The adjustment Earth will make to accommodate her new polar magnetic alignment, resulting in a higher vibrational resonance predicted to affect even the most basic structures of matter.

 

 

A process of evolutionary change in human consciousness; a soul-induced choice, in concurrence with the planet's process of cellular change.

The time of The Shift had begun. It was obvious to Ginger that the turmoil Earth was experiencing came from more than a few small wrinkles in its magnetic alignment. The droughts, floods, earthquakes and famines were unfolding according to a long predicted pattern.

 

She knew that the current chaos of the planet mirrored more than minor symptoms of human discontent. The violence, wars and cultural prejudice that pervaded the planet came from a deeper kind of alienation than that of one race pitted against another. The forces now pushing, pulling and disorienting the basic fabric of life on Earth were cosmic in scope.

 

It really annoyed Ginger that she couldn’t ignore this basic observation. Everyone else seemed capable of overlooking it. Frustrated and perplexed, she sought escape in the only place she knew she could find it. She went into the astral plane.

 

Somewhere around adolescence, Ginger had decided on the astral world as her dimension of choice. She loved the freedom of this world, the ease of its intensity. She loved being able to harmonize into the vibrant hymn of a lilac’s scent; to visualize a destiny and instantly manifest into it; to be able to step through doors that were closed to others. It thrilled her to recognize aerial avenues that were shrouded from earthly sight but visible to astral travelers. The astral world was Ginger’s home. She had adopted it the way some people did a town. Because she loved this between-place, now more than ever she needed to protect it.

 

Lifting herself to glide through dimensions, Ginger lighted between the physical world, where molecules form in solid-like masses, and the vibrational world, where electrons flirt with form but never settle down to marriage.

 

Maybe she love it because the astral dimension felt so much more real to Ginger than the tangible Earth dimension did. She tried hard to fit into "the real world," but rarely succeeded. Maybe, she thought it was because the astral plane felt more welcoming than the many other dimensions she traveled in search of inspiration, intuition or an invisible Spirit Guide that would lead her successfully through the "Chalice Quest" her mother, Ilssa, had bequeathed her.

 

Ilssa had liked to refer to Ginger’s life mission as a "Chalice Quest," explaining that this was a wonderful symbol of the illusive, all-important, missing element that humans were compelled to searched for, but rarely found.

 

Ginger didn’t like the odds. It seemed like a long shot to her, but she had promised Ilssa that she would do her best to fulfill her mission.

 

In an effort to help Ginger understand her task, Ilssa often read her young daughter tales of King Arthur and his adventures. Because she knew she was meant to, Ginger strove to find connections between her life and Arthur’s. She usually couldn’t.

 

"Listen," Ilssa would always say. "Listen carefully and they will tell you what you need to know."

 

Ginger did listen. She listened to the voices that whispered in her ears, the ones that shouted in her head and most especially to the voice within her heart. That voice told her that whatever the missing element was, whether it was in the form of a chalice or not, it currently could be found in the astral plane.

 

Cursing the injustice of her life, while thinking that it was too bad that she always kept her promises—to her mother and to herself—Ginger thought about her broken plans. It took effort to resist the urge to just ‘drop down’ and spy on the man she was supposed to have had a date with tonight. She didn’t date often. Her life-style didn’t allow it. Still, it might have been fun.

 

Forcing herself to move beyond the foolish temptation to socialize, Ginger had to admit that she rarely enjoyed herself as much as she anticipated she might. Best to leave the socializing to the sociable, she thought. She would take the peace of the astral plane any day.

 

Anyway, right now she had work to do; a promise to keep; a mission to accomplish. And she had to find Mac.

 

* * *

 

Mac was becoming a problem. Ginger and Mac had been astral friends for almost a year. He visited her when he astral traveled, and she visited him. They had never met physically, though they had a very strong vibrational connection. Mac said that they hummed at the same frequency, and that they "coupled" well. That thought, and the energy of it, intrigued Ginger. She wasn’t sure whether the person she saw when they "dropped in" on each other was the "real" Mac, or a likeness her unconscious had cooked up. Things had a way of becoming the perceiver’s creation in the astral world. Ginger really liked the astral Mac. Mac and she were sometimes tempted to meet each other—physically—but neither wanted to spoil the mystery, so they decided against it. Ginger had an additional reason for not wanting to meet Mac. She was pretty sure that he had another reason for not wanting to meet her, as well.

 

 * * *

 

 

Mac’s energy rippled. He stopped a moment. Yeah. It definitely felt like Ginger. He had almost given up on ever finding her again. Or anyone else for that matter.

 

"Ginger," he called with all the force his will could find. "Ginger!" He swam, first in one direction and then another, until frustration filled him to the point of rage. When he stopped, Ginger was gone.

 

Mac had been swimming in this space for so long that he’d forgotten why he was here. The space around him was a deep blue-green. Occasionally small animals or fish went by, but none of them seemed able to communicate. The only other person he’d seen had been an old guy in a diving suit. Was that on the first day of his incarceration? He’d come to think of his time in this place as his sentence. He was trapped, imprisoned by something. Spending the better part of his days—and probably nights too—moving, trying always to escape, hoping he was heading in the direction of the surface. He’d begun to lose hope.

 

Mac tried to go with gravity and swim toward lighter space. In truth, he wasn’t sure that one space felt any lighter than another did. Come to think of it, he didn’t remember there even being a surface. He knew that something was messing with his mind, but he couldn’t stop trying. It just wasn’t in his nature.

 

Trying not to think about what that old diver had told him did no good. He kept hearing it over and over in his mind.

 

"Be careful how long you stay in these parts," the man had said. "This is one of those atmospheric fluctuation holes, or as we old-timer’s like to call them, disorientation pits. It’s real easy to get lost in here. And, if you do, no one will ever find you. You can be sure of that."

 

"Thanks, but I’m not staying long," Mac had said. "I’ll be out as soon as I find..."

 

Find what? He couldn’t remember. He knew it had to be something important. He knew he wasn’t the kind of guy who’d go recklessly diving into disorientation pits. He searched his brain until it hurt, trying to remember anything that could have something to do with why he was there.

 

The only thing he could remember was Ginger. He had felt her presence, not physically, but mentally, on and off in the beginning. It seemed as though she was near, maybe even in the pit, but he’d never been able to actually find her. Since Ginger was the only person Mac could remember, other than the old diver—who, he thought disgustedly, was just as likely to have been a figment of his imagination as not—Mac tried to think of Ginger often.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Ginger let herself wonder at the serendipity of her life. Lately, with the help of Dr. Jones, she had come to understand that she had some kind of a split personality. Not being the type of girl who usually went in for shrinks; Ginger was impressed when she actually felt comfortable with Dr. Jones. She didn’t think that it was because they shared the same last name. Jones was an incredibly common name and, given her birth circumstances, she was fairly sure that Ilssa had just picked the name out of a directory. Probably because there were so many of them and one more would hardly be notice, Ginger thought.

 

Smiling to herself, Ginger remembered her first meeting with Dr. Jones. Ginger’s friend, Joan, had dragged Ginger to a book signing party. "There’ll be a lot of cute guys," Joan had promised. "And they’ll all be able to read."

 

The party turned out to be in honor of Dr. Jones’ book, Following the Path of Ancestral Imagery.

 

Ginger had liked the woman immediately. Dr. Jones looked smart, spoke sassily and had eyes that looked deeply into yours when she spoke to you. The doctor’s eyes, Ginger noted, were almost as green as her own were. Ginger didn’t meet many people with emerald green eyes.

 

"Do you really believe imagining our ancestors can cure someone of phobias or neurosis?" Ginger asked Dr. Jones skeptically.

 

"Along with a program of proper diagnosis, counseling and sometimes medication, I do," Dr. Jones answered. "I think it would be especially good for you, Ginger, since you have very powerful ancestors."

 

Ginger blinked. "I think you’ve confused me with another guest," she said. "I don’t think you know any of my ancestors."

 

Dr. Jones handed Ginger her card. "I don’t have to know them personally to know that they are powerful. Call me."

 

Ginger laughed inwardly, thinking about their first session and how Dr. Jones had told her that she was crazy in such a subtle and agreeable way. "You do have a split in your personality. But don’t worry, it’s no more than most people have," Dr. Jones had assured her. "I think that with the proper imagery we can build a bridge between those shores."

 

  

Ginger dragged her thoughts back into the astral plane. She snorted a breath of disbelief. "Yeah, right," she whispered, as though someone might actually hear her in the plane. She hadn’t bothered to burden Dr. Jones with the reality that she was, in fact, quite different from "most people." The doctor seemed sincere enough and judging by the books on her shelves, she was heavily into the paranormal, but Ginger didn’t think the well-meaning doctor was quite ready for the truth of exactly how deep her split really was.

 

Letting go of that train of thought, with some effort, Ginger brought herself into the moment and concentrated on the task in front of her. She took a mental breath and settled herself into the balm of the astral dimension. Then she powered-up her senses.

 

"Mac?" She called loudly into a void that seemed calmer than usual. "Mac? Where are you?" She had been to the plane several times in the two days since Mac had missed his meeting with her. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what it was, but she did not like the feel of it. Not at all. He wouldn’t purposely miss a meeting with her. She knew that. Ginger sighed. Once again, it looked like, if something was going to be done, it was up to her.

 

"Mac?" She called again. "Mac? Jeez, Mac, where are you?"

 

It didn’t make sense, she thought. How could anyone with energetic vibrations as strong as Mac’s get lost in the astral plane? She should be able to find him easily. She always had before. But things had been different before.

 

 

In her early astral travels, Ginger quickly learned that some pure humans frequented the astral plane, as did other spirits. She found the humans she met there to be more on her wavelength, literally. That term had amused her. As time went by, she made all of her best friends while traveling the astral plane.

 

Getting to know the others and watching them fumble with silly barriers made Ginger aware that she had more control over her travels than most humans did. Meaning that they occasionally needed her help. That is why, when it came time to choose a career, Ginger became the Earth’s first—to her knowledge—Astral Detective.

 

It was a fluke at first. Ginger had come across an ad in the classified. Someone was seeking help for a relative who had gone "mind flying" and hadn’t come back. Feeling sorry for the person, Ginger had called to say she could probably help.

 

In time, everyone from wanna-be-psychics to the CIA had come to employ her services—services she tried very hard to keep discreet for fear they might interfere with her unending Chalice Quest. There, again, was that promise to Ilssa. Ginger fully intended to do her best to fulfill her life mission, whatever the heck it was.

 

In truth, it wasn’t that Ginger minded having a life’s mission given to her. Many people walked around without any idea at all why they were on Earth or what they should do with their time. She at least had a purpose. She just wished it wasn’t so vague. Or so important to Ilssa.

 

Focusing her mind until it felt like a laser-bright beam, Ginger sent her call again, "Mac! Answer me!"

 

Suddenly she knew she wasn’t alone. First she sensed the chill. Then there came a tremor. She felt the sands of space shift. Deftly, a source of energy entered into her world that made Ginger shiver. Cold, hard anger penetrated her consciousness like a blade of steel slicing through her awareness.

 

A veil of darkness draped heavily down on her.

 

"Go home," a rough and raspy voice spoke into her mind. "You cannot help them now. No one can."

 

Ginger braced herself to fend off the voice. It had a will and a tenacity she wasn’t used to in human beings. The darkness receded and the animus behind the voice retreated.

 

Why had it said that? Ginger felt sure that the voice had read her mind, had known what her reaction would be. Had it wanted to make her determined to stay? Or was she just imagining it?

 

"Mac!" Ginger called frantically into the void. "Mac, why won’t you answer me?" Panic pricked painfully at the corners of her mind. "Oh, my God," she said to the aural void, "has he got you, too?"

 

 * * *

 

Descending slowly back to her physical body, it took Ginger a few moments to settle into the new frequency. Molecules could be so cumbersome, she thought. Her mind swept back to her memories of Mac. She lay in her bed, fantasizing an encounter with a man she hoped never to meet. Picturing him tall with wavy black hair and eyes as sky blue as a laramar stone, Ginger let her mind wrap his muscled arms around her own slight but well-toned body. She pictured her auburn hair falling softly in curls as she swirled her neck, teasing him with the gesture. The whole time she would be greedily absorbing his physique with her own emerald eyes.

 

Ginger shook her head, regretting that her mind could create a relationship so much more enticing than the ones she normally had to settle for.

 

Visiting Mac was one of the few luxuries Ginger allowed herself. When she wasn’t trying to uncover the details of her mission, she was planning their next meeting. Their exchanges piqued her. And lately, she needed a lot of piquing.

 

Recently, however, their meetings had become disturbing. She replayed their last conversation over in her mind.

 

"Ginger is that you?" Mac had asked.

 

"Mac?" Ginger had been thrilled to hear his voice. "What a great coincidence that you’re here," she said. "I really wanted to talk to you."

 

"There are no coincidences," Mac said. "I thought you knew that, Ginger."

 

"You sound like my mother. If it’s true there are no coincidences, then someone has done a very bad job of planning my life," Ginger said.

 

"Who, though? Who does the planning?" Mac asked. "Us or someone else?"

 

"We do," Ginger said, "I can believe in happenstance, but I won’t accept that someone else is calling my shots."

 

"I used to think that, too. Until this happened."

 

"Until what happened?" she asked.

 

There was a long hesitation, and Ginger began to think he might have gone when Mac said, "I don’t want to frighten you, but I’m lost."

 

"Lost? What do you mean lost?" Ginger asked. Although many of her clients were people who could not find their way out of the astral plane, Ginger still had trouble with the concept of misplacing one’s own awareness. And she definitely didn’t think Mac capable of it.

 

"I mean, everywhere I look, it looks the same. And I keep going around in circles," Mac said. "It’s damn annoying."

 

Ginger could sense the irritation in his thoughts. "You can’t be lost since I still believe we are doing the planning, or lack of it as the case may be. Certainly you can’t be lost in the world we’re in now," she said.

 

"Ginger, this is not something my psyche dreamed up. There is an outside influence at work here. I’m sure of it," Mac said.

 

"Really, Mac. Who or what could be influencing you in this world? And why can’t I see you?" Ginger asked. She had looked everywhere for him, but all she had been able to locate was his voice.

 

"Do you have any idea where am I?" Mac asked.

 

"No. Why don’t you describe what you see, exactly?" Ginger asked.

 

"All right. The atmosphere is filtered in a kind of blur, like being under water. And it’s more buoyant than the ground we’re used to. Assuming, of course, that we’re both used to the same ground," Mac said.

 

"I think we can safely assume that. You are from Earth, aren’t you?

 

"Yes, I’m from Earth," Mac said. "And I spend most of my time on the ground. Would you like my blood type as well?"

 

"I’d settle for the color. I mean of the atmosphere," Ginger said.

 

"Blue, but with dark spots. It’s like I’m in a really large well with..."

 

"Mac…Mac? Mac!" Ginger tried to reconnect the telepathic link she and Mac had formed. But it was lost. They’d been cut off. And she had no idea how or why.

 

For days that conversation had swirled around and around in Ginger’s mind. Where could he possibly be? Why didn’t he just think himself out of there? If he could communicate with her, he should be able to find his way back to his body. Ginger had spent a lot of time on the astral plane. She had never encountered the kind of place Mac had described. Still, that wasn’t so unusual. Everybody seemed to have different experiences while "traveling." What bothered her was that he’d felt stuck, and that she couldn’t find him. She might be able to help him if she knew where his body was, which circled her back to the reality of their relationship.

 

Why didn’t Mac want to meet her? Was he ugly? Was he married? Ginger didn’t like to think about it. She didn’t like to think about her reason, either. How could she explain to anyone that Ilssa, her mother, had left her with a mission to help fulfill a prophetic legend of a civilization no one on Earth seemed to know about? Ginger had lived her entire life with the burden of that puzzle, not knowing how to solve it. The Merlites were her mother’s people. They came to Earth to learn, to help the humans and to fulfill The Prophecy. That was all Ginger had to hold onto. She didn’t even know where The Prophecy came from, just that it had been emblazoned into her memory from birth. Ilssa never stopped reminding Ginger of her duty.

 

Then, there were the voices. As a child Ginger had learned to listen to them for guidance. Now, however, one of the voices—a new one—was becoming threatening. Ginger wished again for Ilssa. She often felt like a foreigner in her own world. And she didn’t know what to do. Dr. Jones had her wondering if the voice wasn’t her own. Something deep inside of Ginger revolted at that thought. What she did know for sure was that she now wished Mac and she had met. Cursing herself for not having learned his last name, or where he lived, a shiver ran through her.

 

Ginger pulled the covers up to her neck, trying to fend off a chill that really wasn’t centered in her body. She concentrated on the problem of what to do next.

 

More potential customers had called in the last couple days than in the entire three years she’d been practicing her special line of detective work. Ginger had already been to visit several new clients, with disappointing results. Tomorrow she would see another. A woman named Lynda Jones was missing. She would go, but a feeling in her gut told Ginger that whatever was wrong went far beyond her normal services.

 

 * * *

 

Ginger knocked on the door of the Jones estate. It was a large, old mansion, built with quarry stones that had been mined back when asymmetrical shapes were still thought to be esthetic. The ornate wooden door opened slowly.

 

"Miss Jones, I presume?" the butler asked. He let her in without waiting for a reply. Ginger thought that was odd. "Mrs. Jones will be right with you."

 

Definitely time to change my last name, Ginger thought. The preponderance of Jones’s is becoming stifling.

 

A woman in a perfectly tailored suit, sporting hair that was dark and a little too coifed for Ginger’s taste walked toward her.

 

"Mrs. Jones? Hi, I’m Ginger Jones." Shaking Mrs. Jones’s hand, Ginger looked into the woman’s eyes, and made a mental note non-believer.

 

"You look like a normal girl to me," Mrs. Jones said, eyeing Ginger head to foot.

 

"Thank you." Ginger smiled. "So do you."

 

Mrs. Jones’ eyes widened. Her brows raised. "Yes, well. Come in. Can I offer you something to drink?"

 

"No, thank you. I won’t be needing it where I’m going," Ginger said.

 

Mrs. Jones pursed her lips so tightly that the color ran right out of them. "I suppose not."

 

"Where is Lynda’s body?" Ginger asked.

 

"This way." Mrs. Jones walked with a decidedly rigid gate. Her back was as straight as a flagpole. Ginger followed her down a long hallway, lined with portraits. The frames were heavy and gold. Ginger couldn’t help noticing that many of the people in the paintings sat extremely erect. Interspersed with those were other portraits of people who appeared equally confident, but much less restrained. "The father’s side," Ginger thought. She counted the doorways as they continued down the hall: six, seven eight. Mrs. Jones opened a door on the right and walked through it.

 

"This is our Lynda," She said.

 

Looking down at the prone body on the bed, Ginger’s heart sped in her chest and she felt a perceptible increase in blood pressure. There was an I.V. feeding into the woman who lay doll-still on the mattress. Pulling a long, deep gulp of air into her body and mentally pushing it back out through her feet, Ginger tried to anchor herself into the floor. The queasiness she felt wasn’t due only to the stark austerity of the woman lying in front of her. It was due mostly to the fact that the woman, Lynda Jones, was Dr. L. Jones. Her Dr. Jones.

 

At least Mrs. Jones isn’t taking any chances with her health, Ginger thought. Good. Lynda, Dr. Jones, was a pretty woman, in her early thirties with dark brown hair, worn stylishly short. Ginger bent over Lynda and opened an eye. Green and blank, just as she knew it would be. "Good muscle tone," Ginger said, feeling Lynda’s biceps. She listened to her breathing. Normal.

 

"You say she is in good health?" Ginger asked.

 

"Yes. Well, I mean she was...."

 

Ginger decided immediately not to tell Mrs. Jones that she had a professional relationship with her daughter. If the woman thought that Ginger was a nut to begin with, she would surely dismiss her after finding out that Ginger was her psychiatrist daughter’s patient.

 

"I know this is hard for you, Mrs. Jones. It’s always hard to experience things we don’t understand. But Lynda isn’t dead. She’s traveling. She may be lost, or she may be choosing to stay away. The best I can do is to find her and ask her if she’d like to come home. Is that what you’d like me to do?"

 

Mrs. Jones looked mortified. She opened and closed her mouth several times before settling on saying, "Yes, it is."

 

"You read the contract I faxed and understand the terms?" Ginger asked.

 

"Yes, I did and I do."

 

"Is there any special message you want me to pass along when I find her?" Ginger asked.

 

"Message? Why, to hurry home, of course." Mrs. Jones looked at Ginger as if she were from another planet. Ginger was used to the look.

 

"I’ll need a comfortable place for my body while I look for her," Ginger said. "You can contact me if you absolutely have to, but I prefer not to be interrupted while I’m searching. It takes a great deal of energy and concentration for me to both travel and communicate with you."

 

"I understand," Mrs. Jones said. Ginger was sure that she didn’t. "You can use the rocking chair in the corner, or I can have a cot brought in."

 

"I’ll take the cot, thanks." Ginger would normally have used the rocker. Since she’d had no luck in finding her last two clients, however, she thought she’d better plan on a long journey. Lying prone had the added benefit of deterring interruptions, maybe.

 

While Mrs. Jones was gone to arrange for the cot, Ginger sat in the rocker and opened her note pad. She figured she might as well use the time to go over Lynda’s history. She began to read the biographical information Mrs. Jones had completed for her.

 

 

Born to Mr. and Mrs. Henry John Jones. The only child. Scholastic achievement: high, honors, etc. Some experimentation with drugs in teens and early twenties. Penchant for candles and incense, jazz music and health foods. Dated regularly, "mostly undesirable men." Father died two years ago. Lynda has been interested in the paranormal ever since.

 

Odd that she didn’t mention that the woman was a Dr. of Psychiatry. If she had, maybe Ginger would have put the pieces of Lynda’s identity together sooner. Well, it’s not much to go on, but it’s a start, Ginger thought. She looked at Lynda again, trying to memorize her shape as well as her features. It would help that Ginger already had a relationship with the doctor. Ginger would hold the impressions she gathered of Lynda in her mind during her travels, leaving a little room for vagueness. Images sometimes did not translate completely in the astral world. Ginger closed her eyes and tried to get a sense of Lynda’s energy. Lynda’s vibration pattern seemed weak. Letting herself go, Ginger reached a little deeper into Lynda’s energy, until she was sure she could carry the memory with her.

 

 

"I hope this will be suitable," Mrs. Jones said. She was leading two servants into the room. The "cot" was actually a twin bed. A third person came behind, carrying a brass headboard and a screwdriver. Ginger figured there was no point in telling Mrs. Jones that it wasn’t necessary. She was sure that Mrs. Jones was going to be checking on her progress, and would not be able to bear looking at a person lying in a headless bed. Very uncivilized.

 

The butler brought in a set of crisp, cotton sheets and quickly unfolded them onto the bed. Ginger watched as his deft hands tucked the corners around the mattress, expertly pulling the linen taut. A perfect military bed. He was tall and very well built for a butler. Ginger couldn’t help wondering what else those hands were good at. Concentrate, she thought, as he placed a quilt at the foot and a soft pillow at the head of the bed.

 

"Will that be all, Madame?" he asked.

 

"Yes, George, that will be fine for now."

 

George turned to leave, but not without catching Ginger’s eyes and looking into them for the briefest second. Not a very butler-like thing to do, Ginger thought.

 

"If there’s anything you need, just press this button," Mrs. Jones said. The intercom was set on a large ornate plate, carved into the side of Lynda’s bed.

 

"I should be fine," she said. "I’d appreciate it if everyone knew that I do not like to be touched while I am traveling."

 

"Of course," said Mrs. Jones. "We are very selective in our help. You can be sure that their manners are impeccable. No one would even think of doing such a thing. Most of the staff has been with us for years. George is the only new addition. And he came with excellent references. As I said, we are very selective."

 

"That’s comforting," Ginger said, not really feeling comforted. The little danger meter in her gut was still reading high and she didn’t know why.

 

"Well, I guess I’ll get started. Will you be staying?"

 

"If you don’t mind, I would like to watch. I’ve never paid for such a service before. I’m infinitely curious to see exactly what it is you do."

 

"Of course you are," Ginger said, although she was surprised at Mrs. Jones’s choice.

 

Ginger lay on the "cot" and closed her eyes. She was going to find it hard to relax with Mrs. Jones there. She spoke mentally to her body, telling it to let go and began her breathing routine.

 

Taking a slow, deep breath in, filling the belly with air. Holding. Letting it out, contracting the belly. Again, breathe in. Hold. Let it out. It took several rounds for her to relax. When she felt calmer, Ginger switched to alternate nostril breathing and continued until she felt her body and mind were balanced. Then, she began the cyclical in and out, in and out, without holding. Soon, her inner dialogue was quiet, and her consciousness was lifting. The ethereal essence of her being coalesced and readied for travel. She pictured a door opening, and felt the sensation of separation. It reminded her of the feeling she had as a child slipping into the stream that flowed from the hot springs near her home, so simple and slick, lacking the heavy resistance of matter against gravity.

 

Within seconds, she could sense the ceiling and, looking down, could see her body lying on the bed. She prayed to Archangel Michael, asking him to watch over her physical form, stole one last look at Lynda, then turned her attention to the beyond.

 

Rising through the ceiling, through the upper floor, through the roof, and out into the clouds, she searched the sky carefully for some trail of ethereal matter. Mrs. Jones had waited too long to contact her. Ginger had told her that in the phone interview. Still, sometimes traces lingered. Many people liked to remain attached to their body by way of a silver cord, and—if it weren’t stretched too thinly—Ginger would be able to see that and follow it. Ginger scanned her surroundings. Naturally, she wasn’t going to be that lucky this time.

 

Unable to catch a glimpse of anything but sunshine and shadows, she decided to go up. Lynda might be anywhere, but Ginger knew that most people like the sensation of weightless flight they get when traveling astrally. They liked to augment that with matching visual scenery. Shifting her perspective until she saw above the clouds where a brilliant golden cast flooded her vision, she took a moment to adjust. Ginger wouldn’t have minded lingering a while. There was a caressing tenderness to the atmosphere here. It had been quite a while since she had felt herself be caressed in the physical plane and she longed to stay here and absorb the sensation.

 

Sternly, Ginger reminded herself that she was working. She knew from experience that it was important to remain focused while on a job. Narrowing her mental focus, Ginger searched the space around her. There was still no trail of Lynda, so she widened her focus and thought herself big. Her astral body expanded along with her thoughts until she became as big as a house, then a lake. Within seconds, she was hovering beyond the Earth’s atmosphere. Ginger smiled. She liked seeing Earth from the perspective of an astral giant.

 

In proportion to Ginger’s new stature, Earth was now the size of a beach ball. Circling it carefully, like a sculptor pivoting around her artwork, she closed her eyes and tried to recapture the impression she had memorized when she was with Dr. Lynda Jones. As she neared the Northern United States, not so far from where she’d started, Ginger felt a tingle of familiarity. Contracting her astral body, she rejoined Earth’s atmosphere there.

 

"Lynda," Ginger called out. "Are you here?"

 

"Please help me," Ginger heard a voice say. She could tell it was Lynda by the vibrations it sent. Ginger’s heart lurched at the depth of desperation in the plea. "Please help me." The voice stung like a child’s cry in her mind.

 

"Ginger, Ginger, Ginger," another voice was calling her. Oh damn, not now, she thought. She tried to turn her concentration back to Lynda, but the connection was cut.

 

"Who is there? Mrs. Jones?" Ginger asked into the void.

 

"Ginger, there’s something you should know. Ginger? Can you hear me?"

 

God this woman had bad timing. Ginger never should have told Mrs. Jones she would be able to hear her while she was traveling. She usually didn’t share that fact with clients. It was just that Mrs. Jones had seemed so in need of reassurance. Despite her rigid exterior, Ginger could sense Mrs. Jones’ vulnerability. The ability to perceive—hearing people’s thoughts, feeling their emotions—was another of Ginger’s gifts, one she often wished she didn’t have. It was hard to be privy to so much pain.

 

"Yes, I can hear you," Ginger said. "Is this going to affect my search for Lynda?"

 

"Most definitely, I would say. I think you should return."

 

* * *

 

The Dirge operator sat in a room without windows to the outside world, in front of a life-size monitor that served as a virtual reality panorama. He pushed the button that would project the "Cage of Fire" image around Ginger and looked up to watch his captive squirm.

 

"Ahhh, nuts! We’ve lost her!"

 

"You’ve lost whom?" asked Syntril.

 

"That astral detective." The operator’s voice shrunk to an apologetic whine. The others in the room took a step back and said nothing.

 

"What do you mean, you’ve lost her?" The corners of Syntril’s mouth curved ever so slightly at the sides, which on any other person might have been an attempt to mask anger. On Syntril it emphasized it. Pacing back and forth as he spoke, Syntril wore a long black cloak that flapped behind him with each turn. Everyone mocked his attire, but never to his face. The cloak, and the fact that Syntril always referred to himself as "we," made them all wonder what kind of a man they had contracted with. Was he just a nut with multiple personalities or did he have some kind of communication device hidden under that cloak that connected him to a network of dangerous screwballs. One thing was for sure. Syntril had enough money to act like as many people as he wanted to.

 

"We’re waiting," Syntril said, with no visible patience. "What do you mean, you’ve lost her?"

 

"I mean, one minute she was here, I threw the "Cage of Fire" toward her, and then she just disappeared," the operator looked pitifully confused.

 

Syntril’s sneer grew. "Look around you, miserable man. What do you see? Never mind. We’ll tell you what you see. You see millions of dollars worth of sensors whose detection abilities are flawless. You see millions more dollars worth of projection apparatus, the technology of which is not on any drawing board within light-years of your universe."

 

Syntril paused and the room began to vibrate. They shouldn’t have said that. Perhaps no one had noticed. Certainly no one would question them. But still, they would have to be more careful.

 

"We need the girl contained," Syntril continued, "and with all of this at your disposal," Syntril waved long arms around the room, "you’ve lost her? You’re an idiot!" Syntril raged, slamming both hands down on the table with such force that the loud crack made everyone in the room jolt. Syntril stepped back. "Well. At least we hadn’t sent the message yet."

 

"Um, Syntril?" The operator was looking at the floor. He could not face the blackness of Syntril’s eyes boring into him.

 

"What?" The sneer grew in intensity without getting larger.

 

There was no color left in the operator’s body, none in his hands, none in his face and only a whisper of volume left in his voice. "Unfortunately that’s not quite true. The message was sent," he confessed.

 

"Sent? Sent? How is that possible? We haven’t given the order."

 

The operator looked up. The blackness in Syntril’s eyes seemed to deepen by the second, like immobile black holes, they sucked him in. Those eyes made his veins turn to ice, those, and the way Syntril always used the plural pronoun when speaking about himself completely creeped him out. His spirit all but disappeared. He never should have signed on for this job.

 

"How are we to be taken seriously as terrorists when we make such amateur maneuvers?" Syntril stepped directly into the operator’s breathing space.

 

"I thought I had her. I mean, she left her body. We were tracking her. She was right here. I had her within my sights. The plan was to send the message when we had her. How was I supposed to know that she would disappear?"

 

"Stop rambling and let us think, man," Syntril snapped. Turning those dark eyes once more on the operator, Syntril sent him a glare. The operator gasped and fell onto the floor. What little life was left seeped and drizzled out of him.

 

Syntril turned to look at the screen on the wall as though nothing had happened.

 

"We have enough prisoners to get their attention. We’ll leave the detective for now. But we will have to keep close surveillance on her. She could jeopardize our entire plan. Nothing must go wrong. Nothing. This is more important than you know. Do you hear us?" Syntril turned his gaze to the others.

 

"Yes, Sir," they all said at once.

 

"But, of course, nothing will go wrong," Syntril said. "It’s a perfect plan." An evil laugh rang through the halls of Dirge headquarters.

 

* * *

 

Lynda tried to stay alert to what was happening around her. Her eyes made a continuous circle of her environment, like a paranoid driver checking her mirrors, sure that a car was going to come out of nowhere at any moment and crash into her space.

 

The place she was in was dark and moist. It was rounded like a hollowed cave, except that the walls did not appear to be stationary. They moved ever so slightly in and out, in a rhythmic motion, usually. Sometimes—without warning—the movement became sporadic. It was as though she was inside a breathing person who suddenly became active or agitated. Lynda tried to concentrate, to see if she could determine a pattern of larger movements before the change.

 

"Analyze it," she told herself. "Just like you’ve been trained to do." At first she thought that she was making the changes. Something in her mind was triggering her delusion to shift.

 

"It’s like a clinical study," she said. "I just have to control my emotions." But the change always happened without warning, and it tore a little more of her self-control each time. Whatever was shifting the rhythm of the walls, she was now sure that it couldn’t be her.

 

Lynda wished for light. The tiny tube of an opening in the top of the cave let in only a candle’s worth of brightness. She had come to think of this as the throat. She wished for sound. The walls might have been tolerable without the deafening silence. And the shadows.

 

Lynda had no idea how long she’d been in the "isolation belly." She had tried to think of a more pleasant name for the place, but could not. Being acutely aware that a person could go crazy in a place like this, she made a point of periodically talking to herself, singing songs she remembered—and praying, but not addressing her prayers to any god in particular. She’d long ago lost contact with the feeling of unquestioning belief she’d had as a child. In her line of work, she pondered this often. It bothered her now and then.

 

"Still," she said aloud. "There must be someone out there who can help me. Aunt Mary Catherine, Aunt Lucille Ann, if you can hear me," she cried, calling to long-dead relatives, "please get me out of here. I promise I’ll be good. I’ll be loyal. I’ll even stop hating my mother."

 

"That won’t be necessary," she heard a very raspy male voice say. But was it real? Or was she starting to lose her mind? She had witnessed too many patients whose inside voices became their reality not to question the sound.

 

"Oh, I’m real all right."

 

"Who are you? Where are you?" Lynda asked. "Can you get me out of here?" Her voice began to rise and she fought for control.

 

A low and malicious laugh filled the belly of her beast. "All in due time," came the response. "All in due time."