The Enlightened (Mind Dimensions #3)(6)

I’m not surprised to see monk-like people when we enter the Temple. They have shaved heads and are wearing orange robes. Maybe they’re Buddhists? Everything points to that, though I don’t recall seeing one of those iconic, chubby statues with serene smiles and big earlobes. According to my mom Lucy, that fat guy isn’t even the original Buddha from India, but a Chinese version that came about much later.

We take an intricate set of stairs up to what looks like some kind of barracks.

“Here, put these on,” Grandpa says, handing me a robe and plain sandals that match those of the monks.

I put on the robe, feeling silly about the resultant look.

“Now that you’re more presentable, there are people I want you to meet,” Grandpa says and unceremoniously heads out of the room, preventing me from asking any questions.

Annoyed, I follow, wondering whether he would’ve ordered Caleb to drag me out of the room had I decided not to cooperate. I’m guessing the answer is yes.

The three of us enter a large amphitheater located on the top floor. Around the perimeter of the massive round room is a large circle of orange-clad monks all frozen in the lotus pose. Their faces are serene and blank. Rows and rows of candles and incense surround them. The motionless fire and smoke look like the result of high-speed, three-dimensional photography. In the center of the room, surrounded by the monks, are over a dozen figures sitting in a large circle with a foot or so between them. Their white robes match that of Grandpa’s, and like him, they all appear older. I see white hair on all but a few of the men, and those few are bald. As we approach, I notice a gray-haired, orange-robed person sitting at the very center of this strange arrangement. There is a lot of space between him and the circle of white-robed people, almost as if another, smaller circle belongs in the middle.

Navigating through the seated meditators, Grandpa approaches the white circle and touches an older woman on the back of her neck. In an instant, a lively version of this woman is looking at Grandpa intently.

“You should have a look at him,” Grandpa says, gesturing toward me. “I now have little doubt.”

The woman looks me up and down, her eyes settling on my face. Her kind, round face seems to be smiling without outwardly doing so, like the Mona Lisa.

“Hello, Darren,” she says. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

She knows my name. Is that good or bad? Probably bad.

“Hi,” I say uncomfortably. “Who are you?”

“I am Rose,” she says, breaking into a genuine smile.

“Nice to meet you, Rose.” I try to keep my tone polite. “Can you please tell me where I am?”

“Didn’t Paul explain it already?” she asks, looking at Grandpa.

“There was no time,” Paul says. “We had to make sure everything went according to plan.”

“Sure,” she says, prolonging the word to make it sound placating. I catch a hint of eye rolling. “Do we tell him now, or do we pull Edward and Marsha in?”

“Your call,” Paul says, his face even. If he noticed her reaction, he’s hiding it well.

“All right, Darren, let me start by telling you who we are,” she says, turning toward me. “You might’ve heard others refer to us as the Enlightened, though I personally think the term is a bit posh.”

The Enlightened? I can hardly believe my ears. She’s claiming they’re the legendary Readers who, according to Eugene, can stay in the Quiet for record times—like me. I glance at Caleb, seeking verification, but he’s not paying attention to me. Instead, he’s looking at the older woman, his expression that of deep respect.

Okay then.

I take a steadying breath. “I’ve heard the term mentioned,” I tell the woman. “But I’m not sure what it really means.”

“Nor am I,” she says, chuckling. “It’s just what Readers call us.”

“Okay.” I decide to give up on that line of questioning for now. “Can you tell me where this is, and more importantly, why I’m here?”

“In due time,” Paul interjects. “First, you have to tell us a few things.”

“Sure,” I say cautiously. “Like what?”

“Tell them why you asked me about Mark Robinson,” Caleb butts in.

Paul nods. “That would be a good start.”

I am so busted. If I tell them the truth, they’ll figure out my mixed heritage. But I have no idea what lie I can concoct to explain why I was asking about Mark, a long-dead Reader.

“Jacob mentioned him when we spoke, the day I got shot,” I say, deciding to start with the truth. “Naturally, I was curious.”

At the mention of Jacob’s name, Caleb’s face darkens, and I realize that wasn’t the most strategic response on my part.

“You know more,” Paul says calmly. He isn’t accusing me of lying so much as he’s simply stating a fact.

“I might,” I allow. “But why don’t you tell me something next? Quid pro quo.”

“He’s scared,” Rose says, her kind face turning serious. “Why is he scared?”

This turn in the conversation is completely unexpected. Rose sounds as though she’s defending me. Is this some kind of strange bad cop (Grandpa) / good cop (Rose, the nice old lady) game?