she now understood why she had analyzed the prisoners in a visceral way, instead of trying to put labels on things or attach words to them. It was like the linguistic comments Abigail had made moments ago about the inadequacy of any lexicon to express true meanings.
“I was able to think beyond words,” Lori said. “That’s how I knew the three women were lying.”
“You are beginning to understand,” Abigail said. “We call it wordless purity. And earlier, you sensed something about the twelfth she-apostle that Dixie Lou brought in, before you knew she was a fake. What did you sense?”
“That something was strange about the baby, something that troubled me deeply.”
“And you could not put into words what you were feeling.”
Lori nodded, but as she looked at Abigail, she realized with a start that the other children were moving in synchronization with her, making the same facial expressions and even mouthing the same words with her—despite what she had said about wordless thought. Apparently oral speech was a subset of their main communication method, which Lori didn’t feel close to comprehending yet. Did they communicate through facial expressions, through subtleties in the eyes, or in some other visual fashion? Did they read each other’s minds when they touched hands, achieving wordless purity? If so, perhaps it worked better for the she-apostles to communicate with one another in this manner than it did for them to make physical contact with an outsider, such as Lori. She felt as if she were peering into a realm of infinite possibilities.
A shudder coursed Lori’s body. Looking up at the pilot, she saw that she still had her head in the engine compartment. The sounds of her tools seemed distant, as if coming from an entirely different dimension.
Letting go of Abigail, the perplexed teenager rose to her feet. She shook her head, and it seemed to clear. All the while, as if she were a laboratory specimen, the children watched her, their eyes bright. . . .
After testing the tandem engines another time, while Lori stayed with her, shadowing the process, the pilot climbed back down from the cockpit to the sand, muttering in displeasure. Her face was red, perspiring. Despite the chill in the air, she removed her jacket and tossed it aside.
“Engines are overheating now,” she said.
“Can you fix the problem?” Lori asked as she stepped onto the soft gray sand herself. She was growing increasingly concerned, beginning to lose her patience with the helicopter pilot.
“I’ll figure it out.” Rea’s voice had an edge as she stared at the helicopter.
Lori wondered if the pilot had the necessary knowledge, or if she might be delaying intentionally . . . preventing them from leaving. If that was the case, she was in league with Dixie Lou Jackson after all. The teenager felt her mind working in two ways as she thought about this. On the one hand, she still had access to her old way of thinking, and from an intellectual standpoint she suspected the pilot. Circumstantial evidence pointed to the possibility of deception. But on the other hand, utilizing her nascent visceral ability to discern another level, she didn’t suspect Rea at all, and believed in her.
Just then, the children gathered around the pilot’s jacket, where it lay on the sand. At first the pilot didn’t notice them, but Lori did, and wondered what intrigued them so much about the garment.
Dressed in a black shirt and trousers, Fujiko came out of her own tent. Rubbing her eyes, she looked at the she-apostles and the visibly upset pilot, then came over to see close up. “What’s going on?” she asked of Lori.
“Things aren’t going well.” She described the mechanical problem. “Do you think she’s faking it?” Lori asked, keeping her voice low.
“No.” The little Japanese woman shook her head, looked at the children. Lori followed her gaze.
Veronica was reaching into the pilot’s jacket pocket, and what she brought
“I was able to think beyond words,” Lori said. “That’s how I knew the three women were lying.”
“You are beginning to understand,” Abigail said. “We call it wordless purity. And earlier, you sensed something about the twelfth she-apostle that Dixie Lou brought in, before you knew she was a fake. What did you sense?”
“That something was strange about the baby, something that troubled me deeply.”
“And you could not put into words what you were feeling.”
Lori nodded, but as she looked at Abigail, she realized with a start that the other children were moving in synchronization with her, making the same facial expressions and even mouthing the same words with her—despite what she had said about wordless thought. Apparently oral speech was a subset of their main communication method, which Lori didn’t feel close to comprehending yet. Did they communicate through facial expressions, through subtleties in the eyes, or in some other visual fashion? Did they read each other’s minds when they touched hands, achieving wordless purity? If so, perhaps it worked better for the she-apostles to communicate with one another in this manner than it did for them to make physical contact with an outsider, such as Lori. She felt as if she were peering into a realm of infinite possibilities.
A shudder coursed Lori’s body. Looking up at the pilot, she saw that she still had her head in the engine compartment. The sounds of her tools seemed distant, as if coming from an entirely different dimension.
Letting go of Abigail, the perplexed teenager rose to her feet. She shook her head, and it seemed to clear. All the while, as if she were a laboratory specimen, the children watched her, their eyes bright. . . .
After testing the tandem engines another time, while Lori stayed with her, shadowing the process, the pilot climbed back down from the cockpit to the sand, muttering in displeasure. Her face was red, perspiring. Despite the chill in the air, she removed her jacket and tossed it aside.
“Engines are overheating now,” she said.
“Can you fix the problem?” Lori asked as she stepped onto the soft gray sand herself. She was growing increasingly concerned, beginning to lose her patience with the helicopter pilot.
“I’ll figure it out.” Rea’s voice had an edge as she stared at the helicopter.
Lori wondered if the pilot had the necessary knowledge, or if she might be delaying intentionally . . . preventing them from leaving. If that was the case, she was in league with Dixie Lou Jackson after all. The teenager felt her mind working in two ways as she thought about this. On the one hand, she still had access to her old way of thinking, and from an intellectual standpoint she suspected the pilot. Circumstantial evidence pointed to the possibility of deception. But on the other hand, utilizing her nascent visceral ability to discern another level, she didn’t suspect Rea at all, and believed in her.
Just then, the children gathered around the pilot’s jacket, where it lay on the sand. At first the pilot didn’t notice them, but Lori did, and wondered what intrigued them so much about the garment.
Dressed in a black shirt and trousers, Fujiko came out of her own tent. Rubbing her eyes, she looked at the she-apostles and the visibly upset pilot, then came over to see close up. “What’s going on?” she asked of Lori.
“Things aren’t going well.” She described the mechanical problem. “Do you think she’s faking it?” Lori asked, keeping her voice low.
“No.” The little Japanese woman shook her head, looked at the children. Lori followed her gaze.
Veronica was reaching into the pilot’s jacket pocket, and what she brought
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