I've been thinking lately about those interesting moments when a scientifically trained modernist has an unexpected epiphany (in the numinous sense of the term).

As has often happened in my life, a book sort of lept into my hands, this time from the shelf of a local bookstore here in Venice, California ("Small World Books"), which turned out to be synchronistically relevant to my question. The quotation below is from that book, by the American novelist Greg Bear, winner of many awards for his scientifically-based science fiction novels. Its title is "Darwin's Children," the second in a series set in our near future. The context of the passage I've quoted below is as follows:

"Kaye" is Dr. Kaye Lang Rafelson, a famous molecular biologist turned geneticist, who's husband is Dr. Mitch Rafelson, an equally famous anthropologist. Their eleven-year old daughter Stella is one of "Darwin's children" (DC), millions of unusually precocious kids with strange genetics being born all over the world. She is seriously ill with a new, often fatal, disease suddenly infecting many of the DC kids. Fearful that it could spread to the normal human population, authorities have quarantined the DC kids and their immediate families in prison-like emergency "schools" and hospitals.

Kaye and Mitch have fled authorities with Stella and just arrived at a secret safe house, a cabin on a remote lake in a rural part of Pennsylvania. Kaye has fallen asleep on the cabin floor next to Stella.

---

[the following is © 2003 by Greg Bear.]

... The cabin was completely dark.
"What?"
     Kaye sat up on the floor. She had fallen asleep beside Stella, with only the flap of the sleeping bag between her and the hard wood, and now she had the distinct impression someone other than her daughter was in the room.
     It wasn't Mitch. She could see the blanketed hill of his toes through the bedroom door.
     "Who's there?" she whispered.
     Crickets and frogs outside, a couple of large flies buzzing around the cabin.
     She switched on a table lamp, checked her daughter for the hundredth time, found the fever way down, the breathing more regular.
     She thought about moving Stella into the second bedroom, but the hook supporting the bag of Ringer's solution would have to be moved as well, and Stella seemed comfortable on the sleeping bag, as comfortable as she would have been in a bed.
     Kaye looked in on Mitch. He, too, was sleeping quietly. For a few minutes, Kaye stood in the short, narrow hallway, then leaned against the wall. "It's better," she said to the shadows. "It has got to be better."
     She turned suddenly. For a moment, she had thought she  might see someone in the hall, someone beloved and familiar. Her father.
     Dad is dead. Mom is dead. I'm an orphan. All the family I have is in this house.
     She rubbed her forehead and neck. Her muscles were so tense, not least from sleeping beside Stella on the wooden floor. Her sinuses felt congested, as if she had been crying. It was a peculiar, not unpleasant sensation; the byproduct of some deeply buried emotion.
     She needed to get some air. She checked Stella again, obsessive; knelt to touch her daughter's forehead and feel her pulse, then walked around the couch, through the porch door, down the steps, and across the path through the grass to the boat dock.
     The dock was thirty feel long and ten feel wide, ridiculously large on such a small lake. It supported a single overturned rowboat and a pile of moldy life vests. Grass blades poked out of the vests, shimmering in the moonlight.
     Kaye stood at the end of the dock and crossed her arms. Absorbed the night. Crickets stroked out the degrees of heat, frogs thrummed with sexy, alien dignity out there in the shallows, among the reeds. Gnats hummed their desperate little ditties.
     "Do any of you know what it is to be sad?" Kaye asked the lake and its inhabitants, then looked back toward the house. "Are you sad when your children are ill?" The single lamp in the living room burned golden through the windows of the porch.
     She closed her eyes. Something large, completing a connection . . . something huge passing over, sweeping the lake, the forest––touching all the living things around her.
     The frogs fell silent.
     And touching her.
     Kaye jumped as if someone had cracked through a flimsy wooden wall. Her shoulders rose and her fingers tensed. "Hello?" she whispered.
     Any neighbors were at least a mile away, up the road, beyond the thick trees. She saw nothing, heard nothing.
     "Wow!" she said, and felt immediately stupid. She looked around the lake, toward the reedy shallows, searching for the source of another voice, through no one had spoken. The reeds were empty. The lake fell silent, not even a breath of air. The night was so still Kaye could hear her heart beating in her chest.
     Something had touched her, not her skin, deeper. At first it was just the awareness that she was not alone. By herself, on the dock, in her bare feet, she now shared her space with someone as real as she--as welcome and strangely familiar as a beloved friend.
     She felt years of burden lift. For a moment, she basked in a warm sensation of infinite reprieve.
     No judgment. No punishment.
     Kaye shivered. Her tongue moved over her lips. A trickle of silvery water seemed to run through her head. The trickle became a rivulet, then an insistent creek flowing down the back of her neck into her chest. It was cool and electric and pure, like stepping out of the sweltering heat of a summer day into an underground spring. But this spring spoke, though never with words. It had a particular and distinctive perfume, like astringent flowers.
     It was alive, and she could not shake the feeling that she had known about it all along. Like molecules finally fitting, making a whole--yet not. Nothing biological whatsoever. Something other.
     Kaye touched her forehead. "Am I having a stroke?" she whispered. She fingered her lips. They were trying to form a smile. She bent them straight. "I can't be weak. Not now. Who's there?" she repeated, as if locked into a pointless ritual.
     She knew the answer.
     The visitor, the caller, possessed no features, no face or form. Nevertheless, being bathed in this cool, lovely fount was like having all of her great-grandmothers, her great-grandfathers, all the wise and sweet and wonderful and powerful members of her family whom she had never met, all at once and together bestowing the unconditional approval and love they would have bestowed had they cradled her as an infant in their sheltering arms. There was that much in it, and more.
     But the caller, at once gently and unbelievably intense, was nothing like her fleshly kin.
     "Please, not now," she begged. With relief came fear that she was losing her tenuous link to reality. The caller was known to her, yet long denied and evaded; but it showed no anger, no resentment. Its only response to her long denial was unconditional sympathy. The caller exposed an extraordinary longing to touch and show itself despite all the rules, the dangers. The caller quite charmingly yearned.
     Faye suddenly opened her mouth and let air fill her lungs. Funny, that she had stopped breathing for a moment. Funny, and not scary at all; like a personal joke. "Hello," she said with the exhale, dropping her shoulders and relaxing, pushing aside the doubts and giving up to the sensation. She wanted this to last forever. She knew already it could not. To go back to the way she had felt just a few minutes ago, and all of her life before that, would hurt.
     But she knew the pain was necessary. The world was not done with her, and the caller wanted her to be free to make her own choices. without its addictive interference.

Kaye walked back to the cabin to check on the sleeping Stella and to look in on Mitch. Both were quiet. Stella's color seemed to be stronger. Patches of freckles came and went on her cheeks. She was definitely past the crisis.
     Kaye returned to the dock and stood staring into the early-morning forest, hoping that the loveliness, the peace, would never leave. She wanted it all, now and forever. There had been so much grief and pain and fear.
     But despite her own yearning, Kaye understood.
     Can't go on. Not yet. Miles to go before I sleep.
     Then, she lost track of time.

Dawn arrived in the east, on the other side of the trees, like gray velvet by candlelight.
     She stood beside the overturned rowboat, shivering. How long had it been since she had returned to the dock?
     Without words, the fount had spent hours sluicing her soul (she was not comfortable using that word but there it was), wetting and revealing dusty thoughts and memories, becoming reacquainted in real and human time. Wherever it flowed, she knew its unalloyed delight.
     It found her very good.
     "Is Stella going to be all right?" Kaye asked, her voice soft as a child's in the shaded close of the trees. "Are we all going to be together and well again?"
     No response came to these specific questions. The caller did not deal in knowledge, as such, but it did not resent being asked.
     She had never imagined such a moment, such a relationship. The few times she had wondered at all what this experience might be like, as a girl, she had conceived of it as guilt and thunder, recrimination, being assigned onerous tasks: a moment of desperate self-deception, justifying years of ignorance and misbegotten faith. She had never imagined anything so simple. Certainly not this intense yet amused up-welling of friendship.
     No judgment. No punishment.
     And no answers.
     I did not call for this. The body has prayed the prayers of desperate flesh, not me.
     Her conscious and discerning mind, most concerned with practicalities, the mistress in starched skirts who stared out sternly over Kaye's life, told her, "You're playing Ouija with your brain. It doesn't make sense. This is going to mean nothing but trouble."
     And then, as it it were shouting a kind of curse, kaye's tense and adult voice flew to the trees, "You are having an epiphany."
     The crickets and frogs started their racket again, answering.
     Finally, the conflict became too much. She dropped slowly to her knees on the dock, feeling that she carried precious cargo, it must not spill. She bent over and laid her hands flat on the rough, weathered. wood.
     She had to lie down to keep from falling over. With a long, slow release of breath, Kaye stretched out her legs. ...

- end -