Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel) (3 page)

Then he remembered. He had left it in the bathroom along with his toothbrush, razor, herb shampoo, pine-tar soap and the other essentials in his toilet case. They were lost. He wouldn’t be going back for them.
 

He’d been born in that house and this morning he had been an intruder. He set his jaw as he realized how final—and how impersonal-were the transactions of change. There had been no real possession. Merely the illusion supported by time. He was learning already.
 

Orient was mildly dismayed by the bill for three glasses of orange juice. Four dollars. His hundred-dollar stake money wouldn’t take him very far. He was so out of touch that he had no idea how much it cost an ordinary man to live for a few weeks. He decided to go to the park.
 

As he walked slowly west toward Fifth Avenue, he pondered how ill-prepared he was for life outside his hothouse. Ever since he had entered Stanford at fifteen he had been isolated from contact with people on a normal human level. There had been girls, even at sixteen, but he was committed to work and there had been little time for developing relationships. There were studies in mathematics, science, and languages. Then medical school, his psychiatric specialization, and the great transition after he comprehended Jung and Reich. During that period he had begun his experimentation with ultranormal phenomena.
 

After that he had pursued an intensive study of the occult, that period closely followed by his immersion into yoga. Then came the journey to Tibet and the development of the telepathic technique.
 

And with all that training he had absolutely no idea of how he was to live like an ordinary man. How to find the channel between his awakened consciousness, and mankind’s simple karma. He snorted. Perhaps he should try a mind-reading act.
 

At Fifth he crossed and turned uptown, walking for a few blocks until he found a small entrance to Central Park. He walked the curving pathways for awhile, then sat down, still only half-aware of his surroundings. He looked around.
 

He was sitting by himself. A short distance away, a man with red shoulder-length hair was sitting on a bench across from him. The man had a magazine in his lap and was rolling a cigarette. He was wearing a black cowboy shirt emblazoned with silver eagles on each shoulder. Rodeo must be in town, Orient mused. He went back to his thoughts.
 

Through all the experiments with his communicants, he had been unable to bridge one vital gap. Common understanding. Probably that was why the tape was a failure. A twinge of defeat scratched at the memory of the uncompleted reel of videotape he had turned over to Andy.
 

His definitive statement.
 

His intention had been to make a visual presentation of everything he had discovered concerning human telepathic potential. He had also had a further ambition; he set out to blend science and art so skillfully, that not only would the viewer understand telepathic technique, but his own dormant powers would be stimulated to awareness in the process. Ultimate communication of communication.
 

He hadn’t been up to it. He had completely scrapped most of it. Pretentious footage of colts being born, birds in flight; a worthless cliché.
 

Still, the tape project was the one thread of his life he intended to pick up and use again. He smelled burning leaves.
 

He automatically turned toward the source of the scent. The cowboy was sitting head back, looking at the tops of the trees, smoking a cigarette. He became aware of Orient watching him and slowly got to his feet. He bent down and carefully adjusted his jeans over his high brown boots. Then he straightened up and gave Orient a long deliberate stare.
 

Orient felt a vibration of recognition. There was something familiar about the red-haired man. The cowboy turned and began strolling up the path, the smell of burning leaves fading after him. A wave of comprehension washed over Orient’s mind. The cowboy was a potential. Orient watched him disappear around a curve. And the cowboy hadn’t been smoking tobacco.
 

A few months ago he would have done everything possible to recruit the cowboy’s telepathic talent. Help him understand and develop it. Today the man was just another stranger. He had his own potential to develop.
 

He’d have to find some kind of work he could do. Medical research was out. It would be another form of removal. He needed something that would put him in touch with people. He stood up, picked up his bag, and started walking through the park.
 

His mind jumped back to the cowboy. Potentials weren’t commonplace after all. In the past four years he’d found only eight. And five of them weren’t able to complete their training. Maybe he should have tried to talk to the man.
 

He veered off the path and walked across the grass to a group of rocks. He climbed up onto the lowest ledge and leaned back against the stone, gazing at the distant 59th Street skyline.
 

He needed some place to stay. Perhaps a hotel with weekly rates.
 

But even that was only a temporary measure. In a few days he’d be out of money and in the same situation. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. He picked up his bag and began walking slowly south toward the skyline. By the time he reached the zoo he was hungry.
 

In the past he often enjoyed long walks along the Hudson and through the park, but he had always avoided this section, with its cramped cages and musky stench of animal flesh moldering in captivity. Today, however, he saw the gaudily decorated outdoor patio of the cafeteria and decided to stop for something to eat.
 

He went inside, took a tray, and looked for some food that approximated his own special diet. The closest he could come was a jar of yogurt, honey, a carrot and raisin salad and chocolate malted with a raw egg. He was pleased to discover that the whole meal came to less than he had paid for three glasses of orange juice that morning. He made a mental note to eat here more often.
 

Carrying his full tray and suitcase proved to be an intricate maneuver so he sat down at the first available table. He set the bag down next to his chair and looked around. The long-haired cowboy was sitting at the next table, grinning broadly at something his companion, a pretty blond girl, was saying.
 

When he saw Orient, the only change in his expression was a slight narrowing of his clear blue eyes. A moment later, however, he leaned over and whispered something to the girl and they both got up from the table. As they passed him, the cowboy glanced at Orient while continuing his conversation with the girl.
 

Orient calmly ate his salad. Potentials usually experienced an unexplained sense of agitation or anxiety in his presence. During his experiments he had discovered that this was due to an increase in the amount of electromagnetic energy produced by the brain, disturbing the field. Like static on a radio or the extreme fluctuations produced when charging a dormant battery.
 

He speculated again on the possibility of contacting the cowboy, then shrugged off the thought. He had to do something positive about his own battery before he could develop someone else.
 

When he was finished, he sat watching the crowd, regarding it with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. The profusion of balloons -and colors complemented the vitality that emanated from the people strolling through the area. It occurred to him that all of them appeared to be holding a definite claim on their life, and that they fully intended to keep possession. He wondered where it was they found their title.
 

He picked up his bag and moved off the terrace toward the interior of the park, deliberately avoiding the cages.
 

He wandered for a time, trying to free his mind of all thought, allowing his instincts to guide his direction. When he got to Central Park West, he veered downtown, continuing on to Columbus Circle. He saw a subway entrance, went down the steps, bought a token, and took the first train that came, still letting fate call the turns.
 

The subway was crowded and Orient, unused to the ground rules of public transportation, was pushed aside and stifled in the jam before he decided to get some fresh air a few stops later.
 

He looked around. He was at the Fourth Street Station at Washington Square. Interesting. He had always had an affinity for Greenwich Village but his visits there had been limited to brief excursions with friends.
 

He walked up the stairs to Sixth Avenue, he ambled slowly to Eight Street and turned east. The street ended at the entrance to a small, barren-looking park, and a sign informed him that he was in Tompkin’s Square. He crossed the street and entered the park.
 

A large group of old people lined the benches at the entrance. As Orient passed, he noticed they had strong-boned Slavic faces; his ears could pick out here and there a few words of Ukrainian.
 

A short distance ahead he saw the fenced recreation areas teeming with Puerto Rican and Negro youths doing gymnastics on high bars, playing softball and handball, or just standing in groups of four or five, smoking and talking.
 

Across from the playground a fantastic swarm of young people were sitting on the grass talking, sleeping, eating, playing musical instruments, or watching passersby. They all had the same ragged élan Orient had noticed in the neighborhood of the zoo. Both boys and girls were dressed in exotic mirrored vests, velvet tunics, chain belts, Arab robes, renaissance gowns, fringed buckskin jackets, swirl-dyed sweatshirts, Indian headbands, flag-striped shirts, Foreign Legion uniforms, and embroidered musketeer capes. For a moment Orient was reminded of the marketplaces of the Middle East and India. The whole scene had a wild tribal quality.
 

Orient sat down at the edge of the grass.
 

As he leaned back and relaxed, a small group of bearded young men dressed identically in flowing oriental shirts and blue jeans arranged themselves nearby. They were carrying guitars and crude drums made by stretching goatskin over large cans. They settled into a circle on the grass and began to play; first softly, then gathering increasing intensity.
 

A thin boy of four or five dressed in a green suede Robin Hood outfit, complete with feathered hat and buckskin leggings, ambled over to where he was sitting, plunked down beside him and calmly rested his chin on Orient’s knee.
 

Orient was momentarily uncomfortable. He looked around to see where the child had come from. "Don’t be uptight, it’s all right," a pleasant feminine voice called out. Orient looked up and saw a young girl at the edge of the circle of musicians beaming at him. She stood up and walked toward him.
 

She was barefoot and dressed in a mini-skirted version of the child’s Robin Hood costume. Her wavy chestnut hair hung almost to her waist and Orient saw that a large silver Ankh, the loop-topped Egyptian cross of life, was dangling from her wide belt. She sat down next to him and looked directly into his face with her wide brown eyes. "You must have a nice soul," she said seriously. "Julian won’t sit down with just anyone."
 

Orient smiled. Something about her manner dispelled any discomfort he felt. "I’m not very used to children."
 

"Children are more aware than adults," the girl said. "They feel pure vibrations, you know."
 

Orient nodded. "Perhaps I do."
 

The girl wasn’t conventionally pretty, but when she smiled, her small, sensitive face radiated a deep sense of joy. She studied him for a moment. "Perhaps you do at that," she said finally. "I’m Sun Girl."
 

"Sun Girl?" Orient repeated.
 

"That’s my name," the girl laughed, delighted at Orient’s confusion.
 

Orient thought it over. "My name is Owen," he said.
 

"That’s weird." Sun Girl leaned back on the grass.
 

"Hello, Owen," Julian said gravely.
 

They fell silent, listening to the music as it built in volume and force. Most of the young people on the grassy area gathered around the musicians, until they were packed into a tight semicircle around them, swaying and moving with the escalating rhythms. Julian had gotten to his feet and was jumping about in imitation of the twenty or so couples who were dancing to the insistent sounds. Sun Girl began to clap her hands in time to the loud, throbbing beat.
 

Orient saw that some of the neighborhood athletes had joined the garish crowd. Most of them, however, were still standing behind the wire fences of the recreation areas, watching the revelers impassively. A few—very few—were moving to the music.
 

The old people on the benches were gone.
 

Someone passed by and dropped a cellophane-wrapped sandwich and a few apples into his lap. Orient looked up. A dozen boys and girls dressed in overalls and carrying shopping bags were circulating through the crowd distributing food. He looked questioningly at Sun Girl.
 

"Pig People," she shouted over the noise. "They always show up when something groovy is happening. Like magic." Orient munched his sandwich, too amazed to answer. He felt like a visitor to a curious new country. The air became pungent with the smell of burning leaves, and the driving music was nudging more and more people up to dance. The crowd was moving and laughing ecstatically.
 

Orient caught a glimpse of the cowboy. The man was smiling broadly, snapping his fingers and swinging his long red hair from side to side. Orient stood up to get a better look and suddenly noticed that the athletes who had been standing in the play area were in full-scale exodus from the park; scrambling up fences, dropping to the sidewalks on the other side and running down the street like a small army of well-trained guerrillas.