Tara just thought that Lens was shy or unsure of himself. However, it is clear to me that something is very, very wrong.
They retire to bed. Holding the Chosen like that is the most soothing thing a Cu’enashti can do. To say that Lens has an anomalous reaction is an understatement. Silent tears trickle from his eye; every one of us can feel his devastation, a cloud of pain that oppresses us all.
You saw something. Tell us.
It’s nothing, he replies.
Bullshit, says Cillian. Fucking compost. Let us see.
I think it would be better, says Lens, if I kept this to myself.
We’re a team, says Cillian. There is no keeping anything to yourself.
Before anyone can react, Cillian is accessing the memories in Lens’ branch. They aren’t hard to find; he’s less than a week old.
Cillian falls to the floor in a fetal position, sobbing hysterically. Everything stops. Every emanation in the grove is staring because something capable of felling Cillian must be unspeakably bad.
We’re all silent because every one of us knows that someone else had better take a look, but we’re all afraid. I’m stealing myself up when Lorcan says he’ll do it.
I don’t know that it’s the best idea. Lorcan hasn’t been quite right since Davy had the great idea to let the Denolin consume him. Then again, Lorcan has never been quite right.
He looks. He starts laughing. Tears are streaming from his eyes. Idiots, he says, then louder, idiots!
Cillian jumps from the ground, screaming. You think it’s funny? You think it’s fucking funny?
I step between them, certain that violence is about to ensue.
What did you see? I demand of Lorcan.
Tara’s death.
I’m too stunned for words. The shock among us is palpable.
But here’s the funny part, he says. If I understand what Lens said about the way he sees, there’s a lot of mist behind that vision. A lot. I can see things moving in and out of it. The furthest thing I can see is glowing, a brilliant star in the distance. In other words, Tara’s death happens a long time before the fulfillment of her destiny.
But how can that be?
I have some theories, says Cüinn. Perhaps there is a human afterlife. Or perhaps Tara is made into a Continuous Personality Simulator.
I’m going to completely dismiss the second possibility given what Neliit said about a CPS being an entirely new entity and not the original lifeform.
I’m not sure we can, Cüinn counters. Lilith is able to survive using a synthetic intelligence as her Chosen.
The thought is too depressing to bear.
There’s one way to find out, says Dermot. Lens, put your spectacles back on.
Lens reaches over to the dresser. Once he’s wearing them, all of the emanations inside can see through them if we concentrate. Now I understand what Lorcan was talking about. From a distance, the images in the left lens seem like a moving mist, like a cloud of flies hanging over water. Lens focuses on the one which has caused so much distress. It’s true; we all see it, a violent explosion which reduces Tara to ashes. But what Lorcan said is correct; it’s closer to us than many of the other images – that’s why it’s so apparent.
I try to focus on the other images, but the ones I can glimpse seem meaningless. They’re just of Tara, doing things she would normally do. Looking surprised. In bed with us. In the middle of some kind of ceremony. Receiving a present from a strange alien. There’s no indication that she has been hurt at all.
We can also feel a steady throbbing behind Lens’ left eye which is quickly turning into a shooting agony. Soon, it’s difficult to see anything.
Lens places the spectacles back on the dresser. Tara stirs in her sleep. “Ash?”
“I’m here,” Lens says, placing a reassuring hand upon her shoulder. She doesn’t notice that his face is wet.
How can I bear it? he asks.
I don’t have an answer. All around me, I am surrounded by the sound of sobbing. Patrick and Daniel have crumbled completely; Ailann is massively drunk. It would be so easy for me to break, but somebody needs to keep a clear head.
It’s all right, says Suibhne, looking up from his toy soldiers on the floor. All will be well.
What the fuck are you talking about? says Cillian.
I know what to do when Tara dies, Suibhne says.
He’s said something like that before, inserts Dermot. Remember that time in the bath?
The fact that our fate is left in the hands of a madman is a little disconcerting, but I think there’s something to it. I and I hasn’t reacted to this at all.
You’re right, says Dermot. You think that He’d respond to something so devastating, but there’s nothing.
I think I and I knows what He’s doing. I think He intended us to see this so that we could better prepare for it.
All will be well, says Suibhne again.
But Lens, you can’t keep things like this from us. Cillian was right when he said we’re a team. A branch alone is easily broken. A branch bound in a bundle can’t be bent.
Dermot and Axel draw closer to me. We focus our attention on what Lens is sensing and feeling. It’s an acid bath of pain.
She’s so perfect, Lens says, and to think of what I saw…I can’t bear to look at her.
Lens, she is the greatest source of comfort in this universe. We’ll protect her. Anything else is unthinkable. You must believe that.
Now we feel it, the wings of the mothman spreading above us. The vision has not deflected His course one jot; he is the unflinching embodiment of n’aashet n’aaverti. Tara’s death will not be allowed to affect Tara’s Destiny.
Either He’s crazy, says Axel, or He really is God.
This time, Suibhne doesn’t even look up. I don’t see the difference, he says.