experience; or else we choose to recast it as a dream ...
No, what he learned at the Sheriff’s home would not be of immediate or practical value. Still, Hero thought, one had to start somewhere.
It took him only a few minutes to prepare to leave his body. There was always the potential of danger: his body might be moved in his absence, so that he would not be able to find it when he returned. He dismissed the possibility. Carverstown was a small place, with a population of not more than fifteen thousand. Obviously he would not have to travel far in order to find the Sheriff’s residence. In his absence from jail, if the sphere around his body was disturbed he could return in a fraction of a second. He would risk a seizure from the speed of re-entry, or a few hours of acute discomfort should he slide back into his body at a bad angle.
Hero, lying on his back, closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and meditated on the address, 322 Georgia Avenue, SW. It was always best to know exactly where he wanted to go. Wandering about once he was free of the body could mean trouble. Violation of the ethereal envelope around this world would instantly plunge him into netherworlds, dimensions frightening for the creatures they contained, and frequently incomprehensible to the human mind. But Hero was a skilled out-of-the-body traveler, always careful.
Tonight extra precautions had to be observed, so that he wouldn’t be seen by someone—Sheriff Stone, for instance—who could recognize him. The döppelganger, although it was not composed of flesh, was never invisible and appeared quite real to the untutored eye.
With a slight tickling sensation, then a little pop in the region of his breastbone, Hero separated from the flesh-and-blood body and hovered momentarily, radiant, above the still form on the bunk, connected to it by a thin bluish cord of pure energy, like a laser beam but flexible. Although he would be on the street in a few moments, only animals and those rare individuals with clairvoyant powers would realize that he was a wraith; they would be able to distinguish the light-cord that connected him to his body in the basement cell at the Sheriff’s station.
In the next instant he had left the building and was standing on the corner opposite the courthouse. Traffic was slow. Next to Hero there was a glass-sided bus shelter with a route map on it. He looked up the street and saw a sooty bus coming toward him. On the side of the bus there was a placard advertising a local mortuary: Daimler Brothers.
The bus doors wheezed open in front of Hero. He looked at the driver, a husky black man wearing shades with sapphire-blue lenses.
“Come on,” the black man said. “What is you waiting for? Ain’t no more buses tonight, this here’s the only one.”
“Are you going to Georgia Avenue?”
The black man laughed. “If you say so. I’m just driving this thing wherever it is the two of you wants to go.”
“The two of us?” Hero said, looking around. He seemed to be alone.
“Sho’. Why else ride the bus? Y’all don’t need me to where it is you’re going.” He snapped his fingers. “Man, you can go anywheres, just that quick.”
“I don’t think I’m allowed to go with you,” Hero said. “Don’t worry none about that pretty blue cord.” Hero never worried about the cord, which took care of itself. The cord didn’t become wrapped around lamp posts, tangled in bushes, caught in revolving doors. It was always just there , unobtrusively. “You is safe, long as you stays on the bus,” the black man assured him. “And she do need to talk to you, hear?”
“Where is she?” Hero asked.
The black man jerked a thumb over one shoulder. “Right back there. Let’s get on with it, now; I got a schedule to maintain.”
As soon as Hero was aboard he saw Taryn Melwood on the bench seat in the rear of the bus. She was doing her nails. She put down the bottle of polish and gestured cheerily.
At the mortuary
No, what he learned at the Sheriff’s home would not be of immediate or practical value. Still, Hero thought, one had to start somewhere.
It took him only a few minutes to prepare to leave his body. There was always the potential of danger: his body might be moved in his absence, so that he would not be able to find it when he returned. He dismissed the possibility. Carverstown was a small place, with a population of not more than fifteen thousand. Obviously he would not have to travel far in order to find the Sheriff’s residence. In his absence from jail, if the sphere around his body was disturbed he could return in a fraction of a second. He would risk a seizure from the speed of re-entry, or a few hours of acute discomfort should he slide back into his body at a bad angle.
Hero, lying on his back, closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and meditated on the address, 322 Georgia Avenue, SW. It was always best to know exactly where he wanted to go. Wandering about once he was free of the body could mean trouble. Violation of the ethereal envelope around this world would instantly plunge him into netherworlds, dimensions frightening for the creatures they contained, and frequently incomprehensible to the human mind. But Hero was a skilled out-of-the-body traveler, always careful.
Tonight extra precautions had to be observed, so that he wouldn’t be seen by someone—Sheriff Stone, for instance—who could recognize him. The döppelganger, although it was not composed of flesh, was never invisible and appeared quite real to the untutored eye.
With a slight tickling sensation, then a little pop in the region of his breastbone, Hero separated from the flesh-and-blood body and hovered momentarily, radiant, above the still form on the bunk, connected to it by a thin bluish cord of pure energy, like a laser beam but flexible. Although he would be on the street in a few moments, only animals and those rare individuals with clairvoyant powers would realize that he was a wraith; they would be able to distinguish the light-cord that connected him to his body in the basement cell at the Sheriff’s station.
In the next instant he had left the building and was standing on the corner opposite the courthouse. Traffic was slow. Next to Hero there was a glass-sided bus shelter with a route map on it. He looked up the street and saw a sooty bus coming toward him. On the side of the bus there was a placard advertising a local mortuary: Daimler Brothers.
The bus doors wheezed open in front of Hero. He looked at the driver, a husky black man wearing shades with sapphire-blue lenses.
“Come on,” the black man said. “What is you waiting for? Ain’t no more buses tonight, this here’s the only one.”
“Are you going to Georgia Avenue?”
The black man laughed. “If you say so. I’m just driving this thing wherever it is the two of you wants to go.”
“The two of us?” Hero said, looking around. He seemed to be alone.
“Sho’. Why else ride the bus? Y’all don’t need me to where it is you’re going.” He snapped his fingers. “Man, you can go anywheres, just that quick.”
“I don’t think I’m allowed to go with you,” Hero said. “Don’t worry none about that pretty blue cord.” Hero never worried about the cord, which took care of itself. The cord didn’t become wrapped around lamp posts, tangled in bushes, caught in revolving doors. It was always just there , unobtrusively. “You is safe, long as you stays on the bus,” the black man assured him. “And she do need to talk to you, hear?”
“Where is she?” Hero asked.
The black man jerked a thumb over one shoulder. “Right back there. Let’s get on with it, now; I got a schedule to maintain.”
As soon as Hero was aboard he saw Taryn Melwood on the bench seat in the rear of the bus. She was doing her nails. She put down the bottle of polish and gestured cheerily.
At the mortuary
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