Love Story: In The Web of Life

  Love Story:

  In The Web Of Life

  By Ken Renshaw

  ****

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011, Ken Renshaw

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

  Thank you for downloading this free eBook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons , living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  ****

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to express my appreciation to Dr. J.K. Parker for her reviews, editing and encouragement. I am indebted to Dr. R. Targ and Dr. E. Rauscher developed the 8-space theory that provided the scientific basis for this book. Darlene Bowe's extensive and patient additions to story style were welcomed. David Strom contributions to the story structure were valued. Gayle Oksen's gave me encouragement with her review when needed most. I thank my fellow writers, and Paula Cizmar at Rough Writers for their support and comments. Kelly Wade's careful final editing gave me the confidence to publish.

  DEDICATION

  To

  Joycee

  my

  Muse

  ****

  Earlier Explorations By

  Ken Renshaw

  Science, Remote Viewing and ESP

  The Secret Of Your Life Script

  Penelope Bat: Her Odyssey With the Spirits of Nature

  Some Of Ken's Essays

  Why Quantum Entanglement Works

  Describing Acupuncture Energy Flows With Electromagnetics

  ****

  Table of Contents

  Quotation

  Chapter One WANDERING IN THE DESERT

  Chapter Two BEING A LAWYER

  Chapter Three A NEW BEGINNING

  Chapter Four THE WAVE

  Chapter Five ROCKY BUTTE

  Chapter Six BACK IN LA

  Chapter Seven DAVID UNDERSTANDS

  Chapter Eight THE TRIAL

  Chapter Nine THE QUIET TIME

  Appendix: CANDICE'S EIGHT-DIMENSIONAL MOVIE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ****

  Quotation

  And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.

  There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

  Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

  Hamlet

  Act 1, Scene 5

  ****

  Chapter One

  WANDERING IN THE DESERT

  Things were not going according to plan. On this fine, spring soaring day, I had planned a simple sailplane-flying task. I would fly forty miles across the Mojave Desert from CrystalAire airport and return. Now, I was struggling on my return trip. I was over Rosamond Dry Lake, and all the thermals had vanished. I was down to a thousand feet, flying in two hundred foot circles in weak lift. The gravity force from flying in a forty-five degree bank pushed me down in my seat. I was sweating. The control stick was wet in my hand. I opened the cabin vent. The lift petered out. I widened my circles to hunt for other lift. I felt my right wing nudged up. I turned in that direction to search for a weak thermal. No such luck.

  I slowly lost altitude. My attention turned to landing on Rosamond Dry Lake, an expanse of dry silt about five miles wide and five miles long. I would land near the western shore, within a couple of miles, walking distance, of a highway, near scrub brush, which I could tie my sailplane to if I had to abandon it and walk.

  I had landed away from the airport before. A sailplane pilot always has a potential landing spot in mind, another airport, a dry lake, or, sometimes, a farmer's field where you might be greeted with a pitcher of lemonade, a beer, or a shotgun depending on who lived there. Today, there would be only dry silt greeting me.

  I put down my landing gear, set the flaps, glided down to about ten feet above the lake, and stretched my glide until I approached the shore. I opened the drive brakes and landed, stopping about a hundred feet from the border of lake. I opened the canopy, took a big breath of the eighty-degree desert and sat, disgusted with my planning. I worried the desert heat or dryness had done something to my vision. I had seen intense lashes of light, appearing first in my instruments dials, then on the canopy and along the wings. I was alarmed. Pilots can't have their eyes playing tricks on them.

  There are only two real moving parts in a sailplane, the mind of the pilot and his eyes. The mind finds thermals and feels the joy of climbing at five hundred or, sometimes, a thousand feet per minute and then flying at a hundred miles per hour to the next thermal, ten or twenty miles away. The eyes have to see where to find that thermal.

  I picked up my radio microphone and called, "CrystalAire this is King Romeo."

  No answer! Out of radio range! Shit!

  I undid my shoulder harness and parachute, climbed out of the sailplane, took a big swig out of my water bottle, and started the hot, sweaty labor of pushing the sailplane over the dry silt of the lake to a clear area at the shore. I sat in the shade of the wing, panted and drank more water. As my tongue passed over my lips, I tasted the salt from the sweat of the day.

  I picked up the microphone from the cockpit and tried again.

  "CrystalAire this is King Romeo."

  No answer!

  "Any pilot, requesting a relay."

  No answer. Damn!

  I would have to walk to where there is cell phone coverage. Shit!

  If it had been the middle of summer, with a temperature of over a hundred degrees, walking would wait until the cool of the evening. Today, with the temperature in the eighties, it would be ok to walk if I drank lots of water.

  I reached behind into the compartment behind the cockpit, grabbed my land–out pack, and pulled out an energy bar and a can of Gatorade. I picked up the microphone from the cockpit and tried again.

  "CrystalAire this is King Romeo."

  Disappointing silence.

  "Any pilot, requesting a relay."

  Damnable quiet.

  Feeling desperate, I took out my cell phone. It read, "No service."

  While cursing my luck, I shouldered the pack and began walking toward the highway to find cell phone coverage.

  It hadn't been a good day. I had left this morning with an unspoken disagreement with my new lady friend, Tina.

  I was getting ready to leave my mobile home, next to the end CrystalAire airport runway, a short walk from where I kept my sailplane. I was saying goodbye to Tina, who is about twenty-five years old, five feet four, with olive skin, reddish brown hair, and a modestly proportioned figure. She is four inches shorter than me. She doesn't make me feel short. I really like her, except for her irritating lapses into airy-fairy New Age thinking.

  "I should be back in early afternoon, about four at the latest. I have planned an easy practice flight." I told her.

  She studied me with that strange stare in her big light blue eyes and said, "Maybe not. I'll fix a dinner that we can eat any time if you get back late. We will need beer. There are only two cans in the fridge. Is there a store at the country club center?"

  Becoming irritated, I replied, "My mobile is on the undesirable periphery of the country club, next to the airport, considered 'the other side if the tracks,' too close to the runway, by those stuffy, mostly retired membership that live in condos on the golf course. They are not my kind of people; I have never joined the club. Use my Porsche to go to that
gas station down on the main highway."

  "OK," she beamed. "Have fun flying."

  I noticed I was stiff as she gave me a kiss goodbye.

  After about a quarter mile trek across the desert, I saw a hill topped by a big boulder. After climbing to the top of the boulder, I took out my cell phone and looked. ‘Two bars! Hooray!'

  I dialed CrystalAire airport operations. Celia, the high school girl who worked at the airport, answered.

  "Hi Celia. This is Dave Willard. I need a retrieve from Rosamond Dry Lake."

  "Hi Dave. Are you flying the plane with King Romeo on the tail?"

  "Yes, can you send a tow plane over here?"

  "The last student pilot has just started his lesson. He will probably make four short flights. Dan can come over to tow you back. He will be there in an hour or hour and a half. Exactly where are you?"

  I read her the GPS coordinates I had written down before I left my sailplane.

  "West end of Rosamond Dry Lake, I got it," acknowledged Celia.

  "Since you won't be back until after five thirty, I won't see you. The office will be closed. See you tomorrow."

  "Thanks, goodbye."

  I texted Tina, "I won't be back until about 5:30. :("

  I texted Tina instead of talking to her and admitting she was right in her intuition about me getting back late and needing beer. I didn't want to encourage her in making prognostications about my flying ability.

  As I climbed down from the boulder, I noticed another flash of light under the boulder. ‘I'd better see my eye doctor and get that checked out.’ I mused and started to walk back toward the lake.

  ‘The weekend had started very well,' I thought. Tina and I were at a Black Tie reception at the Getty Villa antiquity museum in Malibu. She looked fantastic in her black evening dress, wearing just the right amount of make-up and her hair in a fashionable uplift bum.

  "I really want to look at the Cycladic and Greek vase display," she had said as we had cocktails and ate hors d'oeuvres in the atrium of the Villa. She steered me to one of the side galleries, filled with large, well lit display cases containing clay–fired jugs, bowls and other containers. She pointed to a large jar and said, "This is from the Cycladic civilization, about 3,000 BCE, in the Aegean Sea. Notice the geometric carving on the jug. No figures are carved here."

  I noticed Paul Jefferies, one of the senior partners in my law firm, and his young trophy wife, Elaine, had joined us.

  Interrupting Tina, I made introductions.

  "Please continue with your description," said Paul, "it is interesting."

  Tina moved over to another case, leaned over, pointed and said, "By contrast, this jar is from Athens, about 500 BCE. Notice how the black figures portray Theseus battling the Minotaur in the labyrinth on the island of Crete. These figures over here are the youths that were to be human sacrifices. Most of the jars in this area are decorated with scenes from mythology."

  Paul seemed more interested in looking down the front of Tina’s dress than noticing the Minotaur.

  "This one, over here, depicts Hercules, wearing the skin of the lion he slew, delivering a mortal blow to Kyknos. These people standing around at the side are their relatives."

  Paul seemed very interested in skin.

  "Very interesting, thank you," said Elaine, looking very threatened by the interest Paul was giving to the lecture, and to Tina. She led Paul away.

  It had been a wonderful evening.

  A slight desert breeze came up as I continued to walk, nipping on my water.

  I continued to muse, 'Maybe contrast makes good relationships. I am a patent attorney dealing with hard scientific facts. She is a high school teacher, dealing with ideas. If only she would leave this New Age mumbo jumbo alone'

  I got back to the sailplane and looked out across the dry lake. There were still wavy mirages in the distance. It was mysterious that all thermal activity had stopped in this end of the lake.

  The air in the Mojave boils like water in a hot pan during still summer days. Streams of bubbles rise from the surface and form into columns of rising air called thermals. Sometimes they join together to form dust devils, small dirty tornados that suck up everything smaller than a person, often rising to ten, sometimes, fourteen thousand feet. I have seen pages of newspapers floating at ten thousand feet, apparently migrating to wherever newspapers go to die. Somehow, this area of the Mojave was set on simmer today.

  I placed my emergency pack on the ground as a pillow in the shade under the wing, and lay down for a nap. I closed my eyes and started to drift off to sleep.

  Then, I heard a voice that startled me.

  It said, "Take me to your leader."

  I wondered if I was hallucinating and, if so, why did I have to do it in a cliché.

  I looked around and said, "Who is there?"

  "Over here," the voice said. "The speck of light."

  A few yards away, lying at the border between the dry lake and the shore was a broken clear glass bottle, maybe an old Mason jar, from the days when people canned their own food. Inside the bottle was a very intense bright speck of light, like the spot a welder makes when he is arc welding two pieces of metal together. It was a brighter version of the flashes of light I had been seeing this afternoon while flying.

  I was shocked. It took me a few moments to respond. "Am I supposed to let you out or something? You want me to take you to what leader?"

  "No," it seemed to chuckle, "We were only making what we think you would call a joke. We thought a burning bush would be too cliché. We were afraid that if we spoke directly into your head we couldn't have what you call a conversation. This spark is only a convenient focal point."

  "A conversation?" I asked, wondering if the desert had dehydrated me and I was hallucinating.

  "Come over and sit in the shade of this bush and relax. We apologize for startling you," said the speck of light.

  I got up, wanted to run, but I walked over to the shade of a bush, sat down, took several long drags of water from my bottle, paused, and noticed that I felt a great sense of peace as I relaxed.

  "Now, lets start from the beginning." I said, "If you are not a hallucination or a mirage, who or what are you?"

  The speck of light shimmered, "We understand. With your scientific background and belief system, you will have difficulty understanding who we are and how it is that we are communicating with you. We are communicating with you from another place outside space-time that you do not yet understand."

  I grew more uneasy and then asked, "We? Who are you?"

  The speck shimmered as it seemed to chuckle and said, "You may think of us a group of friends who have formed a group consciousness that is communicating as one voice. We have never had bodies. We are un-incarnated intelligences who want to have a conversation with you. "

  "Are you like angels?" I asked.

  The speck of light replied, "That is sort of the right idea. However, in your civilization you have pictured angels as incarnated into bodies with wings and halos and draped them in flowing robes. We don't have bodies to hang wings on. You have also made angels employees of your various, shall we say, tribal Gods. Think of us as freelancers."

  "Freelancers? Are you some sort of bounty hunter? Am I going to abducted?"

  "No." The light blinked. "We come in love and peace. We only want to communicate with you."

  "What do I call you," I asked

  "We don't really have a name or names as you think of it–you can address us as 'Uriel' if you wish."

  "OK Uriel, but where are you?" I asked.

  "We have a very different view of reality than that earthlings hold." Said Uriel. "We are outside space-time as you know it."

  "You say 'earthlings.' Does that mean you are from another planet?" I asked.

  "Not really, we think of 'earthlings' as a viewpoint, not as a place. It is what you might call a state of mind."

  I wanted to run, call 911, or something. This must be a dream or a hallucinati
on. 'Am I loosing it? Is this a desert madness of some sort?'

  "Why are you talking to me? Am I supposed to become a prophet or something?" I inquired with some trepidation.

  "No we don't want you to grow a beard and go around carrying a sign saying 'Repent! The End Is Near.' We want to explain some limitations of what you call science and expand your view of reality. We wish you to communicate these ideas through ways you understand."

  "Carrying on a conversation with spirits about physical science seems a little inconsistent," I observed in a lawyerly way. "You are nonphysical and science deals with the physical."

  Uriel replied, "We want to help you understand that much of what you consider outside your science really obeys the laws of your physics. That misunderstanding is constraining whole fields of endeavor, such as healing, interpersonal relationships, and even politics. But, that understanding is a goal and not the starting point. Let's start by discussing limitations on what your schools teach about physics. We can build on those ideas"

  "OK, but I am confused," I mumbled, thinking to myself, 'I really should run or something.'

  "First we will talk about what you already only partially understand, the ideas of space and time," said Uriel.

  "Oh, I don't understand all that stuff about Einstein's Theory of Relativity. I really don't want to go through all of the math and those weird concepts. One time, I had a patent case that involved Relativity and I had to search for a technical expert. I could never understand him, all I learned was that Relativity wasn't germane to the patent case," I said in a lawyerly voice.

  "Einstein's mystique is part of the problem. People on your planet are reluctant to think much about space-time because Einstein raised the mathematical hurdle so far. He had only part of the answer. His mathematics professor, Minkowski, was closer to the answer with his theory of eight dimensions."