Veronica nodded. “Good. This won’t hurt a bit—but at any time if you want me to shut the equipment off, just say so.”
Mary was wearing a yellow headset that had been fashioned from a motorcycle helmet, with solenoids on the sides, directly over her temples. The helmet was attached by a bundle of wires to a rack of equipment leaning against one wall.
“Okay,” said Veronica. “Here we go.”
Mary had thought she would hear a buzzing, or feel a tickling between her ears, but there was nothing. Just darkness and silence and—
Suddenly Mary felt her back tense and her shoulders hunch up. Someone was there, in the chamber with her. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her skull.
This is ridiculous, thought Mary. Just the power of suggestion. If Veronica hadn’t primed Mary with all her talk, she was sure that she wouldn’t be experiencing anything. Christ, the things you could get research funding for sometimes amazed her. It was nothing more than a parlor trick, and—
And then she knew who it was—who was there, in the chamber with her.
And it wasn’t a him.
It was a her.
It was Mary.
Not Mary Vaughan.
Mary.
The Virgin.
The Mother of God.
She couldn’t see her, not really. It was just a bright, bright light, moving now in front of her—but a light that didn’t sting the eyes at all. Still, she was sure of who it was: the purity, the serenity, the gentle wisdom. She closed her eyes, but the light did not disappear.
Mary.
Mary Vaughan was her namesake, and—
And the scientist in Mary Vaughan came to the fore. Of course she was seeing Mary. If she’d been a Mexican named Jesus—Hay-sooz —she’d perhaps think she was seeing the Christ. If her name were Teresa, it would doubtless be Mother Teresa she’d think she was seeing. Besides, she and Ponter had been talking about the Virgin Mary just yesterday, so—
But no.
No, that wasn’t it.
It didn’t matter what her brain was telling her.
Her mind knew that this light was something else.
Her soul knew it.
It was Mary, the Mother of Jesus.
And why not? thought Mary Vaughan. Just because she was here, at a university, in a lab, inside a test chamber, that didn’t mean anything.
Part of Mary had been skeptical of modern-day miracles, but if miracles did happen, well, then the Virgin Mary could appear anywhere.
After all, she’d supposedly come to Fatima, Portugal.
She’d supposedly come to Lourdes, France.
And to Guadalupe, Mexico.
And La’Vang, Vietnam.
So why not to Sudbury, Ontario?
Why not to the campus of Laurentian University?
And why not to talk to her?
No. No, humility was what was called for, here in the presence of Our Lady. Humility, following her grand example.
But…
But still, did it make so little sense that the Virgin Mary would visit Mary Vaughan? Mary was traveling to another world, to a world that didn’t know of God the Father, a world that was ignorant of Jesus the Son, a world that had never been touched by the Holy Spirit. Of course, Mary of Nazareth would take an interest in someone who was doing that!
The pure, simple presence was moving to her left now. Not walking, but moving—hovering, never touching the soil.
No. No, there was no soil. She was in the basement of a building. There was no soil.
She was in a lab!
And transcranial magnetic stimulation was affecting her mind.
Mary closed her eyes again, scrunching them tightly shut, but that did nothing. The presence was still there, still perceptible.
The wonderful, wonderful presence…
Mary Vaughan opened her mouth to speak to the Blessed Virgin, and—
And suddenly she was gone.
But Mary felt elated, felt like she hadn’t since her first Eucharist after her confirmation, when, for the one and only time in her life, she’d really felt the spirit of Christ coming into her.
“Well?” said a female voice.
Mary ignored it, a harsh, unwelcome intrusion into her reverie. She wanted to savor the moment, to hold on to it…even as it dissipated, like a dream that she was struggling to transfer into conscious thought before it slipped away…
“Mare,” said another, deeper voice, “are you okay?”
She knew that voice, a voice she’d once longed to hear again, but right now, for this moment, for as long as she could make it last, she wanted nothing but silence.
But the moment was fading fast. And after a few more seconds, the door to the chamber opened, and light—fluorescent, harsh, artificial—spilled in from outside. Veronica Shannon came in, followed by Ponter. The young woman removed the helmet from Mary’s head.
Ponter loomed closer and he brought up a short, broad thumb, and wiped Mary’s cheek with it. He then moved his hand away and showed her that his thumb was wet. “Are you okay?” he said again.
Mary hadn’t been aware of the tears until now. “I’m fine,” she said. And then, realizing that “fine” wasn’t anywhere near sufficient for how she felt, she added, “I’m terrific.”
“The tears…?” said Ponter. “Did you…did you experience something?”
Mary nodded.
“What was it?” Ponter asked.
Mary took a deep breath and looked at Veronica. As much as she had taken a liking to the young woman, Mary didn’t want to share what had happened with this pragmatist, this atheist, who would dismiss it as just the result of suppressed activity in her parietal lobe.
“I…” Mary began, and then she swallowed and tried again. “That’s a remarkable device you have there, Veronica.”
Veronica grinned broadly. “Isn’t it, though?” She turned to Ponter. “Are you ready to try it?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “If I can gain insight into what Mary feels…”
Veronica proffered the helmet to Ponter, and she immediately realized there was a problem. The helmet was designed to accommodate a standard Homo sapiens head with a high forehead, a head that was short front to back, a head with no or negligible browridges, a head, not to put too fine a point on it, that housed a smaller brain.
“It looks like it’s going to be a tight fit,” said Veronica.
“Let me try,” said Ponter. He took the thing, turned it upside down, and looked inside, as if gauging its capacity.
“Maybe if you think humble thoughts,” said Ponter’s Companion, Hak, through its external speaker. Ponter scowled at his left forearm, but Mary laughed. The idea of bigheadedness apparently crossed species lines.
Finally, Ponter decided to make the attempt. He turned the helmet right-way up and pushed it down over his head, wincing as he did so. It was indeed a tight fit, but there was lining inside, and with a final massive push, Ponter got the foam to compress sufficiently to accommodate his occipital bun.
Veronica stood in front of Ponter, appraising him like one of those clerks at LensCrafters fitting new glasses, then adjusted the orientation of the helmet slightly. “That’s fine,” she said at last. “Now, again, as I told Mary, this won’t hurt, and if you want me to stop early, just say so.”
Ponter nodded, but winced again as he did so; the back of the helmet was digging into his thick neck muscles.
Veronica turned to the wall rack full of equipment. She frowned at an oscilloscope display, and adjusted a dial beneath it. “There’s some sort of interference,” she said.