in concert, dance with. A treasured 

treat we all anticipate through the days between, because,

ultimately, we love the fun, camaraderie, joyful uplifting 

shared together that turn us from our everyday worries into

momentary ecstasy, what celebration is meant to be. I

anticipate this evening, feel a smile's happy glow, when

my friends and I will join in, become our part of the revelry,

free and easy community at one in exuberance. I let this

delight fill me, surround my twirling form, allow profound

peace. I need not be so intent on my mission that I forget

to take in these effulgent blessings of being alive, in touch

with what living means. Wrapped up in this reverie, I don't

know when the Theater's quiet shifted into loudness

from the entering of something like a dozen men of various

ages. Moving toward the stage, a mass of sound and fury,

I could barely make out what they were saying. Angry

epithets became more clear. What had so riled them was

less apparent, until that Upper, Custer, who had

previously tried to terrorize me and my family, made

his way to the stage to stand beside me. I stepped back,

stopped my dance, as I became aware of my less than

pleasant audience. Perhaps, in fact, they were here to be

entertained, but not by a Theater play of fantasy. They were

after an immersive experience of their own self-expressive

devising. Custer stood by, not looking at, me, scanning

his men to ascertain how to proceed with most impact.

He was not so much seething as emanating an outraged

confidence in his speech. His audience seemed quite

appreciative, punctuating his oration with screams of

assent, bitter sneers directed at me. I knew not what to do,

how I might appease them. I had done nothing to invite

such ire. They seemed to believe I was purposely

withholding what they quite obviously desired, deserved.

I knew I would not be able to penetrate their pre-decision

of what was their right, who was the villain. Still,

I courageously tried to explain I was on their side. I was

not denying them their boon out of willful meanness, or

other untoward motivation.  I am simply not at this time

able to comply. I don't know if they even heard me. What

I said made no difference to their menacing demeanor.

I felt an urgent desire to cry, to release my fear. I just stood

there, looking out on these, my people, though I realized,

I truly recognized maybe one or two of them, knew them

maybe not as well as I believed. The men who stood here, 

cursing, grumbling, were not among those who stood out 

in our community. These were just regular guys, now 

transformed, mesmerized, part of an entrained mob. 

They had been brought to this state by the urgings, 

exhortations of hate, infused into them by this Upper 

puppet master. I had never witnessed such a display, 

had no idea my people could act, their good sense nullified, 

this way. Custer at last took a breath from his haranguing

monologue, turned to face me. Spit falling from his mouth, 

along with his hyped up imprecations, he accused with force.

"She claims to have no energy to supply what we need from

her.  Yet, LOOK! Here she dances! Obviously, she is 

entertained by our tragedies. I had to send my dear,

grievously ill, Angeleen back to our home in the City

to be more comfortable, as much as she can be, knowing

her supreme hope for a cure destroyed." He points at me:

"Angeleen would be already healed, had you done as told.

All these people's loved ones could be well. You have no

right to so cruelly play with our grief. We have given you

every opportunity to relent, to be the healer we were

promised by your previous good deeds, before your 

abhorrent bait and switch." He momentarily turned his

head from me to face outwardly. Anger emblazoned voice, 

adding emphasis "Are we going to let her get away with 

such egregious heartlessness?" he blared, not so much 

question as command. I saw the mob of Barros listen, 

applaud. A dire tension extended throughout the room. 

Someone had turned up the Theater lighting. It was now 

as bright, though harsher, than outside.

The mob, as one, moved closer to the stage where Custer

and I stood, face to face. His shoulders began to shake. Out 

of nowhere, he struck me, hard. The mob cheered. He

 struck again, less unexpected. Deliberately, again and again, 

he struck, drawing blood across my face, amid wild applause 

from below. Some, and yes, very few, jumped up to grab the 

stage edge, pulled themselves up to confront me. 

Apparently, walking up the stairs, as Custer had, was not 

manly enough for their performance. I knew, had no doubt,

this confrontation would not end well. I knew it pointless

to yell for help. Everyone else was too far to hear, out

preparing for this evening's festivities. The Com, where

the Theater is located, was otherwise empty, with

everyone's focus on the far to the East Fire Pit. Jay would

still be at the Diner; Jamee, Bobby, Paul at the Bar, all too

far to hear voices, even screams, from the Theater. It

seems unlikely that anyone out there is aware of these

men's intentions, or, for those who know my habits,

that there is anyone here but me. My face hurts from

Custer's heavy hand. Now, these others stand within

easy reach, their faces contorted with rabid hate.

I feel weak, nauseous, plead with my brimming eyes,

my voice unable to comply with my desire to speak.

What could I say, anyway? They don't want to know

that I am a real human being, as they. They fall upon

me in concert, screaming so close to my ears, 

"Fake Healer!" "Bait and switch!" "What will it take

for you to relent!" they insist, folks I had believed my 

neighbors, eyes ablaze with hate. Still shrieking, they 

move closer, leading with closed fists, until I fall

to the floor. I know better than to try to rise, to offer

resistance that might greater inflame them. Yet,

despite my obvious helplessness, a couple kick me

where I lay, repeatedly, as I feel my consciousness

fade.

Jamee

What a glorious day for our big party at the Fire Pit!

Done with this morning's Factory shift, I wander a bit.

to enjoy the busy preparations, the Mart ablaze with

decorations, themed wares of vast varieties. The Sun

does its part, shining above, not a cloud to be seen.

Yet, not so much a pall, a maybe less than expected

merry atmosphere, I'm sure it will all clear, as our

celebrations move forward. Getting quite warm, here

in the Summer air, I stop in to the cooler Bar for a

mug of wine, maybe to flute into the ongoing jam,

hang with the guys, regulars and some who have

dropped by to imbibe to toast the holiday. Everyone

here seems to be properly enthused. I happily engage

in light conversation, while sipping my wine. There

will be plenty of intoxication tonight, no need to

overindulge this early. I see Terry, from the Diner,

arrive. He has no shift this evening, since Gus will

be closing early to relocate to the Fire Pit. Thus,

he has Joseph taking a few extra hours, allowing

Terry to slide. Apparently, Terry, out doing errands,

has stopped in for refreshment. I signal from my seat

to come join. As he orders his wine, I notice some

agitation coming from him. He turns to face me, 

smiling, but nervously, as he explains he's glad I'm

here. He has a queer incident to relate.

"I was at the Com, picking up some spare instruments

from one of the School's rehearsal rooms." I could see

he carried them in a sack, strapped across his

shoulder. He continues his anecdote: "As I left,

ambling back to the path to the Mart, I became aware

of a pack of surly men, most likely drunk, entering

the Theater. I don't know what they intended,

but I doubt it is good. Doesn't your sister hang out

there with her actor friends?"

A warning sign flashed in my mind. I feel foreboding,

a cloud enveloping my sunny sky. I immediately

jump up and run to the Theater, not knowing

what I might find. What I do find inside, is nothing

I could have ever expected. In the bright light I

witness over a dozen screaming men, brutally enraged

beyond reason. There would be no talking them down.

They surrounded the target of their ire, asserting their

desire to destroy her. Cheering them on from above,

the Upper, Custer, exercising his belief that wielding

power means inciting brutality. My sweet, loving sister,

one who would never willingly cause harm, had been

pulled from the stage where she had been innocently

dancing. It was a mob of like fifteen men, not a true 

contingent of we who live here, none I consider friends.

Over the years, I'm sure I've seen them here and there,

but never like this: insane with rage. Though fifteen or

so them surrounded to terrorize, only very few

actually beat upon her. But fifteen big, strong men,

even if it was only a few delivering blows, ganged up

against one smallish young woman, already weakened 

from what she has freely given, healing people in need.

I strive to move through the crowd, to get back to 

where she is lying, to help her. When I am able to

reach her, I try to avert my sight, find the denial of

disbelief. All I could hear, over the angry shrieks of

these people I had thought part of our community,

was the screaming within me:  Too Late Too Late Too

Late! Alee made no sound. A couple of those

surrounding her kept kicking, stomping her inert body.

Her skull broken, as well as rips throughout her skin,

oozing viscous blood. I understood, there had been no

beneficent spirit guiding us through a mysterious

journey to ultimate good. This is a Trickster, evil,

merry sprite. I fall to the floor, silently, cover my

sister's torn body with my own, trying to hug, kiss

her back to life. I barely notice, intent on Alee's missing

breath, as the men disperse, leave me alone.

Angeleen

 

What an amazing, glorious (is it Summer now?) day!

Sun streaming through my open window, I gaze out

to take in this perfection. My perfect sky view, birds

fly, sing arias, enchanting. Full consciousness shows

me this is no dream. First thing I notice next, no pain.

As I attempt to move out of bed, oh, my, marvelous!

No hesitation, no lassitude, fatigue; my body moves

smoothly. I am alive, lively, revived! Able again, at

last, to sing, dance, twirl like a ballerina, be me.

Overwhelmed by joy, the survival of my spirit through

such a strange ordeal. I feel not just elated, energized,

also triumphant. I know I was not responsible for my

illness, or its disappearance. To some extent, I guess,

I have been both abused and blessed -- a metaphor of

my story. While laid low, unable to express myself

to any but my active consciousness, I was far from

bitter, nor did I entertain anger against some evil

deity. Basically, I maintained equanimity, fine with

whatever I was given to adapt to. I was carefully

raised to fall back on that attitude. I was never meant

to be concerned about myself. All of me belongs

to him, my dear benefactor, Creator. I have no higher

god, or goal. While unable to fulfill what he desired

from me, he, as always, took my full focus, what little

I could give. Now, of course, I am supremely happy,

all my bright, brilliant shine revived. Gloriously

glad to resume my fairy tale, happy ever after life,

Custer provides, our beautiful folie a 'deux. I have

no idea what any of these changes mean, or if there

exists any available reason, explanation. I twirl about,

breathe deeply, my whole being a wide, wide smile.

I have never felt so overbrimming with pride, joy,

effervescence. I can't wait for Custer's face of pure

love and amazement when he returns from the

Barro, most likely tonight. I know he will be 

wonderfully overjoyed to see me so vibrant, alive. 

We will fuse our shared exhilaration, celebrate as 

never before. What more could either of us ask, but 

that the destiny Custer most elegantly mapped be 

restored.