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Chapter 9
It was easy to be afraid of the small barn. With the interior looking nearly as bad as the exterior, Cemone assumed the whole thing would collapse at any minute. Moldy beams of wood were scattered all over the dirt and straw-covered floor as small slits of light streamed out of the many holes of the beaten roof. These slits provided the only source of illumination the barn had to offer. The light distribution looked messy and sporadic. Narrow pillars of light would intersect and show irrelevant pockets of space, on both the ground and air. From the modest light arrangement only the profiles of the six people inside could be seen.
Cemone had no reason to fear the people. After all, Dr. Cart had invited her, so she assumed they were friendly. But she noticed something about them as she entered the room: they all had an intimidating aura of profound intelligence. She felt as if she had walked into a great library, one filled with books so old and fantastic and of such careful selection that Cemone wondered if she had any right to see them.
“Dr. Cart, who are these people?” Cemone asked. She tried to sound brave, but even she could hear that she wasn’t.
“Did you eat the bagel?” asked a profile to the far left of the barn. Cemone looked at the silhouette as she spoke: dissecting everything she could about the stranger contained in that single question. The voice was familiar: it was the woman she overheard on the phone. She heard a gravel in the woman’s voice and deduced the woman was most likely over thirty, or smoked, or both. She could also identify her accent: American. Although she couldn’t identify the exact region, Cemone knew she was American.
“I had two muffins. Is that alright?” the Group laughed at Cemone’s innocence. “Yes, darling, that is perfectly alright,” said the mystery woman. Cemone looked at Dr. Cart who stood directly in front of her. She could only see the back of his head, but somehow knew he was smiling.
“Doctor, who are these people?” Cemone asked again, this time making sure to grab the man’s arm. Feeling the concern, Dr. Cart turned to Cemone and smiled at her fear.
“Cemone, I think the mature thing would be to ask them yourself.”
She felt like a little girl as she followed Dr. Cart to the center of the barn, right below the greatest pocket of light the room could offer. Once the two reached the center, the profiles began to converge on them. As they stepped into the light Cemone could see the faces of the intimidating strangers. The room’s authority quickly rose as she recognized each member of the Group. They were all notable in their different fields: there were the two academics, Melisa Trevor and Simon Tusk; the ambassador of South Africa, Philip Peck; the Indian philosopher, Hiran Naasir; the textile industrialist, Arthur Kronmiller; and the aviator, Vincent Stock. Together they all formed a circle with both Dr. Cart and Cemone.
“What is this?” Cemone asked.
“We are a random assortment of intelligent people,” Melisa replied. Cemone looked around her and saw that the female stranger was indeed correct. The room was filled only with intelligent people. Cemone just didn’t know why.
“While you may be concerned,” began Philip, “With what our presence means, you first need to know what our collective represents.” He was second the person to speak in the circle; however, he did it with a grace that made Cemone think otherwise.
“What does it represent?” Cemone asked the Group. The philosopher, Hiran Naasir, answered the question.
“Nothing,” he responded. “Absolutely nothing.”
Cemone raised her eyebrow at the Indian and turned to the circle for a clarification. She saw that everyone agreed with the answer in silence.
“What does that mean?”
Dr. Cart turned to his student as he heard the fear retreat from her voice. “This group has no connections, no plan, no members, and no agenda, in fact we aren’t officially a group at all,” he explained. “All we are, and all we can agree on, is that we are intelligent people.”
“If all of that is true,” Cemone said, “Why meet?”
“It is important for us to keep these rules for ourselves and the world. If word got out that great minds in the world met, every blue moon, people would worry. It would defeat the point of us meeting,” Simon explained.
“But why are you meeting?”
“To be honest,” Vincent said as he retrieved an unseen wine glass from beneath a shadowed support beam, “we gather to become informed. We gather so we might know how to respond before, rather than after, the next great tragedy, discovery, or something else.” Vincent placed the glass in the center of the circle after he spoke. The pristine wine glass clashed with the dirty floor it was placed on, making its splendid beauty an eyesore.
“You just come here and talk about the news? This is why you brought me here, Doctor? It’s almost six in the morning.” Cemone’s fatigued hangover slapped her in the face in light of the answer. She was both physically and mentally exhausted with the almost pointless conversation they were having. She looked at the Group and thought that this was another one of Dr. Cart’s bizarre mysteries. He had taken his hijinks to new heights with the addition of impressive people; however, even this wasn’t a good enough reason to deprive her of sleep.
“Not the news. Never the news. It is information that may or may not make the news. Things happen and we want to know about them before, rather than after, they happen,” Dr. Cart clarified. The old man sounded serious, but Cemone was still upset.
“You need to understand the scope of this, Cemone,” Melisa interjected. “We are trying to make sure we know what occurs in the world, by always being one step ahead. But to do that we need to eliminate any connotations or cautions to sharing.” Cemone was still angry and was committed to staying that way.
“So, what? You promise to never hurt people with weather forecasts and speculations?” Cemone mocked. “This is how a group of intelligent people like to spend their time? Just being prepared is worth walking around in the dark and meeting in private?”
The room went quiet as Cemone mocked the small group. The silence continued until Arthur Kronmiler, the textile industrialist, exhaled a long sigh. “It would be myopic to assume that the information we gain here is never capitalized,” Arthur recited dryly, implicitly coerced into using the words.
“Arthur,” Melisa chided.
“No, Melisa, she’s right, and clearly she isn’t reading between the lines or impressed with this collective. I don’t have the time to wait for a hungover girl to play with grand ideas, so we might as well get on with it.” Arthur turned to Cemone in a leering manner as he began a very real description of the meeting. “The insights we gain here are meant to be used as a way to help ourselves build better decisions and possibilities. When we meet, we are using our gathering as a tool. A tool to control the world around us. With that being said, we are all individuals with personal ties, varying levels of autonomy, and different goals in life. So, we must remove all forms of morality or fear to preserve the continued use of this tool. If the hammer cared about what it was striking, then the nail would never be placed. If we worry what the others might do to the world in pursuit of their unknown dreams, then we will hinder the control or our own. Do you understand, Cemone?”
Cemone looked at Dr. Cart. He and the rest of the Group were staring at her. She had recalled Dr. Cart’s question during the examination and was sure that this was related to it in some philosophical sense.
“Cemone,” Dr. Cart clarified, “we decided a long time ago that, in order to continue what we are doing, we must be completely impartial. Information is shared, and then we all act independently. Otherwise it just becomes politics. To prevent that, we make an understanding: we aren’t an organization or a committee. We’re a gathering of intelligent people that wishes to know more so we may do more.”
“But at the same time,” Hiran interjected, “For us to do more, we need to make sure the general public doesn’t know about this.”
“Why? Couldn’t this be a good thing for everyone?” Cemone asked. “If this is really impartial, shouldn’t everyone know about it?”
“There are things people don’t want us sharing with each other. This isn’t a summit or a think tank: it’s a specific nothing meant to help those that have shown that they do more in this world. The idea that everyone should know as much as we do implies that all actions are the same,” Vincent replied. “What we do is meant to allow for personal advancement for a few that deserve such advancement. Giving the world more simply rewards it with our efforts for not being us.”
“The farmer should be respected for his lot in the world. But to say that he should have any amount of control over our lives is akin to calling us livestock,” Melisa cut in.
“So, you want to control people?” Cemone obnoxiously retorted.
“We want ensure people, governments, or anything else won’t get in our way. As those that can pursue the possibilities that we want, with our intelligence, acumen, and grit, we refuse to be hindered by the choices of others.” Greater than it had ever been that night, Dr. Cart’s voice echoed throughout the barn.
The room went silent, again. With all eyes on Cemone, she felt as if there were no other option but to accept. The rational had seeped in and already devils’ advocate had changed to the voice of reason. But she still had one question left.
“Why am I here?”
Dr. Cart was happy to explain the decision. “At the age of twenty-three, you’ve earned two doctorates. You may not know where you want to go in life, but when you do you will want to come to us to ensure nothing can lead you astray. We’re certain that you have the potential to offer powerful insights down the road, and we’re willing to invest information in you now so you may reciprocate later. We would like to induct you into our little group to do this.” It was a flattering idea: one that finally allowed for any reservations to collapse.
“How are we going to do this?” Cemone asked her teacher—the mentor whom she felt, at that moment, had just pronounced her his equal.
“Cemone,” Melisa called. Cemone turned, and found her holding a bottle of wine. She uncorked the bottle of red wine and proceeded to the glass on the floor. “We do a lot at these meetings, Cemone. But, before we discuss the course of history, we always make a toast.” Melisa began to pour the wine into the glass. She had poured the entire contents of the bottle into the small cup, causing it to overflow. As the small pool of red spread across the floor Melisa found her place in the circle.
“Our condolences to the world we once knew,” the Group decreed.
The ceremony spread across the floor of the barn, and when it stopped the members of the Group stood around it in a perfect ring. From there they discussed many things. Disclosed pieces of information were both inconsequential and life changing depending on the audience member. And the world changed, but it hardly ever knew.
All six members of the Group bee-lined out of the barn. The wine had begun to dry, and someone had removed the glass. As everyone left, Cemone looked at Dr. Cart for fatherly advice. All she seemed to find was a caring smile from her old professor.
“Dr. Cart?”
“Yes?”
“So, is this my life now?” she asked. Dr. Cart laughed, and the two walked away together.
“Sweetheart, your life is anything you want it to be, but that was always true.” Cemone wasn’t surprised to see the yellow cab outside. Once inside it, she fell asleep against the cab window. In Cemone’s dream, the yellow bride offered her comforts and the two danced once more.