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  I walked back up the path. It sounded strange to even think Jimmy Dugan could be called my friend, but I guess that’s life. I had a teacher once who kept a saying on her desk. Change is a certainty. Oh boy, was her plaque right or what? In only one day. I had befriended the school bully, run away from home, saved a drowning man, lied to a police officer, bullied my best friend, and skinny-dipped in a river. Change had hit me in the face, and I was pretty sure there was more to come. Oddly, we had started acting like each other, and worse, I had acted like my mother. Right there, I decided, some changes were not always for the good. Note to self: watch your responses or you’ll become a raging harpy.

  I topped the rise and headed back toward the huts and trailers. In the lighted meadow, Flower sat on a cut log, waiting patiently for me. “Are you refreshed and cleansed?”

  “I think the answer to that is yes, but don’t hold me to it.” We walked about twenty yards and I realized I didn’t know exactly where I was going. “Where are my friends? I thought they would be here too.”

  “They are at the Roundhouse. We’ll arrive there shortly.”

  We made our way to the outskirts of the hut and trailers when she stopped next to a fuel-operated lantern. “I have to be sure.” Taking my arm, she said, “May I look closely at your eyes?”

  “I guess so.” We moved closer to the light where she leaned over to make her examination. Without a doubt, more weird crap was about to come down—I felt it. My skin tingled up and down my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  She removed the lantern from the post where it hung, brought it close to my face, and studied me, her steel-like focus unbreakable. Perhaps it was the brightness of the light, but for some reason dizziness overpowered me. My knees grew weak, and I tumbled to the ground.

  Flower’s face disappeared from my vision. Everything went hazy, a mist emerged between me and reality. On the other side of the fog stood a frightened young woman, a raven-haired beauty in a hospital gown. She struggled against some unseen opponent. Something nondescript. It held her tight, preventing her escape. Terror filled her wide eyes as she helplessly tried to flee. She called out to me, but I didn’t understand. It sounded like it could have been Spanish. What I understood were her groans and screams. Waving my hand, I tried to clear the fog away, but its white denseness magnified, engulfing me. It could have been her shadow the girl struggled with, or the shadow of another person, or something so horrible my mind couldn’t begin to understand it.

  Flower’s gentle touch dispelled the vision and in an instant, I returned to the grassy meadow.

  “You saw something,” she demanded.

  No way I could entrust the details of what was happening to me to this stranger, no matter how comfortable she made me feel. If she heard me describing the weird images appearing before me, she would call the local funny farm and have me committed.

  Instead of talking civilly, I screamed, “Leave me alone. Don’t touch me. I didn’t see anything.”

  “You saw something—a vision. Please tell me what you saw. I know you have a gift. You have the eyes.”

  The words, hell, shit, and damn all converged in my mind. She used the term gift—the same term I heard my mother use in my dream.

  “We are desperate. If you saw a vision, you must tell me.”

  “Stop it, I don’t have to do shit.” My bellowing drew attention.

  Several hippies gathered around me. One guy with his long gray hair pulled back into a ponytail, and looking like an old college professor, helped me to my feet.

  Flower put her hands over my temples. Warmth flooded over me, through me. My hesitation and fear melted away. Her touch wasn’t stimulating but peaceful and serene. She removed them and stepped away from me.

  “He’s alright. He….” She stopped short of saying what had caused my sudden weakness.

  I whispered, “We need to talk.” Being only fifteen, there were lots of things yet undiscovered in my world, but one thing I knew, she did something to me—something unnatural. Perhaps a better word was supernatural, like my dreams and visions. Without a doubt, Flower had something my mother would call a gift. This changed everything.

  She whispered, “You should feel better right away.”

  Looking past the small crowd of hippies gathering around me, I saw my friends hurrying to my aid.

  I whispered to Flower, “Alone, we need to talk alone. I want to talk about what just happened and—”

  Flower interrupted me, “I understand. You’re not ready for others to know.”

  Nodding my answer, I straightened my legs—they were strong again. The dizzy spell had passed, and it felt good to not only stand but stretch. With my arms over my head, I reached for the sky. I felt fine, no, better than fine. Whatever stunt she pulled did the trick better than a dozen cups of Stoney’s ginger tea could possibly do.

  “Are you okay?” Jimmy asked, after running a record-breaking sprint and hurdling past Roger to get to me.

  Roger’s shoes slid in the dirt, leaving plowed furrows and a brown cloud in his wake. “What did they do to you?” He was in fine form, mouthy and outspoken as ever.

  “Nothing. I’m fine,” I assured them.

  The crowd began to dissipate.

  The gray-headed man told a gray-headed woman, “I thought another one had come down with it.”

  “Thank God, he isn’t one of them,” the gray-headed woman replied.

  “This has to end,” Stoney said. “It has everyone on edge.”

  Then they stepped out of earshot. Only Roger, Rose, Jimmy, and Flower remained.

  Scratching my head, I turned to Flower and asked, “What are they talking about? What has to end?”

  It was Rose who answered, “Arland, you have to see this to believe it.”

  She motioned for me to follow her to the Roundhouse.

  Upon arriving there, I expected something awesome or even terrible, but the tent contained several filing cabinets and about twenty-five folding chairs around a series of long tables on a dirt floor. “I don’t get it. Nothing special here.”

  Flower explained, “You must climb the stairs to the western treehouse.” She led the way up a staircase spiraling around a tree trunk. The construction appeared professional. Suspended by huge branches and log stilts, the design reminded me of a beach house as much as a treehouse. The upper floor contained a modern finished-out room. Inside, an assortment of high-tech medical equipment surrounded four occupied hospital beds. With wide eyes, I looked to Jimmy, to Roger, and back again as the equipment beeped and droned, making soft gushing noises. An older hippie chick, maybe ten years older than Flower, was going from bed to bed checking IVs and monitoring the machines. She looked startled seeing us come in.

  “It’s okay, Teresa. They’re friends,” Flower said. The medical attendant turned back to her busy task of looking after the specialized machinery.

  “This is our clinic,” Flower said. “It’s small, but up to now it sufficed.” The four patients lay unconscious; one of them looked like the young raven-haired beauty I saw in my vision. Her hair framed her face in cascading curls as she lay still, eyes closed and silent.

  “Are they sleeping?” I asked, knowing the answer beforehand.

  “No. They are all in comas,” explained Flower.

  I should have been surprised to see a clinic in a treehouse, but by that time nothing could compare with what I’d already experienced. My mind still reeled from how Flower’s touch had rocked my world. I asked, “You guys have a doctor who makes rounds to the commune?”

  “No.” Flower folded her arms and looked toward the patients in the beds, “We have no doctor. I’m a nurse and Teresa here is my aid.” She went to a monitor and checked the readings before turning back toward us. “And—I’m sure Arland has guessed—I’m a healer. He knew it the moment I touched his temples after he collapsed. I could see the realization in his eyes.”

  “I didn’t want to believe it.” Glancing around at my fri
ends, I lied by replacing what I should have said with, “I… I thought there had to be something else—another reason not in the realm of the twilight zone.” Truth was, and I knew without a doubt, Flower’s healing gift was supernatural.

  Roger grabbed my arm. “I was right. They did something to you. I mean, she did something to you. Did she give you some drugs?”

  It was time to fess up. “It’s not like that,” I explained. “Flower has a gift. She heals people. I mean she literally can heal them.”

  Roger’s eyes widened. “When you say she’s a healer, you are talking about giving them medicine—right?”

  A knock at the door drew everyone’s attention. A little girl of no more than ten-years-old with beautiful brown skin and bright brown eyes to match, stood there shyly holding her hands behind her. She bit her lip and asked, “Miss Flower, is this a bad time? I can come back later.”

  Flower smiled and waved her in. “Anjelica, what is it?” She looked up at us and added, “She is so shy, if she interrupted then there is a definite reason. I won’t be but a moment.”

  “It’s not for me, Miss.” She pulled her hands from behind her back. In her right hand nestled a dove, its right-wing hanging down in an awkward position. “It’s Javier, he got out of his cage.” Tears filled her eyes. “It’s my fault. I didn’t close the cage very good, and he got out. He flew around the house…I was chasing him, then he flew into the glass door trying to get out. I think he hurt himself bad.”

  Flower looked up at us, then back to Anjelica, and said, “You know it’s my rule to only do this for people, but today I’ll make an exception. Give him to me.”

  She took the bird in her hands and stroked the wing with her index finger. The bird fluttered and pulled the limp wing back into position. Handing the bird back to the girl, she said, “There, he’ll be fine now.”

  Anjelica leaned up to Flower and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, Miss Flower.” All smiles, she turned and scampered out of the room.

  Jimmy said, “Tell me what I just saw wasn’t some kind of real hocus pocus. Please tell me it was a trick.”

  “No trick. I’ve always been able to heal in the past,” she waved toward the people in the beds, “but these people are different. They aren’t sick or injured.” She ran a hand along the bedside railings of the raven-haired teen from my dream. “I’m helpless for the first time—ever.” She turned toward us. “They appear to be dying of natural causes, but what’s happening to them is far from natural.”

  Jimmy released Rose’s hand and stepped back. She shook her head, saying, “I don’t have a gift. I’m just plain old Rose.” Jimmy’s eyes darted from Flower to Rose and back again.

  Seeing panic growing in Jimmy’s face, Flower calmly said, “Let’s go back to the Roundhouse and I’ll explain.” Again, she led the way.

  Sitting up to a table in the Roundhouse, Flower paused, deciding how to describe her extraordinary gift with words we would understand. She sighed and began, “I suppose you all have heard of the Bible. Perhaps you have gone to Sunday school or Mass?”

  We all nodded. Even I didn’t know where she was going with her explanation.

  “I suppose you could call it unnatural or supernatural, but it’s more. It’s all about spiritual gifts. The complete list is scattered throughout the New Testament, some in Romans, some in First Corinthians and Ephesians, but one of the spiritual gifts is healing.” She closed her beautiful blue eyes and did her best to explain. “Some people are gifted with skills, like how to fix things and make things, inventions that will make life better. This is the gift of knowledge and understanding. Then there are those with the gift of wisdom. Those are rare people indeed who can work out any puzzle, they can logically sort out any math problem, and can even interpret dreams.”

  Roger asked, “Are you saying they never have to study for any tests?”

  She smiled, “Yes, exactly.”

  “Can I sign up for that gift?” he eagerly asked.

  “No, I’m afraid no one can choose or refuse one of God’s gifts.” She pressed her lips, trying not to laugh before she continued, “God selects who He wants to receive them.”

  “The people who are chosen,” I asked, “they don’t know they’re gifted until the gift suddenly makes itself known—right?”

  “Yes, it’s true, until the gift manifests itself, the person is clueless to its existence.” She nodded. “Thomas Edison surely didn’t ask to be so observant and… well, smart. Although he made mistakes, he was surely gifted to be able to invent so many wonderful things—just as Mozart must have been gifted with music, too. And yes, music is another of the gifts.”

  Roger hung on her every word with an excited interest. Jimmy, on the other hand, sat with an expression of horror as Flower continued, “Then there are some people who have the gift of speaking and counseling, while others have the gift of faith and healing—like me.”

  Crossing her arms and clutching her elbows, she sat upright. “We who have gifts are few and always marked by God. It’s like a sign to ordinary people saying, these are the ones who can help you.” She shrugged. “Sadly, instead of seeking us out for help, humanity has more often sought to persecute us, calling us witches, phonies, or some other falsehood.”

  Flower paused, glanced my direction, and hesitated before saying, “Then there are the very rare ones. The blessed ones who God only sends in times of great need. These are the ones who have the gift of prophecy.” She looked right at me. “These people see visions and get premonitions straight from heaven. It is their job to prevent disasters and warn their generation of what is coming.”

  Jimmy warily raised his hand as if he were in school. “What is this thing you’re talking about…this thing coming? It sounds spooky.”

  “At this minute, I have no idea what it is. It could be, and eventually will be, the end of all things.”

  Chapter Eight

  Mark of a Prophet

  Again Flower met my gaze. “Only someone who possesses the gift of knowledge could know what purpose a prophet has for us,” she said. “I think there are more gifts, but these are the ones I have seen for myself.”

  Roger sat wagging his finger at Flower. “You said all the gifted people are marked. It’s your eyes, right? That’s your mark. Looking into your eyes for the first time, I felt a warmth like on a summer day, but it’s night.”

  She smiled, “Yes, you are one intuitive young man. It is my eyes.” She leaned back and scrutinized Roger.

  Jimmy took it from there. “If your sky-blue eyes are your mark. Then—” He turned and pointed at my face. “Then what about Arland’s crazy eyes? His are wilder looking than yours are.”

  Sirens went off in my head again. My stress level must have been redlining. Flower took my hand and the ringing in my ears stopped. A calm came over me. Even with her gift quieting my nerves, I was still afraid to tell my friends. They might run back to Texas and announce to everyone, Arland Loveless is a freak of nature—stay clear of him. But I gathered my courage, and after regaining some semblance of rational thought, I figured there wouldn’t be a better time to tell them than this.

  I pressed my lips and tried to choose the right words; nothing came to me. I debated, changing my mind ten times before I opened my mouth and let my secret out, “I’ve been seeing weird things, omens, and crap like that.”

  Roger sat slack-jawed, “The hell you say.”

  “I know I sound like a lunatic, but I swear it’s true.” I swallowed hard. “Before we met Rose, I smelled roses from out of nowhere. Then I saw the word Die appear above Dave’s head when he was filling his rig. I also had a dream about my parents and I saw Roger looking like a zombie.”

  “I knew something was up.” Jimmy declared. “You kept freaking me out. Hell, this whole damned thing is freaking me out.”

  “What?” Roger wailed, “I’m going to turn into a zombie? Shit, shit, shit, I don’t want to be a zombie.” Panic was a mild word for what Roger went into. “
Jimmy, don’t let me turn into a damned brain-eating zombie. You gotta help me.”

  Flower released my hand and took his. Panic visibly dissipated from Roger’s face. She explained, “What Arland sees isn’t exactly what’s about to happen. Some divining must be done before anyone knows the meaning behind his visions. Even Arland doesn’t know what they mean. When he smelled roses, he had no way of knowing Rose was a girl.”

  “So, I’m not going to turn into a zombie?” Wiping his forehead of the perspiration forming across his brow, Roger sighed, “What does it mean?”

  “If someone with the gift of knowledge was here, then she could tell us. I have no clue.”

  Rose spoke up, “You said she. Are people with the gift of knowledge always women?”

  “Perhaps I misspoke. Until today, when I met Arland, I was acquainted with a few gifted people and only one other was male.” She glanced my way, “Now, I have met two, but I doubt it matters.” It appeared as if she were in deep thought. “Well, I think it has more to do with the personality of the gifted.”

  She lifted her head as if seeing a specific individual in her mind. “Some people are aggressive and others passive; some are subtle and others direct; then there are those who show innate natural skills, while others acquire skills easily through instruction. Whoever is chosen, be it a man or woman, the person will always have the necessary tools to complete the mission set before them because of their unique attributes, not their sex.”

  She paused, then added, “Never met a prophet before. The gift of prophecy is extremely rare, and the calling of a prophet is cause for concern.”

  Jimmy looked spooked and spoke in a demeaning tone, “All this sounds crazy and makes me as nervous as a Mexican jumping bean. Guys, let’s say our goodbyes and get out of this nuthouse. It’s time to head on to New York. And I mean now. We’ve wasted almost two hours here in this loony bin.”