Prophecy of Love by T. Satterfield
Good guy Gabe Mendes is certainly passionate. He thinks love will make his life worth living. So he’s made a deal. In exchange for access to the universe of love he agrees to slay the black ram. But soon he learns, being unlucky in love isn’t his only problem. Turns out—love isn’t what he thinks it is.
By the time Gabe stumbles across the website of the alluring, though mature, Pythia—mystic and high priestess—he’s already failed miserably in love yet again. Raised by a hardworking single mom, never having known the full truth about his father, Gabe has spent his life faithful to three beliefs: follow the rules; don’t let anyone get too close; and avoid, at all costs, being honest about how you feel—especially with yourself. If it weren’t for Gabe’s steadfast companion, a cat named Cat, he might not know love at all.
But when the enchanting red-headed priestess dangles the keys that will unlock the secret answers to the long-asked questions of love, Gabe jumps at the chance. Before he knows it, things change—and fast. The entertaining Pythia takes him on a whirlwind journey traveling the portals of time and space. She’s got him questioning everything he’s ever thought about love. And if that weren’t enough, Gabe is beginning to believe this business about the black ram might cost him everything. It might just kill him.
Is Gabe really ready for love? Or has his haunted past already destined him to a lonely life? Poor Gabe, he’s about to learn there’s more than romance missing in his life.
Targeted Age Group:: 30+
Heat/Violence Level: Heat Level 1 – G Rated Clean Read
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
As a psychotherapist specializing in trauma resolution through the use of dynamic hypnotherapy and other modalities, I wrote Prophecy of Love to answer questions posed by my clients over the years. I find that most people I help have a distorted understanding of the meaning of love and its role in their life. So, I set out to help them gain a healthier understanding. The result, Prophecy of Love, is both fiction and inspirational nonfiction as a discussion on the meaning of love and life told through the story of its protagonist, Gabe Mendes.
I structured the story according to Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey. Accordingly, Prophecy of Love delivers instructive content that explores the nature of love and life and how naturally-occurring experiences interconnect. Looking at love from biological, cultural, historical, psychological, religious, and spiritual perspectives, in Prophecy of Love, I utilize discussions on sex, trans-generational epigenetics, theories of attachment, morality, and intimacy, as well as quantum physics, to aid the reader in absorbing a broad and deep ecological integration on the examination of love.
My choice of fiction over the traditional non-fiction genre was intentional. Rich and multi-faceted forms of communication help the reader digest the sometimes-dense information. The novel format accommodates the breadth of information in a way that non-fiction cannot. Story chapters offer repeated opportunities to delve into complex concepts, each time from a new perspective and with unique literary stimuli, increasing assimilation of the rich and far-reaching factual information.
Like hypnosis, reading fiction stimulates a complex, interconnected system of the brain that activates embodied cognition, transporting the reader into the protagonist’s perspective, where a fantasy world becomes a playground of possibility in the reader. As if stepping into the protagonist’s shoes, the reader can visualize the main character’s adventures and sympathetically experience his mental and emotional states. This embodiment provides for a new understanding of information as well as a new pathway for healing trauma. In other words, in the familiar trance-like-state of reading a good book it is easier to narrow one’s focus for the purpose of examining one’s beliefs, challenging one’s personal narrative, and recreating one’s life with greater intention and purpose.
I know from my professional work that the power of your own imagination is profoundly necessary for cognitive change. It is my goal that you will lose yourself in the story so that it allows you the benefit of contemplation, reorganization, and integrated wisdom of new information.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I’ve had many clients ask if they were the inspiration for Gabe and his quest for a meaningful romance. I love that! As an author, it warms my heart that they can see themselves in Gabe. For all Gabe’s self-doubt, negative self-talk, and generalized anxiety, Gabe is likeable. In fact, he’s downright loveable.
That might be because we all know what it’s like to live in our heads. Whether residing in that fantasy land is from past trauma or forecasting a catastrophic future of rumination, living anywhere but the present moment creates a lot of drama. And, as natural as living in real-time really is, turning off the internal dialogue often involves someone like Pythia.
From the pages of Prophecy of Love, biting his lower lip and running his hands through his curly-headed mess of dark, thick hair, Gabe comes alive in sweatpants and his beloved Spidey T-shirt. Like voyeurs with hands pressed peering into Gabe’s windows, we witness how Gabe’s feelings of helplessness have led to hopelessness and a distorted self-image. Just like Gabe, our self-doubt, negative self-talk, and anxiety lead to a lowered ability to see opportunities, as well as decrease our propensity to capitalize on them. Just at Gabe’s internal judgmental voice of authority limits his trust in his own wisdom, distorts his competence, and blocks his confidence, thus diminishing his potential—such is our fate as well.
Lucky for Gabe, Pythia teaches him that creativity is imperative to healing. With her help, Gabe creates new neuropathways to challenge those insecure and needy contemplations. She helps Gabe get perspective and become his own best friend. Enlightened to the greatest asset of all—self-love—Gabe begins to remember the desire he once had for crafting a life centered in his own heart’s desire.
So, for all those wanting to know who inspired Gabe—the truth is that Gabe’s life on the page mirrors that of someone I dearly love. And as honest as that is, Gabe is also as much about me and my own angst; and that is precisely what makes Gabe real.
Everything went black before it turned blizzard white. The flesh on my face and neck stretched and flapped against the pressure. My body pivoted and soared, blasting off. My ears ached, and I feared my head would explode. I thought of Cat—the sensation of her tail sliding through my hand. I recalled the crack of a baseball bat striking a fastball and a time my mother consoled me. “I love you,” she said, pulling me to the comfort of her warm bosom, stroking my hair. I pictured my garden, feeling the feathery tips of the tall grasses against my palms. Then flashes—me opening a window, the fresh scent of rain, My Ex laughing. The speed of travel increased, and my memories became glints. Indiscernible clips turning into warm blocks of color and pricks of emotions.
This is it, I thought; this is how I die. Feeling too spent to resist the inevitable, in my mind, I lay myself down and let go of fighting. And that’s when everything slowed, stopped, and went blank as a new beginning. I was emptied of my past and at peace with all possibility. I floated upward, feeling lifted, carried even, toward another glossy membrane. Then making my way through the bubble’s thick edge, I climbed out and emerged on the other side of Earth’s navy-blue atmosphere.
Outer space stank of spent gunpowder. Weightless and without direction, I drifted and tumbled through the cold pitch and black-forged-metal scents of some ancient garage I knew in my very cells. The dark boundlessness was nothing and everything. Seeming to extend till the end of all time, until its heavy, diesel rank slowly spilled, like water falling from one pool to the next, casting me out into yet another new world.
A sweet scent of sugared waffle cones replaced the greasy oil stench, and I floated along, passing through swirling multi-colored dust clouds. Sparkling stars twinkled greetings from every direction. I drifted through the magic, with its caramel candy bouquet and mosaic of colored lights dazzling the night sky.
Ahead a luminary cluster flashed a Morse code of light. “Pleiades,” I said and steered toward the extra-terrestrial message. The stars were dancers, flickering flames atop a phosphorescent helix spiraling in outer space.
“We are the seven daughters of the night.”
“Emissaries of electromagnetic radiation.”
“Agents on a mission for consciousness.”
“Regaling gratitude for each incarnation.”
“Aligning the human breath with the frequency of our expanding vibration.”
“Unlocking and transmitting the cellular memory of love.”
“Bridging the here with the now, through the divine and mortal heart.”
They circled, binding me in what I can only describe as a nurturing force. They were sisters, daughters, mothers—women. I shielded my eyes from their brilliance as they shed light and cast me into my own gold star.
“As you think, so shall it be,” they chanted. I closed my eyes, and my eyeballs rolled, opening the portal of my mind. Then the familiar down, down, down, followed by the up and out; before the force spat me through another membrane. This time I landed riding an undulating grid of electric blue lines, surfing a tide that had no shore.
From a distance crossing the lattice plane, a figure emerged walking on a sea of blue squares. His gait and aura were familiar.
“Are you the Higgs boson?” I called. “Is this the sea of possibility?” I pointed to the bright blue framework; the beams of light sailing beneath me.
He nodded, smiling, coming closer. “Yes, I am,” he said.
His toneless and rather tense voice somehow set my nerves on end, and I hurried to cover my ears. My heart scrambled, frantic to climb into my throat. I thought I’d retch. Weak in the knees and speechless, I shivered, stumbling backward away from the thing, so familiar it was haunting.
“I don’t understand.” I cowered, quivering on my hands and knees, hanging onto the grid. I panted and licked my lips, trying to keep from hurling as I digested my doppelganger. The awful thing smiled at me with my same nearly straight teeth and square jaw. We stood, all four of our deeply set eyes under the same bushy brows that worried me as a teen. Had they bothered him? He even wore a fitted Henley, untucked with the sleeves pushed up, and skinny jeans with boots.
“Cat got your tongue?” He sounded playful. Astonished at our likeness, I barely nodded. He lowered himself all the while, keeping his eyes on me, not making any sudden movements, as if I might jump. He lingered on his haunches running his hand along the glowing blue bar showing me it was safe. Then maneuvered himself to sit on the beam. The electric transmission bent to his weight while supporting him in a radiant swing. He nodded, indicating for me to do the same.
Keeping my eyes on him, I reached for the incandescent bar, expecting it to be hot, only to notice a chill emanating from the shaft of light. Safely seated, I faced him with my feet dangling through an opening in the grid. His lashes were long like mine, his beard sparse in places. There was a familiar scar on his forehead. I touched the same place on my own head where a chicken pock had left a blemish. I studied him until overcome with curiosity, I reached toward him. He nodded, and I touched the ends of one of his thick, dark curls. He took my hand. He placed my fingers at his neck. I could feel his heartbeat; he was warm. I pulled back.
“I am you, a version of you anyway.” He paused. “Can you trust me?” he asked.
Overwhelmed by a metallic taste I tried to relax the intense tension in my face, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. “I—I don’t know. I guess. What are you? Are you? Are you the part of me that’s missing?”
“Call me Higgs. And no.” He smiled and patted my knee, then gestured to the grid and the black space around us. “This is the quantum world, and here things are better understood through sensory experience than by language. Which, of course, you now know is fundamentally false and limited by logic. Here the information of words is conveyed by a series of emotional responses, bodily sensations, and pictures that appear in your mind’s eye. This is the subatomic, the quantum realm. It’s where all possibility lies. This place is outside of language. Your words are less meaningful here. Here is about the experience you’d like to create.”
I looked around. The energetic power of the intersecting beams was palpable. “Here, Newton’s laws are ineffectual. Possibility is not limited to cause and effect. Here, outcome is determined by the desire to cause an effect.” Higgs grabbed hold of one of the bars and challenged its integrity with a shake. The whole grid came alive, buzzing and flashing a storm of electric strobes of blue light.
“Whoa! Are you alright?”
“I am myself. It is my nature. Sometimes I am this.” Higgs nodded to the now-still grid, flat and uniform in every way. “Anything characterized as a particle, or a thing has properties of mass and localization.” By way of example, and like a magic trick, he revealed the familiar red ball I’d just played with.
“But…” he pointed way out, where the field was still rippling. He stood, and I stood with him. “And sometimes I am that.” He nodded to the undulating field of blue bars. “Everything in the multiverse has a dual nature. Anything characterized as a wave has frequency and wavelength. These properties spread out across space.” He motioned like a hula girl, and the grid obeyed, rolling until it was nothing but cascading waves. “It matters less what something is and more what you’d like to make it.” Then he tossed the ball into the air, but in place of the ball, he caught a pipe, brown and black just like the one Pythia had shown me.
“Things aren’t always what they seem to be.” He looked pleased. “Consider the pipe, the ball, the waves, the serendipity of seeing Amy at the grocer’s and then meeting her at the Chili Bowl. How it was all seemingly random, but then potentially important.”
“You know Amy?”
“She was a particle and then a wave, right? Particles and waves are only words describing the same mathematical object.”
“What do you mean, mathematical?”
“Determining a thing from The Thang is a mathematical computation and requires a superposition. The position where an object has infinite possible outcomes. It could be anything. But it matters less what something is and more what you’d like to make it. Got it?”
“No, I don’t get it.” I scratched my head. “I don’t understand.” I chewed on my poor lower lip and then my thumbnail.
“Look,” he said now holding a pipe. This pipe is like Magritte’s painting. It is not a pipe either. It is this.” He shook the pipe, declaring it a thing. “Get it now?”
“And this thing…” he shook the pipe again the way a teacher might tap the board for emphasis. “It can become The Thang.” Then he gestured to something above my head, and I stepped back to see pictures floating in midair. Magritte’s painting of a pipe, the word pipe, a wafting curl of smoke, a worn easy chair beside a warm fire, and a tweed jacket with aged leather-patched elbows.
“Nostalgia.” I sniffed the air. “Do I smell the sweet scent of cherry wood and—clove? Leather and sweat?”
“Yes. Wonderful! Show me more.”
“What do you mean, show you more?”
“Take the pipe and show me more,” he repeated, but confused, all I could do was shrug. “Those are yours, you know?” He pointed to the holograms. “Go ahead, give it a go. Imagine the thing. Make it The Thang.” He passed the pipe.
I held the oddly shaped, smooth thing. It was light and cool at one end and heavy and warm at the other. Then I remembered sitting on an old man’s lap, the warmth of his heartbeat beneath his worn flannel shirt, the distinct smell of his sweat mixed with Old Spice.
“Yes.” Higgs pointed at the suspended images I’d generated. “Those are thought-forms. Go on. Show me more.”
“Okay.” I nodded and remembered when the old man took me to the barbershop, the scent of Barbicide, the soft shaving cream yielding to the barber’s razor against the man’s loose skin. How the man’s kitchen smelled of coffee. The man puttering around in his garage. The hollow sounds, the dank smells of gasoline and old grass clippings. “That’s so strange. It’s like a movie about this man I once met. I don’t specifically remember him, but he seems important, meaningful to me. It’s like he’s showing me how to be a man. I can’t explain it, but it feels real.”
“Excellent! You are in The Thang. ‘How to be a man’ is not about the words; it’s about the way it inspires you. The words matter less. What you can create matters more. You see it?” He tapped his forehead. “You feel it.” He scanned the front of his body with his open hand. “And now you know it.” He pointed to both his head and heart.
“I get it.” I held up the little pipe. “If I only think of this thing as a pipe, my preconception of it limits my understanding of its multifaceted nature and all the opportunities it can inspire.”
“Exactly! In quantum physics, an outcome’s probability is not found in a singular understanding but by squaring that understanding infinitely. This mathematical view provides a matrix of never-ending possibilities and explains how things can be in multiple states simultaneously.” And with his words, the spaces in the grid began to multiply and stack. Rows and columns stretched up and down and all around us. Soon we stood at the center of an elaborate high rise of endless rooms. Each depicted some tangential version of my experience of the thing called ‘pipe.’
My jaw fell open. “This reminds me of a memory. A man on his knees pinning my trousers. I was getting my pants hemmed for something special. Maybe my mom’s wedding? I remember how I stood in front of a three-way mirror, making funny faces, trying to catch all the copy-cat versions of myself just before they made the same face. Back then, that boy and that old man went on and on, reflected forever in the looking glass, one fidgeting while the other pinned.”
“Ah, but here it’s different. There are choices.” With his words, the matrix shifted, depicting millions and millions of versions of the boy and the tailor. “There’s more than one way to get your pants hemmed.”
“That reminds me of that horrible saying, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. I don’t know why—No, no, no!” I said, shaking my head and hands while the cells shifted. “No!” I yelled, and the blocks’ content blurred and disappeared, and the three-dimensional grid collapsed into a flat plane. “Oh, no,” I said, astonished. “I didn’t mean—I mean—I just—” I turned to Higgs. “I didn’t want a cat—I didn’t want to know about—I don’t want to think about that.”
“It’s okay.” Higgs patted my back. “You can think about anything you want. And, you can change your mind about anything you think. You can create what you want.”
“That’s a relief; I can control the outcome.”
“No.” The word fell flat between us. Then, silence.
“I don’t understand. Aren’t you saying I can control my reality?”
“Okay.” I shrugged. “I don’t get it then.”
“There is no control. None. There never was. And there never will be. No control.”
“What?” I stopped breathing. Then gasped and exhaled audibly, shaking my head, pinching my face in disagreement, only to seize my breath again before filling my lungs once more.
“Are you attempting to create control by holding your breath? How long do you think you can do that?”
I blew out from my cheeks, feeling a little light-headed. “Okay, I get it. It’s a mindset, right?”
“Well, maybe not a mindset. But it’s a good idea to know what you can and can’t control. Like you can’t control the weather. That’s silly. I get that. Some things you have to accept.” I nodded, believing we were finally in agreement, but he didn’t nod. Instead he stood patient, waiting for me while my frustration grew into exasperation. “What do you mean there is no control?” I protested. “Of course, there is. People have to control themselves all the time. If everyone did whatever they wanted, what kind of world would it be? There has to be control.” I spouted, still balanced on the sea of possibility.
He made that “so sorry” smile, the one with the cocked head, and broke the news to me again. “There. Is. No. Control.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I thought I would scream. My shoulders lurched to my ears, hands fisted at my sides. I wanted to stomp my feet. “If that grid,” I flung my arm, pointing my hand like it was a weapon ready to fire at the geometric field, “has infinite possibilities, surely, it has at least one for control.” I tried to look righteous as I raved. Then crossed my arms. But despite all the bluster, my face reddened with the flashes of people telling me inconceivable things. Things that made me feel lost and wobbly. My Ex justifying her flirting with that bartender on our first date. The high school guidance counselor echoing my stepfather, telling me I’d better focus on my grades because I would never make it in baseball. My boss referring to my values as pie in the sky. Would I always be on the wrong side, always misunderstanding the way things really are?
Higgs ran his hand through his hair, then frowned. “Look, the fact is, the smaller the space you provide an electron, the more frenetic its activity. That’s what’s happening here. Give yourself some room.” He consoled me. “I know this is hard, but you can’t create that which has no foundation in the laws of nature. And control, my friend, is a construct of your world’s culture. It is only a word.”
My eyes moved between two thoughts. “Okay,” I said, bargaining, still reasoning to have things my way. “But surely you must agree that, without control, we’re aimless, just blowin’ in the wind.”
He sighed. “Well, first, there is no guarantee of outcome. There never was. But if there was, how different would that be from blowing in the wind? Aren’t the two just polarizations of finite outcomes?” We stood staring in a standoff. “Control, or a complete lack of control, provides you with the illusion of certainty. That’s not possible. Do you know why?”
“Too many variables.”
“Exactly, and every variable has a subset of variables, and every subset… well, you get the picture.”
“So, no control and no blowing in the wind. No certainty.”
Biting his lip, he nodded. “There is no control. There never was, and there never will be.”
The corners of my mouth turned down as I weighed his words, but within seconds, I shrugged. “Okay.” I nodded. “Actually, it’s sort of a relief.”
“That’s what most people say. And you know why? Because there’s something better: collaboration.” He smiled.
“Yeah, I feel like maybe I’ve known this all along. So, collaboration, huh? Is that The Thang? Is it like love?”
“You,” he pointed at me, “are a fast learner. Come on.” He waved for me to follow. “In the illusion of control, your actions were most often inspired by fear instead of curiosity. Without curiosity, you couldn’t appreciate the many influences directed upon something that may cause that thing to behave in several different ways. So, you couldn’t recognize the opportunities either.”
We walked out onto the blue checked floor; every square was blank, none holding any future intention. The grid waited like a genie in a bottle. “The prediction of probability supersedes a measurement that will determine a particular outcome. All the while, the thing under consideration remains in an indeterminate state. That state maps to a superposition of all possibilities, each with different probabilities.”
“Exactly. Is the cat in all states of possibility simultaneously?” The grid filled with a variety of cats in various conditions, behaving in a myriad of ways. “Or, is the cat in an assumed state until the state is decided?” All the squares filled with a cat curled sleeping.
I considered his point. “Does it matter?”
“Good question. It might not if you have influence, and the Higgs boson makes that possible. Think of Higgs as the greatest sugar daddy. Anything you want, it’ll help you create it. All you’ve got to do is entangle with it. Make friends. When you partner with Higgs, you’ve got all the influence you’d ever dream of. You’ve got the entire multiverse at your beck and call helping you cause the effect you want.”
“Ah.” I nodded, remembering what Trane had explained. “So, the Higgs boson makes that possible. But I’m confused, are you Higgs, or am I Higgs, or is Higgs something else?”
“All three. Quantum physics is a strange ranger, no doubt. It’s humbling even. It’ll blow your mind if you can’t bend to it. It’s only odd by Newtonian standards but makes perfect sense mathematically. It has truth. Ready?”
“An internal reality remains in a superposition, meaning the idea can manifest itself in any number of ways until observed by the external world. By observed, I mean bringing your full attention to it or making friends. When that happens, the superposition collapses into one definitive state.”
“So you’re saying that my life has the potential to look any number of ways, and I’m free to choose what kind of life I want to live. Is that right?”
“So if I observe my life, bring my attention to living my life, make friends with it, I can participate in its creation. I can collaborate with the outcome. So, there’s Higgs, and there’s me. And there’s Higgs and me. And then there’s The Thang, that’s me, Higgs, and Higgs and me; all together we create the outcome I want.”
“Exactly. The Thang, that mechanism you just described, is the source that entangles two independent things, each with multiple possible outcomes of equal probability. In other words, there is a fifty-fifty chance that, more often than not, your life will be more comfortable or more uncomfortable. When you decide which you’d like, you entangle your life with the prediction of experiencing either more comfortable or more uncomfortable.”
“So an idea is a thought, not a Thang. And if I consciously consider that thought, and entangle it with the Higgs boson’s help, then together, we can turn a thought into a Thang and then turn The Thang into a reality. Boy, I wish Trane could hear me!”
“That’s pretty good. But I’ll take you one better.” He pulled out the familiar pipe. “This is not a pipe until it’s a pipe.” He handed it to me. “Now put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
“Things aren’t always what they seem to be.”
“Indeed.” He shook my hand. “It’s been a pleasure. I hope I cleared things up by muddying the water some. Sometimes the only way to really see something is in the dark.”
“Thank you. This has been real.”
“Oh, you don’t know how real it’s about to get.” He turned toward the grid. “It’s a blank slate. What do you want it to look like? It’s your life,” he said.
“Um. I don’t know.”
“Remember, this is not about cause and effect. It is about causing an effect. Let your imagination run wild. You don’t have to work so hard by thinking. Go ahead, free yourself of the fear. No worries about right or wrong. Instead, play with it. What do you want?” He encouraged me.
“Whew.” I blew out a big breath and ran my hand through my hair, feeling like a contestant on a game show. “Okay, I want…” I laughed before my tongue rubbed that injured place, and I shrugged. “Oh, what the hell. I want to share my life with a woman.”
The squares clicked and clacked as they filled with different stories about myself and a variety of women: one where I cheered as she crossed a finish line, one where I vacuumed while she whistled off-key arranging flowers in a vase, and the last where I waited in coveralls while she donned the same and slaughtered a chicken. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait!” My hands motioned. “Can I see what it would look like with Amy?” The squares clicked as they shifted and flipped. One depicted Amy at the side of the bed, staring out at the rain while I packed a bag. In another, Amy and I were inebriated, smoking cigarettes and laughing while I poured us drinks in a filthy kitchen. “Hmm. Some of these are pretty sad. I don’t even smoke,” I said, and Higgs shrugged.
In another, a pregnant Amy and I happily posed with three children under the age of five, all of us wearing Santa hats. “That’s intimidating.” I pointed to the Christmas scene, only then to notice an infinite number of potential family futures: a crying child, me yelling at a crying child, Amy yanking a child by the arm, Amy and the kids tickling me. “Please don’t let it be that one!” I laughed, pointing to one where we all wore matching argyle sweaters.
Still, there were more. Amy running terrified from me, Amy running down the front steps yelling obscenities while I stood in my underwear eating cake and yelling back. Yet another where I chased her into the bedroom, and we fell laughing into each other’s arms. One where we loaded a kiln. One where we danced to “Haunted Heart,” and she whispered into my ear. The possibilities went on and on.
“I like that one,” I said to Higgs and pointed like I was choosing from a bakery display case. “The one where Amy and I are talking to each other from across a little table in a noisy restaurant. The one where we’re so interested in each other we don’t even notice anything else. That’s the one!” I watched us laughing, bantering, sometimes sitting in awkward silences, other times stealing looks at the other from behind a raised fork or a glass. “Yeah. That’s the story I want to live,” I said, and all the different possibilities collapsed into such slight variations of the one I’d chosen they were barely discernable from each other.
“Nice choice. Now, create that reality. Remember, you are the point of reference, and this,” he pointed to the cells, “is your destination. Your work now is to create a cellular memory of this in your brain. A neurological pattern or map that helps you come and go from this place.”
“How do I do that?”
He checked his watch. Distracted, he answered, “Practice.” Then looking like he’d remembered something, he dug in his pocket. “Oh, here. It’s from Pythia. Put it in your pocket. It can get windy.”
“Windy?” I asked, taking the letter from him right before the bottom dropped and I fell back to Earth.
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