The Old Ones were restless. There had been a shift. Changes were coming. The Heiress was beginning to understand; they could help her now and there was hope that she could be a powerful leader. There was hope she could be more powerful than Catherine. First she had to find her way around some immediate obstructions, then, and only then, she would be able to exert some control. If she could complete her education; if she could learn all there was to learn in the buried city she would be equipped for a long, informed, reign that would bring humans back to humanity. They could only watch and wait. “Not long now,” Fiona was saying.
“Not long now,” they all agreed and hoped. With every fibre of their beings they hoped for Meira to succeed.
“Takiyya as-Süleimaniyya Mosque 02” by Bernard Gagnon
Meira awoke before the dawn and moved out, away from the warm shelter of the stone, to the flat tundra where she could see the first light reach from sky to barren ground. She left her clothes and walked a hundred metres or so and squatted. Her heels pressing deep into the earth, she let her mind go blank and waited, not long; she didn’t have to wait long; she was with them almost immediately. There were minds all around her and an eternity of lives as far as ever she could see or feel as the sounds, the music, arose. They were singing. Everything was sung: The pitch, duration, volume, all contributed to the stories – to the experiences, to the wisdom that was hers to use.
As quickly as they came, they left. She didn’t have to stay long like before when she would drift gradually in, stay long in the pain and misery of history, then come up quickly to re-establish in the present. This was quicker, not more than five minutes in duration but very much more was conveyed. She stood, walked away, dressed and returned to Ben, dear Ben . . .