by Carl L. Biemiller,
edited by C. J. Carnahan and Eric Biemiller

This unpublished manuscript is a parapsychological tale of a boy, his power and Watergate.
The story takes place in a small New Jersey town and is rife with small town humor and the politics of the day.

Carl L. Biemiller, my father, passed away in 1979. I discovered this manuscript when it came time to move
my mother from the Biemiller, Monmouth Beach, NJ home. I'm guessing the story was written
from 1973 through 1974 based on Watergate's (President Nixon's debacle) timeline of events.

lightning Copyright © 2005 by Eric C. Biemiller

Please respect the copyrights.
There are thirty chapters to this manuscript.
At the end of each chapter you'll find the links.
Chapter 1

“He is either dead or dying,” muttered Ballard Kynwood. His teeth gritted, and the muscles along his lean cheeks were stone ridged in his bloodless face at the anguish of his thought. “Why don’t they tell us?”

“He is neither,” said his wife, and her dark eyes, wide as swamp pools, burned a steady, electric blue above the deep, pain-etched shadows which stained the hollows above her cheekbones. The youthful oval of her face wore a mask of eternity, a timeless look of implacable serenity. “He is neither,” she said.

It was quiet in this end of the corridor which abutted the recovery room and the intensive care unit of the hospital’s fifth floor operating room. They sat together, hands linked, insulated by their own oneness from the faraway sounds made in that vast community of pain and hope housed by the giant complex of buildings which made up the hospital itself. The white clad nurses and attendants who sometimes flitted before them with rubber-shod stealth were as unseen as ghosts. Their vision, when they allowed it to concentrate, was fixed upon a single green door.

Beyond it, if he were not still in the operating room where the green garbed surgeons played their endless games of percentage, lay Ballard Kynwood Junior, age fourteen, victim of a hit and run driver caught in the act of fleeing the scene of collision and now in jail.

The boy, a leggy length of grins and antics just beginning to size into dimensions that would be formidable in manhood, was riding his bicycle home from high school freshman football practice when death disguised as a drunk had made his pass under an arch of trees which folded over a quiet suburban street.

It was midnight now.

And the green door opened.

The white light in the corridor showed every rumple and wrinkle in the surgeon’s green tunic and trousers. The surgeon was a weary and a disheveled man, but his eyes were bright and alert and his lips sensitive yet firm.

“You’re the lad’s parents?”

“Ballard Kynwood and Connie Kynwood.” They rose as one, their eyes demanding a plea and a hungry question.

“I’m Dr. Todd. Decker Tood. He’s critical. Fractured skull, broken collarbone, extensive chest bruising, strained muscles along his back, superficial lacerations on his knees and face. No signs of internal damage or bleeding as yet. We eased brain pressures, but I can’t tell extent of damage. One hour, two, three, four… we’ll know more. Right now he’s with us…just. I can make arrangements for a place where you both can get some rest which I suggest you need. Or you can sit here if you like. When we know more I’ll see that you know more. We’ve done the best we know how for him. He has a good body and it’s young. He’s on his own.”

“We’ll sit,” said Connie Kynwood firmly.

“As you like,” said Dr. Todd. “Now excuse me. There’ll be a nurse along later should you change you mind about a place to lie down.”

“Thank you, doctor,” muttered Ballard Kynwood.

“He’ll make it,” said Decker Todd, and left, questioning the confidence in his voice as he walked down the corridor. “Forgot to tell them about shock trauma,” he murmured to the sallow yellow walls. “And I’m glad. Now to leave some instructions at the desk for those people,” he muttered like a bachelor checking off a laundry list, “and some sleep because I’m working at six ayem again. Good luck to you, Ballard Knywood Junior, and if I don’t stop talking to myself I’ll be punished someday for listening to what I say.”

Whatever the boy in the recovery room was hearing it was not Dr. Todd’s monologue. But somewhere among the rhythmic pulsations of bioelectric current that shaped and rolled mysteriously into the alpha waves coursing from his shocked and infinitely weary brain there was a perception of meaningful sound.

“That’s a latent crying help. Do you read it?”

“Are you sure it’s not a terminal surge? Last stage before end all?”

“Too regular, too steady, too open, and the sending shows a break-through of inhibitors.”

“You’re right. That’s a latent in forced bloom. No discipline, but plenty power, and an awareness of self-control.”

“Do we help him?”

“We do, but gently and with a minimum of intrusion. He’s fighting for his life, aware but not yet fully cognizant of breakthrough into power.”

The chill was leaving the void that surrounded him, and the infinity of emptiness itself changed and became a long black tunnel. Far, far away at the end of that tunnel a pinprick of red light winked, wavered and steadied into a red glow dime-sized in the darkness.

He felt a great desire to sleep, to somehow separate and seep off down the tunnel and past that red glow to become part of the blackness. The red light winked, faded, almost went out. Then it steadied again. He felt a sudden urgency, the hint of a nudge and he willed the light closer. It moved toward him, grew large as a rose and cast a rose-red hue on the black wall of the tunnel as it came. There was no light source now but only ruby radiance and it warmed. He reached to absorb and be absorbed by it. Something was blocking his passage and walling off that radiance now so near. He perceived again the shape of silent sound and a meaning that hovered on the edge of understanding.

“Do we do it?”

“None can do it for another. He does it now or dies.”

The boy drove anger at the block and knew as he did so that he wasted energy on the weakest of wedges. He gathered will and, with it, probed the nature of the block.

In the peaceful gloom of the recovery room a nurse checked the boy's bed, noted the white-on-white of his face against the pillow which supported his head. This one was the dicey one, she thought, a handsome boy and a gangler like her own son. She breathed a prayer for him as she checked the wires that led from the electrodes under his bandages to the EEG, the electroencephalograph; they had rigged to his shaven skull. She flashed a pencil light on the recorder, noted the faintness of movement of the wavy lines on the paper, alpha waves still even but verging from very low cresting into almost a straight line on the graph.

The boy explored. There was something wrong with the synapses, something wrong with the connections of nerve junctions which caused the block. There was damage. Repair would take time, and he had none. There were other routes and bridges.

He traced them, flowed into them, flooded them with his will, and entered a vast strangeness, aware and jubilant at some giant flowering of sense beyond senses. The radiance was very close. It enfolded him, and he enclosed it and knew certainly and peace.

“Breakthrough, and well done.”

“You have him located?”

“An identity known as Ballard Kynwood Junior at Morris Hospital in a town called Marterville. It’s a New Jersey suburb fifty miles south of New York City on the New Jersey coast, a university town which houses several branch colleges of Princeton University. The identity’s father is an instructor there. Marterville is in the United States.”

“We will have him contacted and prepared for instruction?”

“As soon as possible. Why.”

“There is only the power, but it may be black as well as white.”

“And this latent now neophyte is a boy. Will and whim, a boy, and boys play unwittingly at times, and their curiosity is constant scratch. We will lose no time.”

Higher than the flight of eagles are the hills called Himalayas, and the thin winds never cease trying to claw the dun stone monasteries which cling to remote cliffs in the land of Tibet. The seasons cycle on the heights. They change only the color of the snow. An ancient monk, his wrinkled ivory face a replica of Buddha done in prune skin, shifted within his long, quilted robe and produced a small pouch. He took a single grain of rice from it and placed it within his mouth. He chewed it long and thoughtfully for it was the meal of the day. He stretched upon the bare stone floor of his cell and went to sleep. His Watch period was over.

On the Isle de la Citie in Paris, France, the gargoyles of Notre Dame frowned from their cathedral perches upon an apartment balcony overlooking the river Seine, and the pearly dawn mist which rose from it. A lean, naked man projected himself from a squat position on the balcony and entered the apartment which abutted it. He brushed moisture from the gray hair at his temples, moved his fingers through the long-cut black strands above them, and walked over thick rugs through the lavish rooms to a small kitchen. He went silently. It was much too early to disturb Parisian servants. He took a small glass from a cupboard, opened a refrigerator and poured himself a portion of orange juice. It would suffice him until dinner. He left the kitchen and padded to a bedroom where he turned down yellow satin sheets and crawled into bed. His Watch period was over.

Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two Chapter Twenty Three Chapter Twenty Four Chapter Twenty Five Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven Chapter Twenty Eight Chapter Twenty Nine Chapter Thirty
If you have any comments about this manuscript, please contact me at:
To the Harvest of Memories C.L. Biemiller's Home