Rick shook his head. “Okay. I’m guessing there’s no way to verify their existence?”
“No idea. One more thing, though. I got a sense that the active consciousness, the dancer, was trying to wake the sleeper. Poking on it, metaphysically speaking. It felt like some form of communication, repeated over and over. I think the dancer recognized me as an intelligence. When it latched onto me, it was gentle at first, like a silk bracelet. And it learned something from me. It started a litany of words, in threes. Something like‘Flows, flows, flows. Pools, pools, pools. Gone, gone, gone,’over and over. And then the woman said the words, but who was repeating them I don’t know.”
Rick had sat forward, his eyes focused on the distance, thinking. “Say again.”
I repeated the litany of concepts I had taken from the dancer.
“At what point in the reading did the grass try to grow inside you?” Rick asked. Pea leaped from the floor up into my lap, and I petted her. Which hurt.
I held up my hand and looked at the unbandaged stitches. “Is that what happened?” Trying to appear more nonchalant than the full-blown panic that grabbed at my rib cage and squeezed, I took another slice of pizza, curled it up in half, and bit down. I chewed and swallowed, breathing through my nose. Pizza suddenly tasted like dust and ashes and fear.
But roots hadn’t attacked me on my own land last night. It had only happened when I stayed in communication with the land too long, when I bled onto the land, and when I needed the land to heal me. So I might be changing, but the earth’s reactionto me was—possibly—predictable. A sense of relief washed through me like a stream down a mountain, and I eased out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.
“I am guessing that started happening when the energies grabbed my wrist and tugged me down. When did you notice that I was getting all grassy?” I asked T. Laine.
“About four hours into not being able to wake you up.” She referred to her notes. “At nine forty-two, I came over and tried to talk to you. You were propped on an elbow with one hand in your lap and the other on the ground. When you didn’t respond, I decided to give you an hour. At ten twenty, Tandy arrived to pick up the P 2.0. We exchanged info, made some calls, and he left. Then two more sheriff’s deputies showed for a face-to-face, to inform me that they had closed the road to the pond because the press had showed up, and that we might expect a low-flying drone from one of the local channels who had a permit.”
Ohgreat. I was on TV?
“At noon on the nose, I tried to pull you free for lunch. You didn’t wake up when I called your name, and so I...” She glanced at Rick. “I patted your face. Not forcefully enough to be called a slap.”
I let a small smile onto my lips, remembering the PsyLEDManual of Administrative Operations, some twenty pages that covered the rules for touching, though they didn’t call it that, given to me by the equivalent of PsyLED HR. Slapping, as well as other forms of forceful or intimidating physical contact, was grounds for disciplinary action.
“You squinted your eyes and frowned at me, so I thought you were okay. Your hand, the one on the ground, was a little gray looking. And you hadn’t moved. But you were breathing at fourteen breaths a minute, which is normalish. I called Rick to report in and he said to leave you as is, but that he’d send Occam as soon as he finished with the deer. I couldn’t leave you, so I sent one of the deputies to grab me some takeout from Number One Best Chinese, down the road.
“At two p.m. I saw the first roots. I called Occam directly and he showed up in twelve minutes, with a police escort running lights and sirens. Occam.” Her tone was strained, which made no sense, but I figured it would soon enough.
Occam wiped his hands on a napkin and sat back in the upholstered chair, lacing his fingers together across his stomach.He was long and lean, with runner’s musculature and the graceful movements of his cat. He spoke to Rick. “It’ll be in my report. Nell had roots, like crabgrass roots, growing into her hand.” With one finger he indicated the hand with the most stitches. “You were rooted to the ground. I couldn’t lift your hand from the dirt. You wouldn’t wake up, Nell.”
“So?”
“I patted your cheeks too.”
I remembered the sensation of pain. He had slapped me. I could understand that. I’d have slapped someone too.
T. Laine said, “At which point you fell over and landed with your forearm on the ground, your palm still flat.”
Occam said, “Roots busted up through the ground and latched onto your arm. I cut you free. I mighta nicked your flesh a little. You bled. And that seemed to bring more roots.”
“They went after you,” T. Laine said. “Occam cut you free, but he made a mess of your skin. You lost a good bit of blood.”
“Not enough to compromise your blood levels,” Occam said, “but enough for the paramedics to write up a report.”
“Against you?” I asked. He nodded and I said, “I specifically requested that I be cut free of any prolonged communing with any land. It’s in my exit interview with Spook School.”
Occam heaved a relieved breath and let it out. He might have gotten in trouble for saving me from the deeps. I had to say something more. “This needs to be entered into my personnel file. Any time I am connected to the land via plant life, I can be cut out at the OIC’s discretion. Or Occam’s discretion.”
“So noted,” Rick said, a faint smile on his face.
“Thank you, Nell,” Occam said. His blondish hair had come loose from the tail and strands swung forward in the indirect light, creating shadows and strong planes.
“Okay. Reports from the deer scene,” Rick said.
Occam sat forward and punched something on his tablet. A map appeared on the big screen. “At this GPS, just off twenty-five west, near Claxton, about here”—he pointed—“was where the truck driver came around the curve and hit the first deer. The impact sent him off the road to the left and into the second and third deer and then into a group of four. By then he had slowed enough that he injured but did not kill the four deer. He called nine-one-one. But because the uninjured deer were acting abnormal—walking around, staring, not running away—the first officer on thescene called us. Seems word about the geese had made it through unofficial channels to the officers on the streets. By the time I got there, the four injured deer had been euthanized.
“At nine forty-seven, I sent Tandy to get the P 2.0 from Nell. According to records, he arrived on-site with the P 2.0 at ten fifty-five. By eleven fifteen, we had ascertained that we had a paranormal event, with redlining on all four psysitope levels. We needed to get the road clear for traffic, so I took readings in a circular route and found that the earth around the deer wasn’t contaminated, only the deer and their trail through the brush. Tandy and I turned the site over to Rick and dressed out in field gear. We hiked through the area, following the readings. We ended up here”—he pointed to the screen—“on twenty-five west. At that point, we were called in to help Nell. We sent up GPS coordinates so we’d know where to start again, and headed out.”
“Which is about...” Rick drew out the last word, his fingers working across his own personal tablet, “four miles from the site where Nell was.” He shook his head, looking tired again. “Too big an area for a witch working. That would make any witch circle so extensive they would have needed hundreds of witches, and we would have noted that, especially here in Knoxville. Or a gathering of the most powerful witch families in the US, which PsyLED would have heard about. So that leaves...” His voice trailed off, and he frowned.
