By Kudra
kudra_x@yahoo.com
 

Disclaimer:  These characters aren't mine.  They
belong to Chris Carter, 1013 & Fox, but they sure
are fun to play with.
Category: Post-The Truth, MSR
Summary: Mulder and Scully struggle with the
reality of their new existence months after the
events of "William" and "The Truth."
Archive: Feel free, but please let me know where.

Author's Note: Thanks a million to the lovely and
talented Elizabeth Rowandale for setting such a
high standard with her terrific (and patient) beta.
 

"The Geometry of Loss"
by Kudra

**Cassandra ... the Cassandra of myth, not
Spender... went insane when she was granted the
gift of prognostication.  Although she had foreseen
a future of certain doom, she was doubly cursed...
for no one believed her dire predictions.  Her
cries unheeded, Troy burned while she shrieked.

These days Scully and I find ourselves in a similar
predicament.  Gifted with scraps of wisdom from the
gods, we have no seal of authenticity.  Not that
this is anything new.  I've been a voice crying in
the wilderness for years now, but Scully...
Scully's still green at this game.

And now she's got nothing to put her back against
except me.

Funny how now that there's no longer anything left
to lose, it's finally the time for us.**

******

"Are you thinking about him?" Scully asks, lazily
twirling a now brown curl around her finger.

Him.  Of course she means William.  Their son was a
baby elephant in the room most of the time, the
issue they were continually stepping around.
They'd made verbal peace with the adoption, but it
would never be entirely resolved in their souls.

There is a strange geometry to loss, the way we
sharpen the angles, soften the edges, and reshape
ourselves, reconciling that which has been removed.
By now the two of them were masters in that field.
As a means of assuaging wounds they couldn't speak
of, they made love with intensity and a freedom
they'd never had before.

Strange currency to barter.

*Freedom.*

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to
lose," Scully has reminded him.  "Shut up, Janis,"
he answers her.  He wants to kiss away her
cynicism, fill up her empty places with hope, but
he remembers his part in building her fortress.

"I was," he replies, fingering his still unfamiliar
beard, "I was thinking he's probably said his first
few words by now."

"Yes," she smiles, eyes far away.  "I wonder what
they were."

"Let's hope for his parents' sake they weren't 'me
- want -  believe.'"

She laughs in spite of herself.

After all the pain that had passed between them, he
feels he can pay his debt by balancing darkness
with light.

******

The wind whips through her hair as they head for
the next town, the desert a burnished jewel before
them.  It almost feels normal, the two of them in a
car.  Funny that the nostalgic everyday things she
longs for most are not cozy evenings spent by the
fire, but drives to shadowy stakeouts or meetings
with crackpots with leads.

******

Sometimes the tension builds and they drag out
their old scripts.  "You should go back home, live
your life, Scully." Mulder says earnestly.  "You
don't deserve this kind of existence, always
running.  This isn't living, Scully."

She plays her part, a command performance.  "And
you deserve it?  Mulder, you are my life now.  This
is what we are."

They've danced too many versions of this same tango
to count.  Mulder takes the lead ... Lead Martyr,
as usual, and Scully follows, offering her own
sacrifice.  She wonders if they frequent this path
periodically to give their existence the drama and
meaning it is beginning to lose.

Who are they without the quest?  They expected to
be watching their backs continuously when they
began this nomadic lifestyle, but gradually they
realized no one seemed to be tracking them.  Were
they actually running from something?  Or had they
become so conditioned to expect tragedy that they
couldn't accept the possibility of peace?

******

When he'd left the last time, he'd thought the
safest thing was for him to be far away from them.
With a child, the stakes were far too high for him
to selfishly stay in her life.  Scully had lost too
much already, and bit by bit, their son was healing
her scars, closing her wounds.  Besides, he was
sure William was more likely to become a functional
adult if he stayed on the periphery.  As usual,
he'd assumed it was all about him, and he kicked
himself daily for his ignorance, his arrogance.

******

Once, in those heady days of what some would call
courtship, he'd taken her to see "The Matrix," and
she had laughed bitterly throughout the film.
Mulder had glanced nervously around the theater,
certain they were breaking the geek code of
composure for science fiction movies.  "Scully,"
he'd whispered, "I don't think this is supposed to
be a comedy."

"Mulder," she'd sighed, "this is no comedy.  This
is my life."  Pulling her closer, Mulder had a
sudden flash of her soul taking one more step away
from its center, even as his reached ever closer to
balance.  They were meeting in the middle, smiling
at the same absurdity underneath the madness in
their lives... finally on the same wavelength...
but he'd felt more than a twinge of guilt at what
that had cost her.

******

They had decided South Dakota would be a nice place
to go next.  Nothing but time.  Two drifters, off
to see the world.  Such a lot of world to see.

How do you fill the hours until the Apocalypse?

Mulder was intrigued by the alien landscapes he'd
seen in books about the Badlands, and Scully kept
hearing how scenic the Black Hills were during
meaningless conversations with sunbaked strangers.
All those years of intrigue and deception and
living on the razor's edge of duty and sacrifice,
only to end up as tourists before the end of the
world.  Mulder had envisioned many scenarios for
the finale of his quest, but none of them had
included a slow and numbing existential struggle.

Months ago, they'd started their journey with
promise and hope, but grew increasingly discouraged
with the lack of leads, the dearth of information.
Without the resources and credentials of the FBI,
they were left with only fruitless Internet
searches, expeditions that sent them in endless
circles, whispers and rumors.

As much as they'd considered themselves renegades,
two people against the world, there had always been
fellow travelers along the way to help them.  The
Gunmen... Skinner ... trustworthy analysts in the
lab.  When it served their purposes, even those
affiliated with their enemies had occasionally
aided their quest.  Now Mulder was bewildered by
visions, shadows of former friends and foes that
spoke to him in the darkness and whispered things
he could not yet comprehend.

A man, a warrior, without purpose is a dangerous
vessel.  Teetering on the fringe of madness was
familiar to him, but this lack of direction... this
paralysis...

Her touch kept him from falling.  He was bound to
her now more than ever before... if no longer sword
to sword, then certainly soul to soul.  They would
find their way out of this maze.

******

Before they leave, Scully flicks on the television
to check the forecast.

"... authorities questioned in a three-state
manhunt.  But there were no witnesses to a crime
that happened silently in the middle of the night.
A two-year old was taken from his bedroom in
western Wyoming during the early hours of Wednesday
morning.  There are no signs of struggle or stress,
only unidentified burn marks on the child's
pillowcase and the floor beside his bed.  If anyone
has seen this child, you are urged to contact your
local authorities."

A photograph fills the screen.  A healthy toddler
with reddish curls, a sprinkling of faint freckles,
twinkling blue eyes.  A name flashes, "William Van
De Kamp, Age 2, Worland, Wyoming."

"Mulder," says Scully, frozen.  "It's William."

"They're flushing us out, Scully."

*********************
 

Chapter 2
 

*In perhaps the darkest of Greek tragedies, Medea kills
her own children to avenge Jason's betrayal, his
desertion.  It's an act of mad and utter desperation
that shatters what is left of her soul.

I know I am not Medea, even in my blackest moments, but
did some part of me believe the loss of William might
bring Mulder back?  He'd left... again.

I told him to leave.

Did I want him to suffer?

And in giving my child away, have I condemned him to
death as surely as if I had cut his throat myself?*

*********

They drive to Worland in a silence that grows heavier
with each passing mile.  He grips the steering wheel,
his mind spinning, finding angles, making connections.
Questions and answers collide in his mind with lightning
speed like the insects that splatter against the
windshield.

Back to business as usual.

Only there's little exhilaration this time.

She breaks the silence first, her voice hushed and
distant, as through a confessional screen.  "There's
been one thing that's kept me going all this time... and
that is believing that he was safe, that he didn't have
to live his life like this."

"We didn't have any assurance that he would be safe," he
notes, his eyes locked on the road.

"But I believed it.  I had to..." she says softly,
looking out the window. "Otherwise, letting him go was
all for nothing."  She closes her eyes.  "But, then, I
never really let him go."

He clenches inside.  Years of disbelief, accepting
nothing that wasn't rooted in science, yet the most
precious things she has always taken on simple faith.

Sometimes the paradox of her tears him in two.

"Scully, you gave him up." And he regrets it the instant
his words hit the air.

"No, Mulder, *you* gave *us* up."

And he recoils inwardly, as if she had slapped him
across the face.

They return to the comfort of silence.

*You told me to go, Scully...*

*I told you to go because I knew you weren't ready to
stay.*

******

Scully fights tears as her mind wanders, tripping on its
own journey while they pass by mesas, buttes, snowcapped
peaks.  She feels a strange kinship with these solitary
pillars crowned by ice.

And she thinks about soft blue hats and off-key
lullabies and the sweet, powdery scent of a fuzzy little
head and how she loved to nuzzle him closely, drinking
it all in, this union of he and she.

He... cold in the grave... snow on the ground, winter in
her heart, spring in her womb. She remembers the battle
between the death in her soul and the new life within
her.

She remembers how he looked at her through weary and
puzzled eyes and asked, "Who are you?" She'd been
momentarily thrown until she noticed that twinkle and
knew that had to be him.  No clone would ever stoop to
Mulder's gallows humor.

She remembers how his eyes caught the swell of her belly
and how he reached toward it with wonder, as if touching
the stars.  It tugged at her heart, because she knew he
wasn't ready for this, didn't know if he would ever be,
but she whispered, "We did this, Mulder," believing it
herself for the first time.

And she remembers sitting in his nursery after driving
away without him, surrounded by toys and colorful
blankets, and utterly, desolately alone.  Ignoring
Monica's concerned yet chirpy messages on her answering
machine, she sat in his room and thought of fire, a
sweeping, merciless flame that could consume it all.

Hadn't she all but thrown herself on the pyre after
Mulder left?

******

"Scully," he asks, placing his suitcase on the bed, "you
know he's not going to be here, don't you?"

"Of course I know that, Mulder," she says, always
impatient when he states the obvious, "but I do think
it's important that we check out the scene of the crime
and what's going on in the area."

He nods, letting her have control of the plan.  It's not
at all their usual protocol... reckless, even, but he
knows why they are here, what she needs to see.  There's
something raw and vulnerable underneath her
rationalizations, something he can't quite touch, and
although he feels it, he doesn't speak of it.

"Okay, one more question, Scully," he flops down on the
bed, long legs sprawled, "Are you sure it's a good idea
to just go waltzing into a police station?"

"It's rural Wyoming, Mulder," she replies, "I can be
discreet and professional.  Besides, that's the best
place for me to ascertain the situation locally."

"I'll go with you," he offers, even though he knows what
her answer will be.

"Mulder, you're a fugitive from a federal murder charge.
You know as well as I do that it's too much risk for
you."

"But you've been aiding and abetting, Scully," he grins,
"And I've got a beard now..."

"Forget it, Mulder," she orders, smiling now. "You stay
and work on finding out what's available online.
Between the two of us, we can hopefully figure out where
to go from here."

*We've been saying that for months now, haven't we,
Scully?*

*********

She marches into the police station, just as she has a
thousand times before in thousands of such offices.

"I'm here to inquire about the William Mul---Van de Camp
abduction case," she declares, with an authority she no
longer believes.

"And who are you?" asks the officer.

Before she thinks, she blurts, "I'm his mother."

Has she ever been this rash, this uncalculated?  Since
William came into her life, her womb, she's begun to
feel again, the joy and the sorrow she'd put away years
ago.  Even after two years, it's still new and
disconcerting in its unfamiliarity, and since he's been
gone, she sometimes thinks she'd like to rip out her
heart just to establish control again.

"Well," answers the officer, forcing her back into the
moment, "then this case is getting more complicated by
the minute."

He gestures at a couple sitting bent over their coffee
cups, huddled with a loss that Scully understands all
too well.

"Linda," he motions to the woman, "come over here."

The woman looks up expectantly, hope in her eyes.
Realization hits Scully and she grips the desk for
stability.

"Tell her who you are," he asks gently, as Linda walks
over to Scully.

"Good evening," she says, warmly. "I'm Linda Van de
Camp, William's mother." She extends her hand to Scully
with a smile.  "And you are?"

Then she focuses on Scully's features, taking in the
stubborn reddish streaks shining through the brunette
dye, the pale skin, the clear blue eyes washed through
with pain.  Scully watches as recognition dawns and
Linda's face crumbles.

"You're William's... birth mother..." she breathes,
almost inaudibly, "Oh my god..." and her eyes cloud over
as she grips Scully's hand tighter.

Scully knows that her heart beats with the same rhythm -
-- the same pitter patter of the same tiny feet--- as
the woman before her, and she wants to reach out to her,
to comfort her, mother to mother, but a familiar, cool
precision takes over.

*Relax, Dana, I'll handle this.*

"Yes, my name is... Deborah Newland," she says,
measuring her words carefully.

She's never liked the aliases they've been forced to
use, but she knows she's painted herself into a corner.

Each time she offers a false name, she feels she is
forfeiting another piece of herself.  In this case,
however, her uncharacteristic slip of the tongue prompts
her to send a silent prayer of thanks to Melvin Frohike
for allowing them to get this far on stolen identities.

"I am also a former law enforcement officer... with
experience in multiple cases of missing children.  I'm
interested in assisting with William's case."

She pauses, a steel resolve overcoming her
doubt. "I have reason to believe that this is not an
ordinary kidnapping."

********

Mulder stares intently into his laptop, its blue glow
piercing the orange and brown landscape of the motel
room.  Searching for facts about the area and its
geology, scraps of information about his son's case, he
uses every bit of hacker's technique he ever picked up
from the Gunmen.  Arguably it wasn't much, but he's
certainly had the opportunity, not to mention the
necessity, to sharpen his skills over the past year.

He's sitting in the dark, his computer and the
television the only lights in the room.  If Scully were
here, she'd insist he turn a light on to save whatever
is left of his eyes, but she's still out.

And he likes sitting in the dark, always has.  These
days he feels more comfortable wrapped in the shadows
than perhaps ever before.

Tonight he's getting nowhere and hopes she is having
better luck.  He munches on sunflower seeds and glances
absently at the television when a shadow begins to move.

"You realize it's not at all as it seems, of course," a
voice begins.  The shadow vibrates, emerging from the
gloom, taking shape and form, the black of its hair
remaining one with the darkness.

The voice is all too familiar and Mulder feels a surge
of anger charge through his body.  "No shit!" says
Mulder, "I was wondering when you'd show up.  All I want
to know is who's next... a parade of my dead fish
popping up to offer advice?"

He glares at the shadowy figure.  "Why is it always you,
Krycek?  You've never told me anything but riddles, even
when you were alive."

"I am helping you, Mulder," Krycek sneers, "in the only
way that I can now."

Mulder looks blankly at him.  He always imagines the
smell of brimstone whenever Krycek appears.  Maybe it's
the romantic in him.

"So where's William? You know that's what I want to
know," he asks, but Krycek offers no reply.  "You don't
know, do you?" Mulder complains, "Just my luck. I think
they keep you as in the dark in the afterlife as you
were before."

"I've come tonight to tell you that someone else is
coming.  Someone is being sent to help you," Krycek
says.

"Let me guess," snaps Mulder.  "Queequeg? The Ghost of
Christmas Past?"

"You're a man without allies now, Mulder.  It doesn't
help your cause to laugh in the face of fortune, no
matter where it comes from."

He focuses on Mulder, with dark, bottomless eyes.  "You
can either accept what's happening to you---what's
happening to the world---and try to stand and fight, or
you can go back to wandering in obscurity.  It's always
been your choice."  Krycek fades, leaving behind only
shade.

Mulder closes his eyes and rubs his temples, taking
deep, labored breaths, his head spinning once again. His
mind fills with images, circling in a kaleidoscope of
memories and visions, and he is unable to discern which
are real and which arrive courtesy of an ever
encroaching madness.

"Mulder," Scully calls, unlocking the door with her key,
"Are you in here?"

He reaches for her, as he always does after these
visitations, the anchor in his storm.  Although he
rarely speaks to her about what he's seen, what he's
heard, he needs her in order to return to this plane.
She is the only reality he accepts anymore without
question.

"I met William's parents tonight," she tells him.  He
says nothing, but pulls her closer, tightening his grip
on her, clinging to her to keep from floating away.

"Mulder," she asks, concerned, but beginning to relax
into his embrace, "was someone here again?"

"No," he says, kissing her, "no one at all."

********

I have kissed honey lips
Felt the healing in her fingertips
It burned like fire
This burning desire

I have spoke with the tongue of angels
I have held the hand of a devil
It was warm in the night
I was cold as a stone

-- U2

****** end part 2 ******

Feedback welcomed at kudra_x@yahoo.com
 
 
 

Title: The Geometry of Loss (Chapter 3)
Author: Kudra (kudra_x@yahoo.com)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer:  These characters aren't mine.  They belong
to Chris Carter, 1013 & Fox, but they sure are fun to
play with.
Category: Post-The Truth, MSR
Summary: Mulder and Scully struggle with the reality of
their new existence months after the events of
"William" and "The Truth"
Archive: Feel free, but please let me know where

Author's Note:  Thanks to Elizabeth for the prodding,
encouragement and most excellent beta.
 

"The Geometry of Loss"
by Kudra

Chapter 3
 

**To protect her son from the wrath of Set, the
Egyptian goddess Isis entrusted the care of her beloved
Horus to strangers, common people in the desert.  Her
husband Osiris was gone, his body dismembered and
scattered to the ends of the earth, and Isis and Horus
were themselves hunted in turn.

Although Osiris was later resurrected, Horus remained
with the kindly couple, and they raised him as their
own.  Disguising herself as a nurse, Isis kept watch as
her son grew, knowing that his destiny was to defeat
Set and avenge his father.

Can I claim such lofty motives for the abandonment of
my son?  Like Isis, I let him go for safekeeping... but
I hoped to shield my son from omens, portents, the
burden of a glorious destiny.

And should a time come to reclaim him from his
caretakers, unlike Isis, I do not have the luxury of
throwing off my disguise, rendering them speechless and
abject at my divine radiance, ready to grant me
anything, even their son---my son---in appeasement.

But he is lost... the safe harbor I'd envisioned for
him cast away like vapors on the wind.

I'm no goddess.  I am simply a woman, a mother, who
failed to trust the strength of her heart... and who
fears to believe in the power of justice.**

**********

Wyoming is all land and sky, its fantastic geology
baffling travelers accustomed to the green uniformity
of the east and northwest.  Buttes and canyons give way
to rolling prairie land and rocky, snowcapped
mountains.  Ranches and farmhouses dot the landscape,
accents rather than an encroaching force.

Scully has been here more than once, but she was in and
out of coroner's offices or under cover of darkness,
never having the chance to simply stand and appreciate
the beauty of a wide expanse of sky.

As she steps out of the car at the Van de Camp ranch,
she takes a moment to surrender the present and
consider what might have been.  The sense of endless
possibility that must have awaited William, growing up
here under an impossibly big sky, not hemmed in with
apartments and shopping malls and grim city streets.

Mulder walks up behind her as she breathes in the scent
of the western wind, a smell of grassy prairie and
wildness.  He brushes the windswept hair out of her
face, cups her cheeks in his big hands and gently
kisses her.  "Are you ready to go in, Scully?"

*********

They walk in politely, shaking hands, exchanging vague
pleasantries.  *It's possible to do this.* Mulder tells
himself.  He knows they've been in hundreds of homes,
situations just like this, over the years.  How many
parents of missing children have they questioned?
Boiled down to the bare essentials, should this be any
different?

*How's the weather?  How do you like Wyoming?  Where's
my son?*

Black humor, his trusted means of survival.

"Would you like some tea?" Linda asks, passing Mulder
on her way to the kitchen.

"No, thanks, Ms. Van de Camp," Mulder replies.

"Please, call me Linda," she pats his shoulder.

The Van de Camps are welcoming, but they're going
through the motions, washed through with loss.
Although Mulder can't quite remember what it was like
to hold William in his arms, the hole in his heart
remains, and he listens to the couple with
understanding.

"I was adopted myself," says Linda, "Seemed like giving
back somehow.  And after battling infertility for
years, it was our only option for becoming parents."

Joe took his hand in her own.  "William was a miracle--
-truly the answer to all our hopes and prayers."

*Scully's too.*  Mulder thinks.  He knows he abandoned
prayer long before William came along, but not Scully.
He glances at her, wondering how many times it is
possible for a woman's heart to break before it stops
functioning altogether.  Discreetly, he reaches for her
hand, and softly squeezes it.

Suddenly Mulder is hit with a throb of pain in his
right temple.  Sitting on a couch belonging to
William's adoptive parents is surreal enough in itself,
but unexpectedly, flashes of his son are assaulting his
senses.

*William building a block tower and gleefully tearing
it down.  William taking his first tentative steps,
gazing at his father for assurance.  William chasing a
gray cat, laughing maniacally. William taking a bottle,
nestled serenely in his new mother's arms.*

Mulder is grateful Scully is not plagued with such
visions.

"William liked it here, didn't he, Linda?" Mulder asks,
and he feels Scully shift uncomfortably beside him.

"Oh yes," Linda replies, "he's such a happy little boy.
Absolutely full of wonder at the whole world, like he
can't contain himself, can't miss anything."  She
smiles at the memory of him.

Scully stands up suddenly, breaking free of Mulder's
grip. "I'd like to examine William's room now."

*******

"How are we going to handle this, Scully?" Mulder had
asked earlier, "As investigators or as parents?"

Scully had drawn a deep breath.  She was honestly
unsure of her reply, or if it was indeed possible to
separate the two.  Typical Bureau procedure would never
allow them to assist on their son's case, but they were
thousands of miles and two terminations away from
correct protocol.  This was a question for another
life, one that Special Agent Dana Scully could have
answered in her sleep.

She no longer had the comfort of easy answers.

"Investigators, first. Parents second," she replied,
"In fact, I don't think it's a good idea that they
learn you're William's father." She winced inwardly,
knowing this would revisit old slights for Mulder, but
it couldn't be helped. She'd already compromised their
position enough.

"Yeah, you've never been comfortable with that whole
too-much-information thing," he smiled weakly, "I'll
just be your partner.  Got a lot of experience in that
role."

"Well, thanks to the Gunmen, we are identified as
husband and wife," she says with a slight grin. "I'm
not asking you to deny involvement with me entirely.
Let's just tread carefully with the Van de Camps."

And so here they are, tracing the edges of a life their
son lived without them, piecing together the last
moments of a tranquil existence, strangers in the place
William had called home.

Mulder combs the house, finally arriving at William's
bedroom.  Scully watches as he methodically examines
William's crib, toys, each blanket and shoe, gathering
data about the son he never had the chance to know.
She brushes away the approaching sorrow and turns to
her work.

She dons latex and focuses her attention on the
scorched rug beneath William's crib, noting how the
burn has eaten through the woven fibers.  Scraping
scraps and fragments into a small glass jar, she tries
valiantly to maintain the detached, scientific
composure she has relied on in the past.  She's seen
these marks before, knows with certainty what caused
them, and her blood chills when she considers what this
means for her son.

They do not speak, but move with fluidity, collecting,
categorizing and analyzing.  Scully exchanges brief
glances with Mulder, automatic, mechanical
acknowledgments of discovery.  She wants to stop, to
embrace him and claim a moment for their shared loss,
but she knows they cannot afford emotion right now.

After they've been working for some time, Linda appears
in the doorway.  "The police have been through this
room five times already, you know."

Scully is startled by Linda's voice, having retreated
into a clinical, professional zone.  "Our experience is
that each search can yield new findings or open new
avenues for investigation, Ms. Van de Camp," she
explains flatly.

"Have you found anything?" Linda asks, hopefully.

"It will take some time to piece everything together,
but I think I have some idea of which direction we need
to pursue," says Scully.

"In fact," offers Mulder, settling himself into a
rocking chair, "according to the databases I've
searched, children matching William's description have
been sighted in several locations across the west."

"The police haven't said anything about that."

"That's because it's not available through any official
channels," explains Mulder.  "You'd be amazed at how
hard it is to find something no one wants you to find."

"David!" says Scully sharply, glaring at Mulder before
turning to Linda. "We don't want to alarm you, Ms. Van
de Camp.  I assure you we have William's best interests
at heart."

"Listen," Linda says, "I don't think I need to know why
you're no longer a cop, Ms. Newland.  I understand why
you want to find William... but I've watched enough cop
shows to know they don't usually want someone quite so
emotionally involved on a case."  She studies Scully
for a moment.  "How did you end up here, so close to
us?"

"I guess you could say that Deborah and I have become a
little disillusioned with what traditional law
enforcement has to offer," Mulder says with a smirk,
"We've been in the Southwest pursuing our own leads for
the past few months, cases that I believe are related
to William's disappearance."

"David, is it?  I didn't quite catch your full name.
You're Deborah's... partner, right?" Linda asks.

Scully breaks in before Mulder can answer.  "He's my
husband, Ms. Van de Camp.  We were partners, and
married last year---after we left our former jobs.
He's helped me through some difficult times."

Linda nods. "Mr. Newland, what do you mean about things
being related to William's case?"

"I'd like to hear this, too," says Joe, joining them,
peering anxiously around the room, "Something just
seems off to me."

"Shh, Joe," scolds Linda, "just listen."

"He means that I... we... made quite a few enemies in
the past," Scully again answers for Mulder, throwing
him a stern look.  "We pursued criminals with... rather
dangerous agendas.  For years we worked to expose these
organizations, against men with the resources to
retaliate.  It's the main reason I chose to give
William up for adoption."

"What, like the mafia, organized crime?" Joe asks.

"Not exactly," Mulder replies, "but it was a similar
sort of danger.  Groups with much to gain and secrets
to keep... who were willing to defend their deceit
through any means necessary.  We're not sure how they
found him, but we have reason to believe that they are
using William to get to Deborah."

"Excuse me," Joe says, "but why would anyone choose to
bring a child into a situation like that?"

"Joe..." cautions Linda, tapping his arm.

"No, damn it!" he says, raising his voice sharply, "I
think it begs the question!  You were a woman in a
dangerous position, with opponents ready to retaliate
at any time.  You've implied that your life was
regularly in danger.  Why subject an innocent child to
that kind of life?"

Scully remains frozen, unable, unwilling to respond.
She glances at Mulder, his face a blank mask.

*"I don't want this to come between us, Scully..."*

"Deborah," Linda begins softly, "I won't apologize for
my husband.  He loves... we both love William so much,
and we're just trying to find some meaning in this
terrible mess.  But we haven't walked in your shoes, so
we can't begin to know what you went through."

"I made some mistakes," Scully admits, "but I love
William.  He was something I never expected... and I
tried to do what was best for him."

"You don't have to defend yourself, Deborah," Mulder
suddenly breaks in, "You were alone.  You did the best
you could in a bad situation.  You shouldn't have to
answer for that."

He turns to Joe, fixing him with an intense stare.
"What's clear to me is that William is not safe here.
Only my wife and I understand the situation to such a
degree that we can anticipate the danger and protect
him."

"I think you're out of line, Mr. Newland.  This was out
of our control!" argues Linda. "All we've done since
William became part of our family is to love and
protect him and give him our best."

"And obviously your wife does not agree with you," says
Joe, "since she gave him up."

Irritated, Scully opens her mouth to speak, but Mulder
acts first.

"That's a situation I intend to rectify," Mulder says
sternly, "*when* we find him."

"Rectify?" Joe asks. "Pardon me, but aren't you a
little late to this party to change anything?  William
is our son now, and I don't believe you have any legal
right to him."

"Perhaps I haven't made myself clear, Mr. Van de Camp,"
says Mulder, rising to his full 6'2". "I'm William's
biological father."

Scully gapes at Mulder with a strange mixture of
disbelief and wonder.

"His father?" Linda draws a deep breath. "The agency
said there was no father in the picture, just a single
mother making a lifestyle decision."

Scully purses her lips, then slowly begins to speak,
"That was true... at the time. Mul... David was out of
my life after William's birth."  She glances at Mulder.
"It was a complicated situation.  We couldn't make
contact.  At the time of the adoption, we had not
spoken for several months."

"I never signed off on the adoption," Mulder says
bluntly, "Legally, William is still my son."

"I don't want to think about this right now," says
Linda, her hands on her forehead, "I just want my son
back.  I just want to know that he is safe."

She turns to Scully and abruptly grabs her hands,
looking deep into her eyes, their souls bared in a
moment of mutual maternal pain. "Deborah... if you
truly have the knowledge he says you have... if you
truly are an investigator... then I want you to find
him.  I want you to find him for all of us.  I know, I
can feel that you love your son... my son... "

Scully has not allowed herself to cry freely yet, but
faced with this woman's open wounds, she's suddenly
aware of her own.  She wonders what it must be like to
feel so intensely.  For survival's sake, she's carried
her pain around like a handbag.  Necessary, even useful
sometimes, but not a part of her.  After Emily, she
can't remember the last time she allowed sorrow to
fully permeate her being, certain that it would have
destroyed her.

But now she meets Linda's anguished gaze and lets her
tears flow, drenched and soaking in the love and loss
they both feel for the same little person, the center
of both their universes.

"I will find him," she whispers, "I'll find him for
everyone."

For this moment, she believes her words.

**********

Her head is spinning on the way back to the motel, the
promises and accusations and implications of their
visit torturing her with their intensity.  She can't
articulate what she's feeling, so she remains silent.

"Are you pissed at me, Scully?" Mulder asks, eyes on
the road.

She doesn't reply.  Doesn't even turn to look at him.

"I just opened my mouth and revealed everything you
asked me not to share... not to mention how I really
feel about this shit," he says, glancing at her for a
moment.  "I'm sorry, Scully.  I'm sorry I went off on
that guy... but it was the truth.  William was never
safe there," he pauses, swallowing. "And I do want him
back.  I spent half my life searching for my sister,
trying to piece my family back together.  Do you think
I'd let my son go that easily?"

She feels a sudden rush of shame, but she's so weary of
that as her first reaction.  "I know you wouldn't,
Mulder.  You never would have let me go through with
the adoption... had you been there.  But you weren't
there."

She stares out the window for a moment.  "Do you mean
that?  Do you really want to fight for custody of
William when he's found?  Can we even do that with our
legal status?  Won't that be like giving ourselves up?
Total exposure for us and William?"

"I don't know, Scully," Mulder breathes, "I just want
William out of harm's way.  I don't believe two
ordinary people with no knowledge of the danger he's in
can keep him protected.  I know our life is uncertain,
transient, no place for a child... but part of me
thinks we're his only chance."

"We really can't make decisions like this right now,
Mulder.  We've got to find him first," says Scully, her
practicality returning.  "And we will," and she treats
Mulder to a rare smile.

He pats her leg affectionately.  "You know, she reminds
me a little of my mother," he says.

"Who?"

"Linda Van de Camp."

"Is that a good thing?" Scully thinks of the cool,
distant woman she'd encountered only briefly under the
most difficult circumstances.

"Not the person you knew, Scully," he says, noting her
skeptical look, "That woman was long gone by the time
you met her.  But before Sam was taken, my mother was
very open and loving, and she protected us with the
ferocity of a mother bear.  I see that in Linda."  He
pauses, thoughtfully.  "I don't have to tell you how
losing a child can change a person, Scully.  I hope she
doesn't lose those qualities the way my mother did."

She listens, frowning, her thoughts jumbled and
complicated.  She doesn't want to hear about parallels
and losses.  The strain of keeping all her stories
straight and her defenses armed has exhausted her.

"I was wondering about something else, too, after
listening to some of the facts today," he continues.

In spite of herself, Scully raises an eyebrow at
Mulder's speculation.  So rare these days, she listens
with amused interest.

"I'm wondering if there's any significance to Linda Van
de Camp's infertility.  And the fact that she was
adopted," Mulder muses.

"Don't tell me you're thinking she's an abductee,
Mulder." Scully rolls her eyes.

"I'm not saying she is.  I'm just saying that it's
interesting."

"Mulder, as much as you would like to blame alien
abduction for all the ills of the world, not all
infertile women are abductees," Scully sighs, "some are
just infertile."

Mulder smiles.

********

In the middle of packing, they hear a clear, rhythmic
knock on the door.  Unaccustomed to visitors, they
exchange wary looks.  Mulder reaches for his gun.
Scully opens the door to find a middle-aged Native
American man.  Najavo?  Something about him is
strangely familiar.

"Dana Scully?" he asks, catching Scully at a loss for
an answer.

Was she?

"You might remember my father.  He spoke..." he pauses
and smiles, "speaks highly of you."

Scully's still puzzled, but a flare of recognition
begins to light.

"My name is Ernest Hosteen," he says, "I was asked to
come here."

*******

One and one half wandering Jews
Free to wander wherever they choose
Are traveling together in the Sangre de Cristo
The Blood of Christ Mountains in New Mexico.
On the last leg of a journey
They started a long time ago.
The arc of a love affair,
Rainbows in the high desert air.

--Paul Simon, "Hearts and Bones"

******* end part 3 *********

Chapter 4
 

Epimenides' Paradox.

The Liar's Paradox.  Epimenides, the man of Crete, who asserted that
"all Cretans are liars."  Transcribed in Greek texts, quoted in the
Christian Bible, debated for centuries by scholars and logicians... a
puzzle posed by a mythical poet-philosopher who may or may not have
ever lived.  Some say he was a teacher, a healer, a guide.  Some have
called him a prophet, a shaman, a visionary.

And others have called him a liar.

The most romantic of the many tales surrounding him relates that
Epimenides rested for years in a cave, deep in the bowels of the
earth.  Awakening from his long sleep, he found the world had changed
dramatically around him, and he with it.  Epimenides arose to the gift
of prophecy, but declared himself a fraud.

But was that the ultimate honesty?  Could anyone ever truly believe a
man who deals in dreams and visions, who speaks to spirits, angels,
demons, a host of the intangible?

Can I believe the ethereal images that pass before my eyes?

And when it comes to belief, can we ever really know what is truth?
Is truth a fabrication or is the fabrication indeed truth?  Or is
blind faith the best we can hope for?  Is this what was really meant
by "trust no one"... or should our aim instead be to trust everyone?

Yet despite all my shattered illusions, all the betrayals and broken
dreams, I find that somehow... I still want to believe.

************

In her decade of life with Mulder, Dana Scully has seen more than her
share of extraordinary occurrences.  Some have shaken her faith, while
others have restored her belief in the order of the universe.
Although she harbors few regrets, she sometimes finds herself wistful
for the easy sense of trust she used to possess, her old faith in the
better nature of people.  Years of deception and betrayal have taught
her a philosophy of guilty until proven innocent.

Tonight, as she appraises the stranger lurking in her doorway, instead
of mourning her lost innocence, she prefers to consider it less about
cynicism and more about survival.

"Ernest *Hosteen*?"  Scully stares incredulously at the dark-haired
man in front of her.  "How do you know my name?"

Hosteen remains silent and motionless, scanning the room, his eyes
resting finally on Mulder, who points a gun in his direction.

"I think you'd better tell her," says Mulder firmly.

"Fox William Mulder," says Hosteen. "The FBI man.  He has returned
from the land of the dead... more than once... even though he will not
speak of it."

"Spare us the history lesson.  Tell us who you are and why you're
here," demands Mulder.

"I've told you, Mr. Mulder," replies Hosteen, stepping into the room.
"My name is Ernest Hosteen.  My father is Albert Hosteen, a man who
has helped both you and your partner in the past."

"You speak of him as living," says Scully, "but Albert Hosteen passed
away in 1999.  I would think that his *son* would be aware of that
fact."

"I never spoke of him as living," answers Hosteen. "My father has
passed to the land of our ancestors... but still, he asked me to come
here."

"I don't believe you," Scully says, freezing him with an icy glare.
"Lift your arms over your head.  Turn around."  She slams the door
closed, and the thud echoes along the cheap motel walls.

Hosteen glances at Mulder, who nods his head, his gun still raised.

Hosteen raises his hands and turns around slowly.  Scully steps behind
him, brushing his long black hair away from the nape of his neck.  She
examines the area closely, her fingers searching his skin, her breath
tight in her throat.

She relaxes slightly, audibly exhales, and meets Mulder's gaze.  "He
appears to be clean.  No sign of the nodule."

Mulder nods.  "Well, at least we know he's not one of them."  He puts
his hand on Hosteen's shoulder and pulls, gesturing for him to turn
back around.  "Now tell us why you're here."

"I was asked to come here," repeats Hosteen, lowering his arms.
"There is a missing boy... your son.  You have the means to find him,
but you must be shown.  You need a guide."

"How have you connected us to this?"  Scully asks, frowning.

Hosteen closes his eyes, and speaks low and laboriously.  "My
father... appeared to me.  He told me about the two of you,
specifically Mr. Mulder's dilemma.  Said you needed my help."

He opens his eyes and stares at Mulder.  "You're seeing things, aren't
you, Mr. Mulder?  Seeing things you don't understand.  Hearing voices,
messages you can't comprehend.  They're jumbled, frenetic, aren't
they?  Their motion causes you pain."

Scully watches as Mulder trembles slightly and begins to lower his
gun.  "Mulder!  What the hell are you doing?"

"You've only told her part of it," Hosteen whispers, knowingly.  "She
doesn't know you're suffering."

Scully feels a sudden chill.  "Mulder, what is he talking about?"  She
steps over to Mulder and touches his arm, looking into his eyes.  "Are
you seeing... hearing things again?"

She's not sure she wants to hear his answer.

"Scully," Mulder whispers, "I don't think I ever stopped."

************

Mulder passes beers around from a small cooler and offers Hosteen a
battered chair covered with cracked leather.  Scully leans against the
wall, listening warily, as their visitor begins to speak.

"I fought it, too, Mulder," Hosteen explains. "I'd had the visions
since I was young, just like my father... but it was a burden I didn't
want.  When I went off to college -- Berkeley grad school by way of
UNM -- I wanted to get as far away from tribal life as I could.
Wasn't gonna be some crazy Indian on the reservation, talking to
ghosts and spirits.  Wasn't gonna sit around and watch my life be
planned and regulated by whites.  I turned my back on tribal ways.
Went for an MBA, did corporate America, walked around in a fog for
years and years, never realizing what was missing... but knowing there
was a hole in my life that grew bigger everyday."  He pauses, glancing
at a shadowy corner of the room.

"Then the visions started again, more intense than when I'd had them
as a kid... scaring the hell out of me.  So I set out to bury them any
way I could.  Sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll, whatever was out there.
Typical running from reality.  Then one night I was knocked flat on my
back by my dead grandfather... and something else I couldn't quite
explain... still don't know what the hell it was.  They stepped out of
the shadows and told me things that shook my world and changed my
life.  I came out of that trance ready to walk the path."

"The path?" Scully asks. "What path?"

He meets Mulder's eyes with a dark look. "The path of the shaman."

Scully tries to catch Mulder's gaze, but he's transfixed, looking
somewhere beyond the small, dark man in front of them.

Hosteen continues.  "What I'm talking about is a connection with
higher consciousness---something that we are all capable of, but few
of us can access easily.  A shaman is merely someone who can harness
that latent ability."

He narrows his eyes. "I was given a vision, a mission.  They told me a
great change was coming.  Those who came before are returning.  Those
who gave us the spark of life, consciousness, our old wisdom, long
ago.  They asked only that we take care of this planet until their
return... but we abandoned those ways long ago, and set ourselves on a
path of destruction that threatens to destroy our world.  In order to
preserve the planet, the old ones will be forced to destroy us.  But
my grandfather told me that those who live by the old ways will be
spared.  He charged me with rediscovering this path, opening my mind
to the messages, and finding a way to bridge the old and new to
prepare for the future."

He takes a sip of his beer. "After that, I found others who shared my
vision.  No one who came was turned away... a gathering, if you will,
of indigenous peoples---Hopi, Navajo---with what we call the other
three races..."

Scully cuts him off with a low cough.  "I hope you can understand that
we might harbor a degree of skepticism, Mr. Hosteen," she says.  "Our
dealings with your father *were* limited, but we never heard him speak
of you... or your... project."

Hosteen laughs. "Well, we weren't on the best of terms back then.  In
life, my father never understood what I was trying to do.  He thought
it was wrong for me to bring those who were not Navajo into my circle.
 We don't speak of our ways, our legends, with strangers.  And there I
was bringing whites, blacks, Asians, everybody into the mix... and
talking about the end of the world.  Dad thought he'd sent me to
college and I'd lost my mind."  He paused thoughtfully for a moment.
"I guess I did."

"I can relate," says Mulder, with a laugh.  Scully rolls her eyes.

Hosteen smiles.  "We come together to move both backward and forward
at once.  To relearn, rekindle and redefine the old ways.  I've come
to believe that it's the only way to save ourselves, and make way for
their return."

"Do you mean aliens, Mr. Hosteen?" Scully asks, her eyebrow raised.

"No," he replies, "*alien* would imply that they are not of this
world.  They are Those Who Came Before.  Some believe they brought us
here... to the Fifth World."

"You're referring to the many legends of Southwestern tribes, a
tradition that maintained that the world had been destroyed and reborn
many times, with another imminent destruction to come," Mulder says.
"There are many accounts of extraterrestrial visitors associated with
these stories."

"But most stories have a basis in truth, don't they, Mr. Mulder?" says
Hosteen. "For instance, you have learned quite recently of another
ominous date, haven't you?"

"Yes," answers Mulder, "but there's no way of knowing whether that
information is true or not... or what it really means for our future."

"Do you find it a coincidence that the date of December 22, 2012
matches the end of the Aztec calendar?" Hosteen asks.

Scully has tried to be patient, but so much time has been wasted
already. "I'm sure the two of you could swap apocalyptic theories all
night long," she says angrily, "but none of this is relevant to the
problem at hand."

She locks eyes with Hosteen, and folds her arms across her chest. "You
said you were sent to help us find our son.  I want to know how you
propose to do that."

Hosteen breathes deeply, closing his eyes again.  "Your faith lies in
investigation, analysis."  He opens his eyes, focusing on Scully.
"This will be of no use here.  Those who have taken your son do not
wish to be found... and have the resources to hide as long as needed.
To find your son, you must turn to alternative methods."

"Dammit!  If you know where he is..." Scully suddenly raises her
voice.  Mulder places his hand on her shoulder, silencing her with a
look.  Setting her jaw stubbornly, she listens.

"I do not know where your son is being held, Ms. Scully," Hosteen says
softly.  "I wish I did.  I can only sense what surrounds him...
darkness, power, danger."

"How are we supposed to find him, then?" Mulder asks.

"As his father, you have a bond, a connection to him, that I do not
have.  You've caught glimpses of him over the past months, haven't
you?" Hosteen asks.

Mulder nods slowly, as Scully stares at him in disbelief.

*Mulder, why haven't you told me?*

"You must draw on that connection to focus your sight, to find him.  I
can help you learn this.  You have the gift, Mr. Mulder," says Hosteen
solemnly.  "My father saw it.  That's why he helped you years ago, why
he brought you back.  It's why he worked so hard to make sure that you
would not be destroyed by those men.  He knew that when you were
ready, your gifts would emerge."

Scully flashes to a memory she'd almost forgotten.  Mulder missing,
dying, voices in his head.  Whispered prayers, kneeling with Albert
Hosteen in her living room.  She learned later that he had died days
before.

*There are more worlds than the one you can hold in your hand.*

"Are you talking about the visions I'm experiencing?" Mulder asks,
feeling suddenly wary.

"It's always been in you.  It's why you were so good at your job. How
you could profile all those people, feel what they felt, and still
come back to yourself," Hosteen explains.

"Well, I don't know about that," Mulder admits.

"Don't doubt what you know, you feel, to be true.  This appears in all
cultures.  The language used for it just depends on your background.
Some call it the second sight, some call it ESP, some of my people
call it shamanism.  That is, if you believe in that kind of thing."
Hosteen grins as Mulder raises an eyebrow.

"Oh boy," Scully mutters under her breath, and she can feel her unease
growing, that familiar disbelief rising and crystallizing once again.

*********

Scully has listened as long as she possibly can, with a growing sense
of anxiety.  She's always been unnerved by the way Mulder can be so
easily seduced by the right words, the right subject matter.  Bringing
him back to earth has always been her role, but she feels this is a
path they've walked far too many times.

"Mulder, can I talk to you for a minute?" Scully asks, a command in
her inflection.  She heads to the door and Mulder follows.

The night is calm, dark and starry, but clouds are gathering in the
far corners of the sky.  Scully hears the low rumble of thunder in the
distance.

"I don't know about this, Mulder," Scully whispers. "He sounds like a
drug-addled, breakaway religious fanatic.  I don't think he can help
us find William... and the last thing we need is to get mixed up with
another charismatic leader of a crazed UFO cult."

"I don't think that's what this guy is about," Mulder counters.

"How do you know, Mulder... because he's brought up visions and
shamanism and contact with aliens?  Has he pushed the right buttons,
said your magic words?"

"You've got to admit, Scully, he's put his finger on exactly what I've
been experiencing over the last year."

"Mulder, you're not a shaman!" Scully's voice raises suddenly,
startling her, and she abruptly returns to whispering. "Mulder, my
opinion is that your 'visions', or whatever they are, have far more to
do with repressed post-traumatic stress disorder than any mystic
sources."

She reaches up and gently strokes his cheek. "You were abducted,
Mulder---tortured, maimed, left for dead.  You spent three months
buried, barely alive.  You lost nearly a year of your life." She bites
her lower lip, her eyes wet.  "And we've never dealt with that.
You've never dealt with how that changed your life, how that affected
you.  How it affected us."

"You mean in the same way you worked through *your* abduction,
Scully?" he answers, remaining perfectly still while she flinches.
"We've never dealt with anything on a deep level before," he says,
coolly, "why should we start now?"

He brushes past her, back into the hotel room, while she remains
outside, lifting her gaze to the stars, feeling the weight of things
left undone and unsaid.

**********

Scully draws a deep breath, rubbing her arms against the approaching
chill.  She exhales slowly, reaches into her jacket pocket for her
cell phone, and taps in a number.  She closes her eyes as she puts the
phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Monica," says Scully, her voice low.

"Dana!" Monica Reyes's voice is earnest, eager, concerned.  Scully
immediately considers hanging up the phone, wondering if this is
indeed a good idea.

"No," she replies coolly, "you must have me confused with someone
else.  My name is Deborah Newland.  I'm an old friend of Melvin
Frohike.  Perhaps you remember him?"

The silence is deafening for a moment, until Monica finally speaks.
"Ohh... Deborah..." Scully hears understanding seep into Monica's
voice and she begins to relax, but only slightly.

"We saw the report on your---the boy," Monica says, carefully.  "You
must be... concerned."

"Yes, but I think we're on top of the situation.  One of my reasons
for calling, Agent Reyes, is to confirm that you and Agent Doggett are
still in your former positions."

"Not exactly," admits Monica.  "Our former department was dissolved,
for lack of a better word.  We considered leaving the Bureau
initially, but ultimately decided there were those who might benefit
from our resources."  She exhales dramatically. "We accepted a
demotion, so Agent Doggett and I have been reassigned to domestic
terrorism.  It's the hot thing right now," she chuckles. "Sound
familiar?"

Scully suppresses a bittersweet laugh. "I should have expected as
much.  Monica, I'd like you to do a background check for me.  Is that
possible?"

"I *live* for background checks these days," she replies.  Scully can
sense the wry humor behind Monica's glibness and for a moment, she
deeply misses this woman she knew for only a short time.

Scully steals a quick glance through the window, where Mulder and
Hosteen sit, still talking.  "The name is Ernest Hosteen," she
whispers.  "That's all I have to go on.  Can you run that through and
I'll call you in the next few days for results?"

"I can handle that," Monica says, "and Deborah... take care."

********

Mulder sits in a plastic chair on the tiny patio outside their motel
room.  Ernest Hosteen has left, leaving him with an uneasy sense of
intrigue.  Scully's gone to bed, but he's too agitated to follow.  A
day too full of highs and lows, too much emotional baggage to carry
forward... some of which he's directly responsible for.  He hopes
she'll be able to sleep it off.

He knows he gets caught up in their old believer-skeptic game at
times, and wonders if he relies on it because he's not sure how to
define what they've become.  He forgets how much pain and frustration
it can cause Scully.  There's nowhere to run from each other now when
things get tense, no separate apartments, no office at Quantico.  Most
days, there are only four motel walls, or perhaps a car, and all their
shared joys and sorrows.

Earlier, he went in to check on her.  Already asleep, her face had
relaxed with a softness he rarely sees anymore.  The warmth, the silk
of her skin made him tremble as he bent down to brush her cheek,
whispering, "I'm sorry, Scully."

When in doubt, Scully can always count on the comfort of sleep.  He's
always found that one of her most endearing qualities, one he most
envies.  Although he and insomnia have negotiated an uneasy truce over
the past year, Mulder still turns his back on slumber in uncertain
times.

"You *can* trust him, you know."

Behind him, Mulder hears a familiar gravelly voice drifting on the
slight breeze, and he smiles in spite of his black mood.

"Yeah, *we* trust him... and you know we're the most paranoid entities
in the afterlife," says a more nasal voice, its inherent cockiness
evident even in the shadows.

Mulder stands up, spinning around, "Well, if it isn't the Three Fates?
 Life, Destiny and... Doc."

"Always a pleasure to haunt you, Mulder," smirks Langly, long blond
hair contrasting with the blackness.

"Where have you guys been?" Mulder asks.  "I keep getting creepy
visits from Krycek.  If I'm going to hallucinate, I'd much rather it
be dead people I like."

"Well, we would have been here sooner if Frohike didn't spend all his
time trailing Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield," says Langly.

"Purely journalistic interest..." protests Frohike, "lots of secrets
there."

"Mysteries of the ages," laughs Mulder.

Frohike turns and glares at Mulder with customary vinegar and bluster.
"You know this fairy godmother gig isn't what it's all cracked up to
be. You could at least take us seriously... especially when we appear
to you all ominously."

"C'mon, Frohike, the only omen you guys ever represented was the
certain end of a bad party."

"Seriously, Mulder," says Byers, stepping into the light, "we've been
sent to tell you that, despite your fears to the contrary, Ernie
Hosteen is here to help you."

"For real," adds Langly.

"You're conspicuously lacking in friends and allies, my man," agrees
Frohike.  "Those funds and fake I.D.'s I set you up with will only get
you so far."

"Losing my kung fu was a major blow," Langly says, "but you seem to be
learning a few tricks.  Still it won't hurt to have someone on your
side."

"Scully thinks he's a wacko," Mulder says.

"Scully thinks everyone's a wacko," Frohike replies.  "It's part of
her charm."

"What about William?" Mulder asks.  "Do you have any information about
him?"

"Our consciousness is limited, Mulder.  I'm afraid we don't have any
answers for you."  Byers shakes his head sadly.

"We're on a need-to-know basis," says Langly.

"And what we know is," Frohike says, "Ernie can help you figure out
how to channel these visions you're having.  They can lead you to
William."

"Scully thinks I'm going crazy."  Mulder closes his eyes. "*I* think
I'm going crazy."

"Not much of a trip, man," laughs Langly.  He effects a casual salute.
 "Listen, we gotta blow this joint.  Later, Mulder."

"Sorry to do this to you, buddy, but it's an unfortunate side effect.
It's gonna feel like a bad trip for a little while, but hold on, it'll
be over soon."  Frohike waves goodbye, as the Gunmen begin to
dissipate.

"See you soon," Byers says brightly, as if they were just leaving
Mulder's old apartment and heading for the Radio Shack down the
street.

Mulder takes a deep breath and steels himself for the inevitable head
rush. Too uncontrollable, too violent to enjoy, the abrupt sensation
sends him to his knees, buckling under its force.  He notes briefly
that it is getting worse, before that thought, too, is ripped away,
his mind no longer his own, simply a vessel for swirling,
incomprehensible images.

Awash in a sea of reds, greens, blues, spinning too fast for his
conscious mind to process, one image flashes to the forefront.
Weathered, withered hands brushing soft, pink skin. Plump cheeks,
reddish curls.  The image shifts slightly upward, like a camera
panning the scene.

A split second glimpse of a chubby face.

"William..." Mulder murmurs as his head hits the ground.

*******
In this house of make believe
Divided in two, like Adam and Eve
You put out and I receive
Down by the railway siding
In our secret world, we were colliding
In all the places we were hiding love
What was it we were thinking of?

--Peter Gabriel, "Secret World"

*******end Chapter 4*********

~~~

Chapter 5

In a while, one of us will go up to bed
and the other one will follow.
Then we will slip below the surface of the night
into miles of water, drifting down and down
to the dark, soundless bottom
until the weight of dreams pulls us lower still.
    ~ Billy Collins, The Art of Drowning
 

***The ancient Celts told of a warrior queen called Rhiannon,
a horsewoman goddess who could not be caught nor tamed by any
man.  Rather than accept a future she did not desire,
Rhiannon found her own path, and a man of her own choosing.

When Dana Scully came into my life all those years ago, she
put me in mind of this story.  Another fierce, Celtic warrior
woman defying expectations and finding her own way, I could
easily imagine her dashing along the green hills on a grand
horse, fiery hair flying behind her, her blue eyes flashing
like a polished blade.

And when I realized that Scully had chosen my path---chosen
me---I felt as if I had won a goddess.

But there is a tragic side to Rhiannon's story.  Her infant
son vanished under mysterious circumstances, and Rhiannon's
treacherous waiting women conspired to hide the truth by
making it appear that she had killed her own son.  As
punishment, she was consigned to sit outside the castle and
tell her story to the passersby.  Like the birds she loved,
she sang her song of loss for seven years, reliving its pain
and injustice, a living hell for a mother.

Why would such a powerful woman accept such an unjust fate?
Did the loss itself engender a crushing guilt along with
grief?

Now our son is lost, and his mother fears she has sentenced
him to death.  But although no one is punishing Scully, she
bears a burden of her own making.***

**********

It's just past dawn, and when Dana steps out of her room and
into the hallway, the air is redolent of cinnamon, coffee,
and the earthy scent of bacon frying.  Carefully, quietly,
she creeps downstairs, hoping to catch a bit of early morning
conversation before the others awaken, and perhaps a bite of
her mother's freshly baked French toast souffle.

From the corner of her eye, she catches the twinkle of white
lights, switched on already, and smiles at her mother's
childlike delight for the trappings of the holiday.
Christmas has always been Maggie's favorite.

Until a few years ago, Dana shared her sentiments.  Now
Christmas is forever tinged with the melody of loss.  Each
carol an elegy.  Each candle a prayer.

Reaching the bottom stair, she hears voices whispering near
the tree.  She's surprised that someone besides herself and
her mother would be up at this hour.  Even Matthew has
reached an age at which he can sleep in on Christmas morning.
With a mixture of curiosity and mischief, Dana sneaks toward
the tree.

As she steps closer, the lights illuminate a shock of wavy
red hair, a woman's figure wrapped in seasonal crimson, her
back to Dana, a smaller figure beside her.  And Dana's breath
catches in her throat as they turn to face her.

"Good morning, Dana," says Melissa.

Emily's face is solemn, her voice low and hushed.
"Everyone's here, Mommy."

"No," says Melissa, raising an eyebrow.  "Not everyone."

Emily gazes at Dana with dark, searching eyes.  "Where's my
brother, Mommy?  He should be here."

Dana raises her hand to her mouth.  "God...Emily..." she
breathes.  And she reaches for her daughter, but the little
girl fades before her eyes, vanishing slowly with the rhythm
of the blinking lights.

"Open your eyes, Dana," says Melissa.  "The truth is in front
of you."  Her eyes are at once blank, pleading, commanding.
The stare of an oracle.

"Can't you see they both need you?"

"Missy..." Dana whispers, her eyes wet, "I'm lost."

Melissa's gaze softens.  "You haven't lost your way, Dana.
You've only misplaced it."  She extends a pale hand and
strokes her sister's hair.  "Open your eyes," she repeats as
she vanishes, fading into the pinprick of a tiny bulb.

Dana focuses on the tree, its miniature lights blurring into
one white beacon.  The room itself folds and vanishes,
leaving Dana utterly alone against a colorless background.
She crumbles to the floor.

A scream pierces the silence, and the white room vibrates,
the sound rocking Dana with its fury and need.
"Scuuuulllyyyy!!!"

*********

"Mulder!"  Scully shouts, jerking her head from the pillow.
Suddenly, violently awake, the blinking neon of the nearby
truck stop the only light in the room.  She glances over her
shoulder and anxiously pats the other side of the bed with
her hand.

"Mulder?" she calls into the darkness.

She waits.  "Mulder?"

She checks the clock beside the bed.  2:18 AM.  He was
outside when she went to bed, and she knows he still could be
awake, torturing himself about their earlier argument.  Yet
the rawness of her dream has left her heart pounding with a
profound sense of terror.

There's a chill in the air as she climbs out of bed and moves
across the room.

She turns on the light to the patio, and through the glare of
the glass, her eyes lock on Mulder, face down on the concrete
slab, a halo of scarlet surrounding his head.

"Mulder!"

*******

He is floating.  High above the mesas and canyons and ghost
towns of the Wild West.  There are stars scattered across the
midnight blanket of the prairie and he could touch them if he
wished.  The wind kisses his skin and he floats higher into
the dark sky.  He wants to go on flying like this, forgetting
the torture of pain and shadows.

But somewhere below, she is still there.

*********

"Mulder, can you hear me?"  She dips the cloth into warm
water again, turning the liquid from a pale pink to a light
crimson.  It's a scrape, an impact wound, but his
unresponsiveness worries her.  She knows he would be more
comfortable on the bed, but dragging his limp body from the
cold patio to the floor inside was the best she could manage.

She applies more pressure, and when the bleeding seems to
lessen, she reaches for antibiotic cream before bandaging the
area.  "Mulder," she whispers, gently tapping his cheeks.

"Scu..." he breathes, slowly shifting his head, although his
eyes remain closed.

She smiles with relief.  "Can you open your eyes?"

His eyes flutter in response.  "Mulder, you've fallen and
lost consciousness.  I don't think you have a concussion, but
you've given yourself a nasty head wound.  Do you remember
what happened?"

He gazes at her through heavy lids.  His voice is muffled,
eyes blurry.  "Saw the Gunmen... everything, nothing...
him... falling... then I was flying..."

She gently strokes his cheek.  "You don't have to talk right
now, Mulder.  Just lie still."

"Still flying," he says, clearly this time.  "It's all
fading.  Something's pulling me away, Scully.  Where are
you?"

He fixes her with a searching gaze that pierces her heart, a
gaze filled with need, pain, and inexplicable desire.
Scully's breath catches as she meets his stare, finding that
although his eyes are still glassy, unfocused, they shine
darkly, pools of obsidian.  She can't see Mulder in their
depths, only herself reflected, amber light amid his shadows.

"I need you.  I need to feel that you're real," he whispers,
bringing his lips to hers.  She closes her eyes and inhales
softly, believing this is the last thing he needs.  He's
hurt, outside himself.  She wants to hold him, shelter him,
try to chase his demons away, not avoid it all again through
physicality.

But now his mouth is on her neck, flooding her with heat and
a delicious chill.  Her eyes are wet as she realizes they
share the same demons now.  She is too close to drive them
away... but she can give him this.  So she runs her fingers
through his soft hair and kisses him with a fervor that makes
her head spin.

She hasn't touched him like this in over a week, not since
the news of their son.

It feels like a lifetime.

The blurry softness in Mulder is gone, as if a match has been
struck.  Suddenly he is intent, focused, a surging force that
sweeps her under.  Her tears burn her cheeks as his mouth and
hands sear her flesh.  The flames spread down her torso,
teasing as they singe.

She lets him consume her.

******

An insistent pounding at the door arouses Scully from a
fitful sleep.  She glances at Mulder, deeply and soundly
asleep, and spreads the blanket to cover his shoulders.  With
bleary eyes and fumbling hands, she reaches under the bed for
her weapon.  She finds her robe draped haphazardly over a
chair and slips it on, tucking the gun inside a crease.

There is no peephole on the thin door, so she draws a long
breath before turning the doorknob with her left hand, her
right poised above the gun concealed at her waist.  She finds
Linda Van de Camp in mid-knock.

Her posture is rigid, her dark hair tousled, not the smooth
waves Scully saw yesterday.  Scully notes the worry etched on
Linda's brow and the hint of fear in her eyes.  She drops her
right hand from her waist and relaxes slightly.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Newland," she says.  "I didn't mean to wake
you.  I should have called, but I'm just not thinking clearly
this morning."

Scully runs a hand through her hair, brushing errant strands
out of her eyes.  "It's okay, Ms. Van de Camp.  What do you
need?"

"Something's happened, Deborah," Linda replies.

"Something with William?"

"No, not exactly.  Is there somewhere we can talk?"  Linda
looks nervously behind her.

"David's still sleeping, so I'd rather not leave," Scully
says.  "We had a difficult night.  There's a patio in the
back, if you don't mind the cold."  Linda nods, and she
motions for her to come inside.   She quietly directs her to
the sliding door at the back of the room.  Grabbing a thick
shirt, a pair of jeans and running shoes, Scully quickly
enters the bathroom and throws them on.  She slips her weapon
in the top of her jeans.

Linda sits, staring at the cracked concrete of the patio slab
when Scully steps through the door.  She closes it as slowly
and softly as she can, giving one last wistful peek at
Mulder's motionless form.  She notices a brown patch of dried
blood in front of the empty chair, and purses her lips as she
sits down.

"Some men came to our ranch this morning," Linda announces.

Scully feels a sudden chill.  "Yes?"

"They said they were from a branch of the CIA." Linda meets
Scully's eye hesitantly.  "They gave us some
information...about you.  And your...partner."

"And what did they tell you?"  Scully asks coolly.

"They said they knew you were in the area.  That they'd been
tracking your movements.  They told us you were rogue FBI
agents, fugitives from a murder conviction.  You broke your
partner out of a federal prison after he killed a CIA agent
and you've been on the run for over a year."

Scully closes her eyes, rubbing her temple.  "Linda..."

"They told us not to give you any information about William.
That we should contact them if we saw you again.  Deborah, I
need to know how much of this is true."

"Are you sure they were CIA?  Did they give you anything to
confirm that?  A card?  Names?  Somewhere to reach them?"

"Joe has that.  He wouldn't let me take it.  He doesn't know
I came here.  He thinks I'm at the station, giving them my
statement about what we heard this morning... and yesterday,
from you."

"Is that where you're going next?"

"I don't know," Linda whispers.  She stares at Scully for a
moment.  "Your name isn't Deborah Newland, is it?"

"No," Scully admits, "it's not.  But you know that already,
don't you?"

"Dana Scully and Fox Mulder.  Former Special Agents with the
FBI."  Linda laughs bitterly.  "According to those men, Mr.
Mulder was a problem for the FBI for years.  They said he
devoted his entire career to chasing aliens.  That he staged
his death a number of times, disobeyed protocol,
misappropriated funds, was responsible for reckless losses of
lives... and that he dragged you into his madness."  She
throws her head back.  "Killers in my living room."

"We're not killers, Linda," Scully says.  "Would you be here
if you believed that?"

"I don't know what to believe right now," Linda says, a tear
falling down her cheek.  "Everything you said yesterday... I
don't know which parts are true and which are lies.  But I
want to believe that you were telling me the truth about
William.  I don't want to think that you could manufacture
that."

Scully sighs.  She's sick of lies, weary of the tangled web
they must maintain in order to survive.  In her darkest
moments, she fears they are becoming the very thing they have
fought against all these years.

She reaches over and takes Linda's hand.  "They were
right...about some things.  My name is Dana Scully.  I'm a
pathologist and former special agent.  And the man in there
is not legally my husband, but he is my partner, in every
sense of the word.  His name *is* Fox Mulder, and it's true
that he was a thorn in the side of the FBI, the federal
government and just about any institution he came across ---
but he is not a murderer.  For the last decade, we've been on
a journey that I don't think I could explain if I tried.
What I told you yesterday was true.  We made powerful
enemies... and they would use any tool necessary to silence
us."

Scully looks away.  "Why we've survived this long is a
question I can't answer."

Scully can see that Linda is shaken, but she does not move
from her chair, so she continues.  "You need to know that
William *is* our son.  And I let him go for his protection.
Now that he's been taken from you, Mulder and I will do
whatever we have to do to find him."

Linda swallows audibly.  "What does that mean?  I love my
little boy, but this... I've never been this scared before.
I don't know who to trust, what to do."

Scully feels a brittle familiarity in Linda's words, but
pushes it away.  "I can't tell you who to trust.  You either
do or you don't.  However, my fear is that by coming here and
meeting with you, we have jeopardized the safety of you and
your husband.  I pressed to come here.  It was bad judgment,
but I needed to see where he had been."

Linda softens and gives Scully a small smile.  "I never knew
my birth mother, Ms. Scully, but I always wanted to believe
that if something happened to me, she'd be there if she
could.  I know why you came here."

Scully nods, but she's back to business.  "We can't be
certain that you met with actual CIA agents this morning.  Do
you and Joe have somewhere else you can go?  I would advise
that you leave town for a few days until we can be certain
that you are safe."

"I don't want to go anywhere, Ms. Scully," Linda argues.
"What if something happens with William and I'm not here to
take the call?  Joe thinks we need to wait this out and not
speak with anyone unless they go through the local police
first."

"That's something between you and your husband," Scully says.
"Obviously, someone knows we're here, so Mulder and I will be
leaving today.  We have leads to follow, but it's certainly
in your best interest that we go."

******

Mulder's forehead throbs when he lifts it from the pillow.
He fingers the bandage on his temple and remembers the
swirling nausea of the previous night.  He reaches for Scully
beside him, but finds only rumpled sheets at his side.
Fragments of the evening return to him, and then he remembers
pulling her to him insistently, thrusting against her,
letting her draw him back into this world, and he remembers
her tears as she gave herself to him.

Shit.

He pulls on his jeans and grabs a shirt.  Outside the glass
doors, he sees her sitting, staring ahead at the point where
the asphalt meets prairie.  The door squeaks loudly, too
loudly, when he pushes it open, but she doesn't turn around.

"Scully, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Mulder."  Her hair is growing out, red streaks
peeking through the chestnut color.  That glimpse of his old
Scully reassures him somehow, even when she won't make eye
contact.

He places a hand on her shoulder, daring her to flinch.  She
doesn't move.

"Scully, did I hurt you... last night?"

"Mulder, I'm fine," she repeats, then she turns to glare at
him.  "I need to know what is really going on with you.  Your
visions, or whatever you're experiencing, aren't just random
occurrences, are they?"

He doesn't answer.

"Hosteen was right, wasn't he?  They're getting worse.  You
fell last night, Mulder.  I don't know how long you were
unconscious... and when you came to... Mulder, you were out
of your head."

"Scully, you didn't have to..." he cups her cheek.

She gently brushes his hand away.  "Mulder, I'm not even
talking about that.  Being with you made me feel as if we
were connecting again, although I'm not so sure you were
ready for it."

He smiles and runs a hand through his rumpled hair.  "Didn't
hear any complaints."

Scully narrows her eyes.  "Don't change the subject, Mulder.
Last night, you told Ernest Hosteen that you've been having
visions of William.  Is that true?"

Mulder crouches beside Scully's chair and looks into her
eyes.  "They're just flashes, Scully.  I don't even know what
to make of them."

"How long has this been going on?"

He looks away.  "For a long time.  Maybe since I left.  After
William was born."

Scully sighs and Mulder cringes inside.

"So... what do you see... when you see our son?" she finally
asks.

"Glimpses, Scully."  He touches his bandaged forehead.  "I
see William, but only for an instant.  I see everything...
and nothing.  It's too much for me to process."

"Why haven't you told me about this?"  Her pained expression
tugs at him.

"You wouldn't have believed me, Scully."

"You didn't give me the opportunity, Mulder," she says,
looking away.  "This is not just about you.  It's about our
son.  It's about us."  She places a small hand on his arm and
he shivers at her touch.  "Your health is being affected, and
you're all I have left.  You've had abnormal brain activity
in the past, and this could be a recurrence.  I don't know
how to work it out, but we need to find some way for you to
be examined."

Mulder interrupts.  "Scully, last night, before I blacked
out, I saw William again.  Someone was with him."

She stops and listens.  "And what do you think this means?"

"I'm not sure.  I think I need to follow up with Hosteen and
some of the things we addressed last night."

"Mulder, I still have my doubts about the man.  Don't you
think we should work through more conventional channels
first?"

Mulder takes a deep breath.  He doesn't have the strength to
argue this morning.  "Scully, we went beyond conventional
channels at least a year ago.  I can't control this on my
own.  I need help from someone who has experienced this."

"So you'll trust a stranger with something you've only shared
with me in the last 24 hours."  Scully's voice is low and
strained and he can only listen as she gathers her composure
and begins to speak again.

"There's something you should know, Mulder," Scully says.
"Linda Van de Camp spoke with me this morning.  Men
identifying themselves as CIA agents visited their ranch this
morning and basically exposed our story, with some added
details, of course."

"And?"

"Someone knows we're here, Mulder.  We can't stay in Wyoming
any longer.  We're putting ourselves and the Van de Camps at
risk."

"I told you someone was flushing us out, but it's not the
CIA."  He pauses, a million thoughts rushing through his
head.  "We shouldn't have gotten so close to William's home.
We know better than that."  He flashes a glance at Scully and
immediately regrets it.  Her defensive expression tells him
not to pursue the issue.

He turns and opens the patio door, pushes his way inside and
throws on socks and shoes, a fleece pullover.  "Scully," he
calls.  "We're going to Cody.  Hosteen's staying in a hotel
there.  I'm ready to try some of his techniques to focus what
I'm seeing."

"Mulder, this is crazy!" Scully pushes the door closed with a
loud creak.  "You're having blackouts, we've got people on
our tail, a couple who could expose us to law enforcement at
any moment, and you want to have a meeting with a cult leader
in the next town over."

Mulder turns, catching Scully's shoulders with both hands.
He looks into her eyes.  "I don't have anything left but
hunches and feelings.  They don't want us to find William,
but I think the truth is somewhere in front of us.  Looking
inside is the only way."

Scully doesn't say anything in reply, but Mulder feels her
soften under his grip.  He releases her shoulders and pulls
her into an embrace, hoping that can give her an assurance he
can't express.

******

The day has warmed considerably, and they drive through the
prairie to Cody in relative silence.  The decision is made,
and although Scully has her misgivings, in the absence of
direction she's willing to let Mulder follow this through.

The clerk at Hosteen's hotel is busy for early afternoon.  He
processes several checkouts before turning to Mulder's
impatient gaze.  "How may I help you, sir?"

"Would it be possible to obtain a room number for a guest?"
he asks.

"Certainly, sir.  Name?"

"Ernest Hosteen."

The clerk taps keys rhythmically.  "I'm sorry, sir.  Mr.
Hosteen checked out early this morning."

"Did he leave any messages, by any chance?"

He looks at the screen.  "Nothing here, but if you have a
moment, I'll be glad to check for you in the out boxes."

Mulder nods.  Scully looks restlessly around the lobby of the
hotel.  Marble floors, dark wood railings, old brass accents.
There's an ancient switchboard system on the wall, a relic of
the past.  Historic landmark, probably.  It reminds her of
grand old buildings in Virginia or Maryland, but with an Old
West flavor.

The clerk returns with a small package.  "Mr. Hosteen left
this for a David Newland.  Would that be you?"

"Yes," Mulder replies.

"He requested that your I.D. be checked.  Would you mind?"

Mulder shakes his head and pulls out David Newland's driver's
license.  Even in her black mood, Scully knows better than to
look, since she always grins uncontrollably when she sees the
goatee Frohike brushed on to Mulder's photo.  She busies
herself with travel brochures while the clerk compares
Mulder's photo to the man in front of him.

"Sc...honey, check this out," Mulder says, walking towards
her.  He hands a photocopied sheet to her.

"A map.  To where?"

"It's a location in the Four Corners region.  An area that's
been known in some circles as an apex between worlds," Mulder
says, with a hint of a smirk.

Scully raises an eyebrow.  "Do you think this is Hosteen's
home, or compound?"

"Not sure, but I think that's where he wants us to go."  He
gives her another paper, a solemn expression on his face.
"There's something else."

Scully examines the paper.  A gray rubbing, raised marks,
unidentifiable symbols and scrawls, broken edges outlined by
careful pencil strokes.  She slowly looks up and meets
Mulder's eyes.

"We've seen this before, Scully."

*The artifact.*

And she remembers Mulder locked away, screaming her name in a
small white room.  Plagues, portents and miracles, continents
and oceans away.  A lifetime ago.  Hushed whispers, 'Some
truths are not for you.'

She's never told him how she once lost William, only to find
him amid pillars of fire, the only survivor of a burning
massacre.  Whether he was the reason for the tragedy---or its
instrument---is something she can't bring herself to
consider.

But she knows that a fine layer of scar tissue formed around
her heart that night.

He was ripped away, so suddenly, despite her best efforts to
protect him, and she realized to her horror that there would
have been no way to prevent it.  It was then that she fears
she placed her son in that category she always reserved for
Mulder.  Hers, but not hers.  Subject to the capriciousness
of the universe, fleeting and ephemeral.

Was this when she began building the wall, protecting
herself, as she'd done so often in the past?  Was this the
moment when her heart began to harden?  The moment she began
to realize that her fate was to let him go?

"Look on the back, Scully," Mulder says.  So she turns the
page over and begins to read.

"'There were giants in the earth in those days; and also
after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters
of men, and they bare children to them, the same became
mighty men which were of old, men of renown.'"  She glances
at him.  "A translation?  That's Genesis, again, Mulder."

"Yes," he answers.  "A verse used by Erich von Daniken and
others to cite evidence of ancient extraterrestrial
visitations."

"A little obvious, don't you think?" she says.

She doesn't read aloud the next line, written in Hosteen's
hasty scrawl. 'Open your eyes.'

******

The ring echoes through the cavernous chamber.  The dreadful,
electronic sound of a digital phone, he thinks, suddenly
nostalgic for the rich, full tones of rotary telephones.

Across the room a ginger-haired toddler plays with a set of
plastic blocks.  The structure he's building appears quite
advanced for a two-year old, he notes.  Smiling with a
mixture of amusement and pride, he pauses to check the number
displayed on the phone before picking it up.

He doesn't bother to greet his caller.  "Yes," he says.  "I
see.  Quite an interesting development, although I expected
as much by this point."

He stares at the child for a moment.  "It appears that your
parents are on their way, my boy."

******

Something unusual, something strange
Comes from nothing at all
But I'm not a miracle
And you're not a saint
Just another soldier
On the road to nowhere

~ Damien Rice - "Amie"

Feedback welcomed at kudra_x@yahoo.com
 

~~~
 

Chapter 6

**There is a legend among my people of a powerful
goddess called Changing Woman, who helped the Dine to
establish a place to dwell when we arrived in the Fifth
World.  The world was full of monsters and terrors and
the People fought for survival.

Changing Woman united with the Sun and gave birth to a
powerful son we called Monster Slayer, who together with
his father, helped to rid the world of its dangers.

The Sun loved Changing Woman with all his fiery heart
and power, and longed for her to live with him always in
his realm.  But Changing Woman knew her place was rooted
in the soil of the earth where she must change with the
seasons.  She could not leave the People who depended on
her.  Rather than lose her lover forever, she sought a
more equal relationship. "We are of one spirit, my
love," she told him.  She would remain on earth where
she was needed, where his light would forever shine,
warming her heart and soul, a harmonious union.

I have charged my son with the task of aiding another
union of opposites, one on which the fate of the world
may hang.  The FBI man and woman have their own demons
to slay, some from within and some from without.  I pray
that they are both strong enough to listen to the voices
that guide them.***

*****

There's an insistent buzzing in Mulder's head that's
been steadily increasing since they hit the Colorado
border.  Waves of alternating dizziness and nausea
assault his senses, but he grips the steering wheel for
stability, flashing anxious glances at the pencil
smudged paper on the seat between them.

"Are you okay, Mulder?" Scully asks.  Her voice sounds
far away and muffled below the din in his mind.

Voices in his head again.  Shit.  As if seeing ghosts
wasn't already bad enough.

He hears snippets of thoughts from passengers, drivers
in every car they pass, scattered impressions that he
has no business hearing; but they come to him just the
same. *rockymountainshatethisdrivewhendowestop*  But the
thoughts that come to him most clearly are the most
immediate.

Hers.

*he'ssickwhat'swrongshouldn'tdrivehe'ssickwhatdoido*

He's tired of causing her worry.  All these years...
hasn't there been enough fear and apprehension?  There's
a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when he
considers what her life has become at his hands.  He
wants to shield her from it any way he can.  He flips
over the paper, hiding the side with the artifact
rubbing in favor of the map; as if obscuring the image
will cure him.

He wants it to be that simple.

"Getting a headache.  And I'm tired.  That's all," he
replies.

"I've said it before, Mulder, and I'll say it again... I
don't think you need to be driving.  You have a head
injury," she states with a frown.

"You've driven for the last few hours.  It's my turn."
He hopes he's not shouting, but it's difficult to tell.

"Pull over," she commands.  And for the first time
today, overwhelmed with a sudden fatigue, he doesn't
argue.

Scully raises an eyebrow as he walks around the car,
rubbing his temple.  She slides into the driver seat,
adjusting the position until she's comfortable.  He
smiles, as he often does, at their size difference, and
he's amazed all over again that this tiny but remarkable
woman would take on the world for him.

He watches her check the map again, and adjust the rear
view mirror.  He mumbles a soft "Thanks, Scully..."

Her smile is the last thing he sees before he falls
asleep.

*****

When he opens his eyes, he is standing in a green and
verdant field that shimmers with lilies and fragrant
white flowers.  He sees hills in the distance, and there
is sunlight so overwhelming that he shades his eyes with
his hand.

He hears the sound of a voice drifting softly across the
breeze.  "Fox."

He turns, his eyes locking on a familiar figure.

"Diana."  She's prettier than he remembers, but then
it's been a very long time.

"Fox.  I've missed you."

"Diana, you're dead... aren't you?  What is this place?"
he asks.

"I'm in your dream, Fox."

He considers this and somehow it makes sense, but his
hand drifts to his forehead.  Finding no bandage, he
frowns in confusion.

"Don't worry, Fox.  I'm not going to hurt you," Diana
smiles.  "This is just a dream, nothing more."

"Why are you here?  What is this place?" he asks again.

"A place to rest," she answers softly.  "Just sleep,
Fox."  She takes his hand and lowers him gently down
onto the soft, perfumed ground.  "Rest your mind here.
Let go, Fox."

And he closes his eyes.

He wanders through glades and valleys, drifting, feet
never quite touching the earth, but he senses that he is
walking, moving ever forward, as the landscape flows
past him in shades of blues and seafoam.

But he always returns to the peace of the hillside and
its green sleep.

"Get up, buddy," a deep voice rouses him from slumber.

"You can't stay here, Mulder.  You're drifting too
close.  You're hovering between worlds."

"He's right, Mulder.  You don't belong here."

"Am I going to have to kick your ass?  Get up!"

Mulder opens his eyes to find Frohike inches away from
his face.  "This must really be a nightmare.  I'm
dreaming about trolls now."

Frohike's face is an impassive frown.

"Surly trolls."

"I already know your cover's blown," Frohike says.  "And
I can't help you from this vantage point.  You need to
wake up and stop dicking around with this plane.  There
are no answers here."

"But there's peace," says Mulder.  His head feels warm
and heavy.

"You don't have time for peace right now, buddy," says
Langly, giving him a hand and pulling him to his feet.
Langly's skin is cold, and suddenly Mulder feels the
chill of a thousand shadows rushing through him.  A
flash of black in his peripheral vision and suddenly the
Gunmen are gone and he's face to face with---

"Krycek," he says.  And Krycek smiles, white teeth
glinting in the shadows, as he opens his mouth to speak.

****

"Wake up, Mulder.  I think we're here," Scully says,
gently patting his cheek.  "At least this is the
location on the map."  She gets out of the car and looks
around, squinting from the sun.  "We're twelve miles due
south of Shiprock, New Mexico... but I can't see a thing
here."

Dizzy and half-awake, Mulder stumbles as he exits the
car, and lands on the ground.

"Mulder!" she shouts, rushing to his side.

He lets her help him to his feet, silently cursing
himself for startling her again.  "I'm all right,
Scully.  Just waking up."

She studies him long and hard and he knows---he can
hear---that she does not believe him.  She releases him
from her steely gaze and hands him the map.

"Can you see anything, Mulder?"

He narrows his eyes, checking the horizon, the cliff
line to the side of them, the shadow of Shiprock
Mountain in the distance.  "Nothing," he says.  "Let me
take another look at the map."

"I'm starting to think we've been sent on a wild goose
chase, Mulder," she says, "and now we're sitting here
unauthorized on reservation land.  I don't know about
you, but that makes me a little uneasy."

He stares at the map, puzzled.  The coordinates are
right.  Scully has followed the directions to the
letter.  Although the area appears vast and empty, he
senses they have arrived in precisely the right place.

He closes his eyes and breathes in and out.  In and out.

"Mulder, what are you doing?" she asks.  He hears
concern in her voice.

When he returns to the map, his eyes lock onto an
elaborate legend drawn in the top left corner of the
paper.  Instead of pointing to the traditional north,
this compass is strangely tilted.

"Scully, take a look at this," he calls.

She joins him, her eyes scanning the page.  "It's
pointing east."

"Deliberately, I think."

"What do you think it means?"

"I think something is intentionally hidden.  We came in
on a south road, right?"

She nods, confused, but still listening.

"So to align ourselves with the east, we need to look to
our left--- isn't that right?" he grins.

"You're correct, Mulder," she gives him a wry half-
smile.

They carefully orient themselves in an easterly
direction.  The light changes slightly and Mulder
shields his eyes with his hand.  The outlines of cliff
dwellings begin to emerge.  A series of tents, patches
of grass bordered by fences, cattle grazing, horses
sauntering along a creek, figures moving, laughter
carried by the wind.

"Holy shit, it's an optical illusion!  A trick of the
light," he says, amazed.

"There was nothing here before," Scully says.  "Are you
sure it's not a mirage, Mulder?"

"Brigadoon," he whispers, walking toward the cliffs.

*****

Scully tries to take it all in as they walk through the
ranch area in fading sunlight.  Ernest Hosteen greeted
them so warmly that she wished she could shake her
uneasiness, and they agreed to follow him around the
ranch for a tour.

Ancient pueblos carved from the cliffs have been
converted into housing for some.  Others have tents
scattered on the ground below.  There's bustle and
activity, people of all shapes, sizes, and
nationalities.

"A bit of an international coalition, isn't it?" says
Mulder.

"We all come from the same place, Mr. Mulder," Hosteen
answers.  "It is fitting that we should gather together
once more."

"Are all these people abductees, Mr. Hosteen?"  Scully
asks.

"Some, yes," Hosteen replies.  "Others manifest unusual
abilities, vestiges of our past... and future. All here
have either found us or have been found.  In the
beginning, we came from the stars, all of us.  Some
simply carry that code to a greater degree."

"It's a good place for an abductee to be," says Mulder,
"based on what we saw when we arrived."

"This area is ideally suited for our needs," says
Hosteen.  "The particular vibrations conceal us from
radar, GPS, and the position of the light hides us from
most eyes.  We are here near the origin place," he
points to Shiprock in the distance,  "so the magnetite
in the rocks above us provides added protection."

"So you're in hiding," Scully says.

"Not hiding," says Hosteen, "waiting."  He picks up a
handful of loose red dirt and lets it fall through his
fingers.  "We are teaching, learning, trying to find our
place in a way that honors the earth.  But there are
those who would exploit that."

"I'm curious about the rubbing you left for us," Mulder
presses.  "We've seen something like that before, with
similar translations."

Hosteen nods.  "I stumbled across this artifact years
ago.  It's what I believe opened my eyes, shall we say?
Later, I will show it to you, when you are stronger.
You could not bear it now."  He smiles, tapping both of
them on the shoulders.  "Enough of this.  It's getting
late.  Let's go have some dinner."

They eat with other ranchers around a large campfire.
Scully can't remember the last time she's dined beside a
roaring fire.  Somehow the food tastes better in the
open air.  There's music and singing, songs from many
cultures.  She feels as if they've been gifted with a
peek into a truly global village.  If not for her unease
every time she catches Mulder unaware, noticing his
furrowed brow---the pain he's trying to hide---she could
almost say she is having a good time.

They settle into the tent Hosteen had prepared for them.
Mulder collapses onto the blankets, thoroughly spent.

"You hung in there a lot longer than I expected," she
says.

"Didn't want to be rude," he says, sleepily.

She nestles in beside him, melting into his warmth.

"You know, Gibson would have loved it here," he says.
"He finally might have felt like he belonged."

"I wonder where he is now, after everything that
happened in Washington."

"I don't know," he says, resting his head against her
shoulder.  "I've been thinking about him a lot lately.
Wondering how he was able to cope with everything."

"What do you mean?" she asks.

He kisses her shoulder softly.  "All those thoughts.  He
could hear everything.  How did he keep that in place---
keep it from driving him insane?"

"He was born with that ability, wasn't he?" she asks.
"He never knew life any other way.  I believe we adjust
to what life hands us."

"I wonder if William will," Mulder says, his voice
trailing off.

She starts to respond, but notices that he's suddenly
asleep.  She snuggles next to him, safe and warm, and
prays that, at least for tonight, dreams do not invade
his sleep.

*****

The next morning, he attempts to work with Hosteen, but
he's still tired, far to tired to focus.  Such a
crushing fatigue, he doesn't understand where it's
coming from.  Hosteen waves him away with a smile, but
Mulder can feel the concern he masks.

He tells Scully she doesn't have to hover.  "Climb the
cliffs, take a walk, whatever... I'll be fine," he says.
"I just need to sleep."

"Are you sure he's okay?" she asks Hosteen.

"He needs the rest," he tells her.  "We will watch over
him."

Sleep comes quickly and easily, but rest does not.

****

"I know why you worry so---why you can feel no peace,"
says a dark-haired woman stepping out of a tent. An
earthy perfume drifts from the opening of the cloth.
She doesn't look Native American.  Mediterranean,
perhaps?  To Scully's eyes, she resembles an Etruscan
statue.

"Excuse me?" says Scully.

The woman places a hand on Scully's shoulder, causing
her to flinch at the abrupt, unexpected contact.  She
smiles bemusedly at Scully's perplexed expression.
Brushing Scully's hair away from the nape of her neck,
she places a finger at the base of her skull.

"It's this," she whispers.  "As long as this is part of
you, you will never be free."

Scully breaks away, her hands instinctively rushing to
her neck, protecting herself.  "I don't know what you're
talking about."

"Of course you do.  We've seen this before.  *I* have
seen it before."  She gathers her long hair with both
hands, deftly twisting it into a knot atop her head,
before turning to display a small, but thick, scar at
the base of her neck.  "Mine has been out for seven
years now," she says.

"A chip?"  Scully breathes.  "You removed it?"

"There is a ceremony.  It was a baptism of fire," the
woman says, "but I survived.  Many do, but there are
those who do not."

"Mine was extracted once," says Scully.  "We found later
that removal was not the answer."

"Cancer?"  The woman's eyes are wise and knowing.
Scully finds it hard to meet her gaze.

"It is their trap," she says.  "A threat to destroy the
body to keep you a prisoner.  It is not right.  You have
lost much because of this."  A wide smile replaces her
seriousness.  "I am Sofia.  I do not mean to frighten
you.  You should know that we have found a way to thwart
them.  As I said, it is not easy, but it is necessary in
order to remain here."

"I'm not staying," Scully says.  She walks away from
Sofia and her dark eyes that see too much.

*****

He is surrounded by stars, pinpricks of white against a
stark background.  It's what he imagines---or remembers-
--being in space to be.  He winces at the sense memory
of pain, even as he realizes that this is not that
place.  Still, he's been here before.  He walks toward a
dark figure, and shivers as it turns to face him.

"Ah, the FBI man," Albert Hosteen says, smiling.  An
aura of light radiates from him and Mulder relaxes.  "I
thought I would meet you here sooner or later."

"What is this place, Mr. Hosteen?"

"Surely you remember.  It is not the first time you have
visited here."

"No, you're right."  Mulder remembers lying motionless
on his back, gazing only at the stars above and the
occasional intrusion of family and colleagues.  His
father... the man he knew only as "Deep Throat"... his
first journey to the underworld.

"This is the dream country, Mr. Mulder," Hosteen says.
"You do not belong here.  You may visit, even return if
you learn the way, but it is not yet your time to stay
here."

"I don't want to stay here.  I want to find my son."

"As you are now, you could not find a cactus in the
desert.  You're drifting too close to the edge.  Too
close to the place where dreams and reality diverge.
You must find a way to tie a string to your physical
existence, something to guide you or hold on to... or
you will be lost."

*Scully.*  He turns her name around in his mind.  There
is nothing else to hold on to.

"She's losing her way, as well, Mr. Mulder.  She fears
for you.  She fears for your son.  She wants to drown
herself in blame and take on all your burdens.  But she
cannot shoulder it all for you.  You cannot ask her to
do this."

"I know... it's too much for anyone... but I don't trust
myself to distinguish what is real anymore.  I can't do
this on my own."

"You are not alone.  You have your Scully.  You have
your friends, your spirit guides.  They have been
helping you all along.  It is fear that keeps your
visions clouded.  You must find the strength to see."

The white of the stars begins to grow, slowly overtaking
the darkness.  Hosteen vanishes and Mulder is alone,
encircled by blankness.

A shadow grows in the corner, taking shape and form.
There's a sick feeling in Mulder's belly as he
understands what is happening.

"Are you ready to see now, Mulder?" whispers Krycek.
"Are you ready to see what I have to show you?"

Mulder doesn't respond, but braces himself for what is
to come.

He sees steel, passes through layers of metal, faster
than he can process.  It's a chamber of some kind, but
he can't get a fix on anything.  Images are flashing far
too swiftly.  He glimpses a small boy.  William?
Playing alone in a large room.  Someone comes through a
door.  His back is to Mulder.  The figure turns, but
just as Mulder tries to see his face, a flood of other
images intrudes, filling his head instead, casting out
what was there before.  Too many.  Too fast.  Too fast.

He screams.

******

She's shaken by Sofia's words, more than she believes
she should be.  She needs to be alone, just to think
some things through.  She walks away from the ranch, to
a bluff line overlooking the western horizon, and sits
above the desert, the weight of all the Williams and
Emilys and Melissas heavy on her heart.

The sun begins to descend low in the sky and she's
surprised by how long she's remained in one place.  Just
a couple of hours, but somehow it feels like years.  She
starts to walk back to the ranch, but the rosy fire of
the sunset compels her to stay.

She never allows herself to simply sit and ponder beauty
anymore, but today she will let it wash over her, let
the blaze in the sky consume her fears.

She doesn't hear the footsteps behind her, isn't aware
until Ernest Hosteen settles himself beside her.

"Are you okay, Ms. Scully?" he asks gently.

"I'm fine," she answers, shaken from her meditation,
"just taking a few moments while Mulder rests.  Is he
okay?"

"He's still sleeping.  He needs the rest."

They sit in silence for a moment, admiring the way the
warm hues of the sunset merge into the encroaching
coolness of night.

Hosteen speaks first, "You don't have to worry, you
know.  We are safe here."

"How do you know that?" she frowns.  "You can't know
that for certain."

"No," he agrees, "I *can't* know for certain.  But I
have faith in our safety.  That is less than many have,
but more than some can say."

"I have faith," Scully says, fingering her cross.

"I'm not diminishing your beliefs," says Hosteen, "but
I've come to consider faith as something separate from
ideas---the ideas we are taught.  Many wish to believe
in ideas, but they need signs and wonders, beautiful
myths to grasp. I know I needed that.  Most days I still
do.  But there are those like your Mulder, whose desire
to believe is so palpable, that they pass beyond the
tangible.  They step away with a faith in the universe
that is so strong, they can feel in the core of their
souls the reason, the pattern behind everything."

"I used to believe that Mulder was the most paranoid,
untrusting man I'd ever met," she says softly.  "Later I
came to see him as gullible.  He'd believe anyone who
used the right terminology.  Finally I realized he just
might be the purest soul I would ever encounter."  She's
suddenly uncomfortable.  She hadn't meant to share so
much.

"Listen," Hosteen says, "what happened with your son---
it is not your fault."

"Please, don't..." Scully protests.

"Something would have happened no matter where he was...
because of who he is, who he will always be."

"I never asked for him to be special.  I never wanted
this for him."

"Dana, you must find a way to let go of this guilt.  It
serves no purpose.  It will not help him."

Unwanted tears sting her eyes.  She does not want to
have this conversation.  Not with him.  Not with
anyone... yet here she is.  "I never should have brought
him into the world," she says, not looking at him.  "How
could I have been so selfish?"

"You punish yourself for this every day," Hosteen's
voice is low and understanding.

"I just wanted to believe that my life was normal,"
Scully says, staring straight ahead.  "That I was
entitled to those things that everyone else takes for
granted.  I was wrong."

"So you think it is easier to be closed, to have a great
wall around you."

"I've learned to do what is necessary to protect myself,
if that's what you mean," she says.

"It is not easier this way, shutting out human
experience, all vulnerability."

"That's unfair, Mr. Hosteen.  Mulder and I have each
other..."

"You have each other to keep your secrets," he
interjects.  "You trust the other to not open the
wounds, yet you deny yourself the chance to speak of
them, to truly heal."

"What Mulder and I do or don't do is our business," she
counters.

"Sometimes the things left unsaid can destroy us,"
Hosteen says quietly.

Suddenly, Scully hears panting behind them.  She turns
and sees a young girl, out of breath and holding a
flashlight.

"Ernie!" she shouts.  "You've got to come back with me!"
The girl notices Scully and gestures toward her.  "Is
that his wife?"

Hosteen looks at Scully, then back at the girl.  "What's
wrong, Rita?  Is something wrong with Mr. Mulder?"

"He woke up with a fever, screaming.  Screaming for
'Scully'," Rita says.  "We heard him from outside his
tent.  I left Robbie with him."

"He was alone?"  Scully spits at Hosteen.  "Goddamit!
He shouldn't have been left alone!"

And then she's running, running, far away from the rock
and the setting sun, back to him.

She bursts into the tent, motions for the boy attending
him to leave, and wraps Mulder in her arms.  He's
drenched with sweat, face flushed and shining with fear.

"It's okay, Mulder, I'm here," she whispers.

"Scully," he breathes, "I saw him again.  I saw Will...
he's..."

"Shh, Mulder, I'm here... just sleep. Just sleep."

Pulling a scratchy blanket over both of them, she eases
him to the ground.  She kisses his forehead, his cheeks,
his lips, a strange dance of nurture and desperation.
He grasps her tightly, enough to hurt, but she doesn't
care.  She will tether him to this world.  She will not
let go.  She will shelter him as she never could herself
or their son.  She will keep him safe.

He is all she has left.

*****

When she wakes in the morning, Mulder is gone.  There's
a stab of sharp terror in her chest, but she wills it
away long enough to throw on clothes and step into the
misty sunlight of the New Mexican morning.

She can hear his muffled voice coming from Hosteen's
tent and breathes a sigh of relief, surprising herself.

"Hey, Scully," Mulder says brightly, as she steps into
the tent.  "Ernie's got java if you want some."  He's
wrapped in a colorful blanket, a cup of coffee in one
hand and several small green leaves in another.

"Good morning, Dana," says Hosteen.  "I think he's
feeling better today, thanks to you."

"That's good," Scully says coolly, finding a cup and
sitting down.  "Have you eaten breakfast, Mulder?"

"Not yet," he says.  "Ernie's got some ideas he wants to
try out this morning."

Scully raises an eyebrow, looking at Hosteen.

"After yesterday, I think some treatment is needed.  His
visions are coming too sharp and fast for his conscious
mind to process.  His body cannot keep pace, and it's
beginning to affect his health.  I'm trying to find a
way to slow things down," explains Hosteen.

Mulder puts a small leaf to his mouth and chews.  "Kind
of bitter," he says, puckering.

"Mulder, what are you eating?"

"Salvia divinorum, Scully," he says, "the Shaman's
herb."

She stares at him with disbelief. "Mulder, that's a
controlled substance you're ingesting!"

"Salvia's perfectly legal, Scully.  Just ask the FDA,"
Mulder says, a tease in his tone.

"This is not funny.  It's a drug designed to produce
hallucinations and trance-like states.  You're already
seeing things. I don't see how this will help," she
says.

"It's natural, Scully.  It's not *designed* for
anything," Mulder argues.

She glares at Hosteen.  "I don't like the idea of
anything else affecting his brain chemistry.  We know
too little about what's really going on with him."

"This will not hurt him.  I've seen this before,"
Hosteen says, calmly.  "This will help."

"You can't possibly be suggesting that this is the
cure," she spits.

"This will not cure him, no," he answers.  "But if he is
receptive, this could slow things down enough for him to
see... and if he can learn the way to see, he will not
need the sage."

"This is bullshit," Scully says, and turns to Mulder.
"I'm going for a walk.  Don't let anyone leave you alone
this time."

She bursts outside into the harsh light of day,
stubbornly refusing eye contact with anyone who tries to
meet her stare, however friendly they may appear.  She
walks to where their car remains parked, takes out her
phone and hopes for a clear signal.  Reception is weak,
but there's enough to make a call... she hopes.

Taking a folded scrap of paper out of the glove box, she
punches in a number and waits for an answer.

"Monica Reyes."

"Agent Reyes," Scully says, "this is Deborah Newland.
I'm following up on that background check from a few
days ago."

"Hi... Deborah," says Monica.  "Let me get that file.
It's done---but there are some issues we need to
discuss."

Scully closes her eyes and holds her breath for a
moment, listening to the sound of shuffling papers.

"Okay," says Monica, returning, "Ernest Hosteen.  No
criminal record."

"Good," says Scully.  And she means it.

"But the strange thing is, he did a virtual disappearing
act from the tax records in 1992.  The last employment
record I could dig up was from 1991.  He was an
executive at a large firm.  The company tried to file a
breach of contract suit against him, but it was dropped.
He just disappeared."

"What was the company?"

"Pinck Pharmaceuticals."

A pause.  A click.

"Deborah?"

"... Dana?"

*****

"Just let go, Mulder, and we will try this," says
Hosteen.  "I will be right here."

Mulder listens, but the sage drifts into his brain,
sending a warm current throughout him, and the sounds
fade slowly.  He feels himself pulling away from his
body and his surroundings fade away, replaced by new
images, slower than before.

This vision is clear, startlingly so.  Mulder sees his
son, all reddish hair and blue eyes.  They are her eyes,
wise and piercing.  His lips and unruly hair, but---
thank God---her nose.  And he wants to laugh with the
joy of seeing them both reflected in this child.

William is playing with building blocks.  He's busy,
this boy.  Mulder feels a fatherly pride, noting
William's intense concentration as he stacks and
constructs an intricate tower.  Delving deeper, Mulder
is shaken when he feels the loneliness and hints of
uneasiness inside William.  His hand reaches to touch
William's cheek and he can feel his own heartbreak
tapping out a broken rhythm.

William's eyes widen and Mulder can feel him tense
inside.  He can feel him there.  Mulder pulls back,
ashamed of his intrusion.  He didn't mean to frighten
the child.

Two images flash before him as he pulls away.  One is
Linda Van de Camp, with crystal clarity.  Another,
fading, muted, as if William couldn't quite conjure
every detail, is Scully.  These are the people who have
loved William, protected him.  He remembers.

Mulder wills himself to pull up and away from his son,
to try to backtrack and get a sense of where William is.
He drifts upward, though the metal chamber, and passes
through layer after layer of earth, accompanied by a
sick sense of claustrophobia...

"Mulder!  We're leaving!  We have to leave now!"
Scully's voice breaks the spell.  He's back, suddenly,
abruptly, to the darkened tent and the perfume of sage.

"What's wrong, Dana?" asks Hosteen, surprised.  He jumps
from his seated position.

"I'm not talking to you.  I'm talking to Mulder," she
says in a commanding tone.  "Get up, Mulder.  Get your
shoes on."

Mulder rubs his eyes and stares at her, confused.
"What's going on, Scully?"

"We can't stay here," she says.  "We're not safe here."
She flashes Hosteen an icy glare.  "We've been misled."

"Dana---" Hosteen begins.

She cuts him off and helps Mulder to his feet.  "Save
it.  I don't want to hear any more lies.  I have a
weapon, and I'm prepared to use it."  She leads Mulder
out of the tent.

"You're making a mistake, Dana," Hosteen calls behind
them.  "It's not what you think."

"Scully?" Mulder asks, still blurry.  "What are you
doing?  Where are we going?"

"Get in the car, Mulder," she says.

Through the glare of the window, Mulder looks for his
reflection, but finds Krycek looking back at him, a
phantom in the glass.

"I think you're ready to know now, Mulder," says Krycek.
"Are you ready to listen?"

"Yes," says Mulder, as Scully starts the engine.

(continued in Chapter 7)

*****

When the shadows lengthen
and burn away the past,
I will fly me like an angel to
a place where I can rest.
When this begins I'll let you in,
September when it comes.

- Roseanne & Johnny Cash "September When It Comes"
 

~~~
 

Chapter 7

***For twenty long years, Ulysses and his wife Penelope
were separated by war and the whims of the gods.
Through it all, she never stopped waiting and watching
for his ship to appear on the horizon, even as she
outwardly moved on with her life.  Strings of suitors
were kept at bay as her cleverness kept her husband's
kingdom intact for him and for their son.

When Ulysses made his way home at last, they rejoiced at
the reunion.  But Ulysses soon realized that the quest
would never be over for him, not as long as adventure
remained.  He was made for the fight, the struggle, the
search, not to rest in a castle enjoying the spoils of
war.

And so he left Penelope again, believing that she could
not share his wanderlust and his drive to discover.  But
I wonder if Ulysses misjudged his wife.  Did she dream
of a different life?  Was she waiting for him to say the
words and sweep her away with him?  Did her heart break
just a little more when she realized that he had chosen
the quest over her?

Yet, was it pure selfishness on Ulysses' part, or did he
hope to shield his wife from an uncertain life?  War and
its horrors can change a man in ways not always visible
at the surface.  Was it actually love and protection at
work?

For years I've dragged Scully along on endless,
fruitless quests, but now... the more I live this
strange life of shadow and dream, the more I believe
that some paths are not meant for both of us.***

******

The landscape is barren, a vast expanse of dusty chalk
as far as he can see.  The white casts a hazy