The chaos of burgeoning civil war had given her the cover she needed to set up camp under the guise of a stall holder in the little bazaar beside the Great Wall. Piece-by-piece she was able bring in, and assemble, her mining equipment, but she would need more than wood and canvas covers when the serious digging started. She peeked out to the open ground beside the mosque to see troops scampering. Then the slapping of gunfire and a soldier fell. Others scampered back to an empty street where they threw themselves against the nearest wall: More gunfire, this time from further away, up a street where she could see people flying into alleys and doorways. She waited: unafraid. This was a common occurrence now: almost daily as the rebel forces grew ever bolder. The prospect of death seemed not to bother them.
The other stall owners were all cowered under shelves and tables as she threaded her way back to her own little corner and dived under the counter to the wooden ladder that took her down to a door in the Great Wall. Through the door were steps, centuries worn, leading down to a cellar where there was the constant sound of dripping water. The floor was made of heavy stone slabs: too heavy to lift, and too thick to break.
She sat in the middle of the room, adopted the lotus position, and let her mind drift for a few seconds before forcing it to go blank. She had perfected the technique under the relentless tuition of Smiling George, the beautiful young monk she thought she had killed on the road in Western China. She had knocked him down with the stolen Hummer while trying to escape from Tor, a ruthless killer in the service of Commander John Conway – then in the service of the Federation of Fossil Fuel Suppliers. Picking up the shaken monk and taking him to his village she hoped to make amends to his family. In practice things went quite differently; his taught her so much more than she could offer them. Besides exploring some hitherto unknown pyramids they had shown her they also taught her how to elevate her mind to higher plain within seconds of entering meditation. Once there, in the areas of consciousness reached by few humans, she could start to connect with the memories of her ancestors. Just before the cataclysm longevity had peaked at 478 years: leaving women with centuries of freedom between bearing, and raising, children. In Egypt, and all across the Arabian Peninsular, language had developed and writing was beginning to move toward a universal format. Food, water, and shelter had long been stabilised, and music was being heard from The Rift Valley to the slopes of the Himalayas. If there was a cloud on that rosy horizon it was population growth which, if unchecked, would require migrations to edge of the warm climate zones because the flood plains would support only finite numbers.
Meira drifted further into her memory banks hoping to find some remnants of Anima. Anima was so elusive: so hard to contact. A day passed, and then a night, while new images surfaced and sank, but she couldn’t find Anima. Anima was key; she had to reach her.
She had only to eat and to admire the excellent service as it was clear that he had planned the meal carefully, leaving only his probing conversation with which to deal. “Your mother is a friend of the President of India I understand.”
“Cometh the hour; cometh the man,” or woman, is a maxim we British applied when our saviors, Wellington, Churchill . . . pulled us from crisis but, not this time. Great Britain is in need of a visionary leader to be recognized and to address the Brexit problems in an inspirational speech to shake out our moribund parliament but, it seems, there is no one: not this time. This time we are left with only those who choose not to be recognized. This time we are faced with only the mealy mouthed who dare not speak the name of another referendum; of dissolving Parliament; of forgetting the whole idiotic concept . . . We are leader less; we know not which way we are to turn. So what is to be done?
Given that ignorance and ambition brought us to the determination to leave the EU the subsequent failure to complete the job, and the realisation of our woeful ignorance of the matter, might, with a little education, bring us back to firmer ground but, how do we sugar the pill? How do we drag the blindly determined Brexiteers to the table of unalienable facts, to recognize their mistakes and, possibly, enter rehabilitation? How do we save faces and protect reputations while examining our errors and searching for better results?
A trial then – better call it a revue – of the EU and our need to exit should be undertaken in order to be sure we are doing what is best for Great Britain: Not for the ambitions of politicians; not for the profits of strategic companies; not for the rallying cries of the Nationalist or the remains of the anti-Nazis loonies; for Great Britain.
