Beyond the Reflection's Edge

by Bryan Davis

  Nathan gazed at the rearview mirror, imagining the scene of death back at the props room. Mictar’s ghostly specter lurked there, a stalking shadow with deadly hands ready to suck the life out of him.

  Nathan firmed his chin. It didn’t matter. Soon enough he would fight back. For now, he had to wait for the right time to mount a counterattack. It was better to go along with Clara’s plan … his dad’s plan. Maybe, even in the wake of this tragedy, there was still a glimmer of hope … somehow.

  “Wake up! We’re here.”

  Nathan jerked his head toward Clara and rubbed his bleary eyes. Riding through miles and miles of farmland must have lulled him to sleep. He read the clock on the dashboard — 11:20. Still morning.

  He looked out the window. Rays of sunlight streaked through puffy clouds, highlighting a tall Ferris wheel and at least a half-dozen spires acting as center supports for striped tents of various sizes and colors. Stretching his arms, he spoke through a wide yawn. “Where are we? Some kind of carnival?”

  “It’s a county fair in central Iowa. This is the stop I told you about.” Clara parked in front of a chain-link gate near a square sign that said, Hand Stamp Required for Re-entry.

  Nathan scanned the grounds. Only a few people strolled along the flat grass, most lugging tools, ladders, or buckets. One high-school-aged girl, clad in denim overalls and a gray T-shirt, carried a claw hammer, tossing them a glance as she passed close to the gate.

  “Looks like it’s closed,” he said.

  “All the better.” She opened the door and stepped out. “Let’s go.”

  As soon as Nathan joined her, Clara flipped up the latch and pushed the gate open. “Excuse me, young lady,” she said to the girl. “Where may I find the house of mirrors?”

  The dirty-faced blonde stopped and set the hammer against her hip, smacking her gum as she cocked her head. “We open at one.”

  Nathan rolled his eyes. This girl was treading dangerous ground. She shouldn’t mess with Clara.

  Clara’s voice changed to a formal, firm tone. “Had I asked for your hours of operation, my dear, that would have been an adequate answer. Shall I repeat my question?”

  “I heard you, Granny.” The girl flicked her head back. “That way. Behind the merry-go-round. But the mirrors won’t help you look any younger.”

  Clara gave her an icy glare. “Thank you.” She stalked toward the tented attractions, muttering, “Impertinent, inconsiderate … If I were her mother, I’d …”

  Nathan kept pace, breathing a sigh of relief. The girl got off easy. He remembered the last time he smarted off at Clara. It had been a few years, but the echo of the tongue lashing still reverberated in his mind. Sure, he deserved it, but he didn’t wish it on anyone else.

  As they passed the carousel, the operator gave them a nod and turned on the motor, apparently testing the ride in preparation for their opening. The bright-colored horses sprang to life and rode up and down their poles as if dancing to the merry-go-round’s lively tune, an accordion rendition of “Hello Dolly!” that blared far and wide.

  Just ahead, a sign on a blue-and-white striped tent said, House of Mirrors. Clara stopped in front of it and unfolded a sheet of paper. Raising her voice to compete with the music, she handed him the sheet. “Here are your father’s instructions.”

  Nathan read:

  Go alone to the center of the house of mirrors and stare at the only mirror that doesn’t distort your image. In the reflection you will see a container I have left for you. Guide your image so that it picks up the container. Look straight ahead and exit the hall. It will be in your arms.

  “You have to go alone,” Clara said, “so I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  She glanced around at the various tents. “There’s a sign that says, ‘Watch a teenager make his own bed.’ That’s something I just have to see.”

  He stared at the only sign in view. “It doesn’t say that. It says, ‘See Dog Boy, the Only Living Canine Kid.’”

  “Your sense of humor must be on life support,” she said, nudging his ribs. “Better get going before Hammer Girl comes around with a security guard.”

  Nathan pulled open a flap and ducked into the tent. Sunshine filtered through the canopy allowing him to see well enough to walk. After passing through an unmanned turnstile, he entered a wide hallway lined with mirrors on both sides and old-fashioned lanterns that colored the reflections with an eerie yellow glow. The first mirror widened his middle into a football shape. Another stretched him vertically into a wavy ribbon. A third shortened his body into that of a squashed midget.

  Ignoring the rest of the mirrors, he hurried to the end of the hall and entered a large, circular room. A pole at the center reached to the apex of the tent, supporting the tent’s canvas structure. Temporary partitions encircled the chamber, hinged between each fabric-covered section. A mirror hung on every partition, some circular, some square, and some full-length vertical rectangles.

  He jogged around the room, glancing at the reflections, each one warped in some fashion. It seemed like a lame attraction, fun maybe for five-year-olds but not really exciting enough for today’s kids who yawn at the special effects in Star Wars.

  In one of the full-length mirrors, a squatting man appeared. The moment Nathan stopped and stared, the man vanished. Now everything in the reflection seemed normal, the central pole behind him, the other mirrors all around, and his own image. This had to be the mirror his father mentioned in his note.

  The accordion theme drifted in, not loud, yet quite audible. Nothing else unusual appeared in the mirror, but the dimness under the canopy made it hard to tell for sure. He scanned the perimeter wall and spotted a switch near the entry corridor. After hustling over, he flipped it up.

  Instantly a barrage of lights beamed down from a ring of high-powered bulbs at the midsection of the center pole. Flashing every fraction of a second, they transformed the chamber into a surreal digital video with half the frames removed. As he walked back to the normal mirror, everything seemed jerky, out-of-sync, hypnotic. Now the other mirrors took on a more dazzling aspect. The warped shapes looked like grotesque monsters, mutant images of himself on an alien planet. This was definitely cool.

  As he stood several paces away from the undistorted mirror, he stared at the ground in front of his reflection. How could something show up that wasn’t really there? That would be crazy.

  The accordion music played on. The lights continued to flash, making Nathan feel like he was blinking his eyes rapidly. After almost a minute, something appeared during one of the flashes, but it vanished in the next. What was it? Something brown and solid, maybe knee high?

  The object appeared again, this time remaining for two flashes before disappearing, then for three flashes, then four. Soon, it stayed put, a rectangular box about the size of a small trunk, like a treasure chest from a pirates’ movie.

  Keeping his eyes on the mirror, he leaned over and guided his reflection’s hands around each side of the trunk so that his fingers could support it underneath. As he straightened, the Nathan in the mirror lifted the trunk. With lights blinking at a mind-numbing rate, the scene felt like a nightmare — disjointed and unearthly.

  Although he couldn’t feel the panels or the weight, he pretended the trunk was there, imagining it in his mind as he turned toward the entry hall and strode out, his gaze fixed on the lantern light straight ahead.

  As soon as he entered the hall, a sudden weight burdened his arms. He looked down. The trunk was there, weathered and brown with a fine wood grain that bore little if any varnish. It seemed too light to be holding anything of significant weight. Could it be empty? If it was, why would his father want him to get it?

  Nathan pushed the tent flap to the side, set the trunk on the ground, and looked back at the house of mirrors, his vision still coming in flashing frames. What in the world just happened in there?

  A hand patted him on the back. Nathan turne
d slowly toward Clara, trying to blink away the strobe lights. She pulled on his elbow. “Let’s get going. I ran into Hammer Girl again. She took off to call security.”

  He picked up the trunk and hustled behind her, trying to watch where he was going while checking out the trunk at the same time. It seemed so weird, no latches or lock, not even hinges or a lid. Never mind the impossible way he found the trunk; how was he going to get it open?

  Clara turned onto a narrow street and eased the car between fields of corn. Although the tall, browning stalks barely allowed a view over their tops, a solitary house was visible in a clearing in the distance. “That’s the place,” she said.

  Nathan gazed at the landscape, a thousand acres of rolling cornfields surrounding a beautiful old mansion framed by a dozen or more majestic shade trees. “What town are we in?”

  “No town, really. We’re between Iowa City and Des Moines, closer to Newton, Iowa, than anywhere else. This is the home of Tony Clark, a man your father and I knew years ago, but neither of us has had contact with him recently. Mictar will not likely track you here. We’re pretty far out in the country. I even lost cell service a few miles back.”

  He pressed the window switch and lowered the glass enough to stick his head out. The air still carried the morning’s chill. “I hope this guy doesn’t mind me showing up out of the blue.”

  “He knows you’re coming. I called just before we left Chicago.”

  “Anyone else live here?”

  “His wife, a lawyer, I think, and a daughter named Kelly. I believe she’s sixteen years old.” Clara pulled into the long concrete driveway and stopped under the boughs of a mammoth cottonwood tree. An open garage revealed a pair of matching motorcycles but no car. “Tony said he’s honored that you’re coming. In fact, because your father’s will so stipulates, he’ll be your legal guardian, your new father, so to speak.”

  Nathan grimaced. “Don’t say that.” He closed his eyes again and shook his head. “Just … don’t say that.”

  “Okay okay. Take your time.” She opened the door and stepped out onto the driveway. “Just let me know when you’re ready to go in.”

  Nathan grabbed the mirror and threw open the door. He walked to the front of the Jeep, leaned against the hood, and glared at the house. Except for the satellite dish on the roof, the massive residence was a perfect setting for a movie about a rich land owner back in the days before combine harvesters. Maybe Mr. Clark was a crotchety farming hermit who amassed a corn empire and sat on it, fat and happy while his migrant workers hauled in the harvest and sold it at market, bringing him bags of cash for his amusement. Still, with its brick front and splendid marble columns, the house seemed friendly enough, almost inviting, in spite of the old miser who probably lived inside.

  The cool autumn breeze swirled a menagerie of red and yellow leaves around his ankles, some of them funneling down from the cottonwood tree. Its deeply fissured bark and thick, serpentine limbs reached down at him like the long, gnarled arms of a giant.

  He grabbed a triangular leaf out of the air and rubbed a finger along its coarsely toothed edge. The color of life had drained away, leaving only a pale yellow hue that reflected the sadness of its dying state. As dozens of other yellow leaves brushed by him, he released the one in his hand into the wind, letting it join the parade of death.

  “I guess I’m ready.”

  “Then let’s go.” Clara marched toward the door, her purple sleeves flapping in the stiffening breeze. “Once you sound the call, you might as well be ready to charge.”

  Nathan pushed away from the Jeep and followed, the mirror tucked under his arm. He hopped up one step to a tiled porch and bumped the edge of a welcome mat with his heavy boots. Red-twine letters woven into the scratchy material spelled out, If You Have to Duck to Enter, I’m Your Coach.

  Clara found a doorbell embedded in the brick wall and pressed it lightly. A loud bong sounded from inside, a sweet bass, like the lowest note on a marimba.

  A female voice sang through a speaker at the side of the door. “Who is it?”

  Clara nodded at the speaker and whispered. “Answer her, Nathan!”

  He leaned toward the intercom. “Uh … It’s Nathan. Nathan Shepherd. Clara and I are here to —”

  The voice pitched higher. “You’re early!”

  Nathan cleared his throat. “I … I’m sorry. I didn’t know what time we were supposed to —”

  “But I’m not ready … I mean, we’re not ready. Your room is —” A loud thump sounded from the speaker. “Ouch! Now look at what you made me do! What a mess!”

  “I made you?”

  “Ooooh! … Just wait right there. Don’t move a muscle!”

  Nathan glanced at Clara. She returned an I have no idea kind of expression and added a shrug. After a few seconds, loud, uneven footsteps stomped toward them. The door swung open, revealing a teenaged girl hopping on one bare foot. Her bouncing shoulder-length brown hair framed a pretty face with black smudges on each cheek.

  She grabbed her toes and leaned against the jamb, scrunching her thin eyebrows toward her button nose, her cuffed jeans exposing her leg from midcalf downward. “That cabinet was heavy.”

  Nathan focused on her pink toenails, the shade of pink on Barbie doll boxes and inside Pepto-Bismol bottles. “Think you broke a bone?”

  The girl set her foot down and tested her weight on it while pulling her dirty white T-shirt down to cover her midriff. “I don’t think so. It’s just —”

  “You must be Kelly,” Clara said, extending her hand. “I’m Clara Jackson, Nathan’s tutor.”

  Kelly took Clara’s hand and nodded. “Kelly Clark. Pleased to meet you.” She reached her hand toward Nathan. “Pleased to meet you, too, Nathan. Are you a Bulls fan?”

  Nathan shook her hand. “A Bulls fan?”

  “Yeah.” She pointed at his shirt. “You know. The basketball team. My dad loves them.”

  Nathan glanced down at the logo. “Oh, that. It’s borrowed. I’m not really a basketball fan.”

  “Oh.” A faint gleam appeared in Kelly’s eyes, and she flashed a hint of a smile. “Good.”

  “Are your parents home?” Clara continued.

  “No. Dad’s leading practice with the team today, and then he’s going out to get stuff for tonight’s dinner, so it’ll be a while.” Kelly pulled in her bottom lip and drummed her fingers on her thigh. “And Mom’s … um … in Des Moines for … for personal reasons.” As a pink flush tinted her face, she gestured with her head. “C’mon in. There’re cold drinks in the fridge and —”

  “I must leave immediately,” Clara interrupted. “Our lawyer is meeting me in Davenport so I can settle Nathan’s affairs. I’ll collect some necessary items for him while I’m there. We had a mishap of sorts last night and lost our luggage.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Nathan probably can’t wear any of my father’s clothes. They’d be too big.”

  Clara glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s still early, so I should be able to come back this evening with some things.” She placed a gentle hand on Nathan’s shoulder and turned to Kelly. “Did your father tell you about Nathan’s parents?”

  Kelly’s brow turned downward. “Yes … he did.”

  “Then I’m sure you’ll make him feel at home, won’t you?”

  A sympathetic smile spread across her face. “You can count on me, Ms. Jackson.”

  Clara kissed Nathan on the forehead. “I think you’re in good hands.” As a tear inched down her cheek, she whispered. “I’m sorry for leaving so abruptly, but I have a lot to do.”

  “It’s okay. I understand.” Nathan wrapped one arm around her shoulders and hugged her briefly.

  “I’ll see you tonight.” Clara waved as she strode to the Jeep.

  While it backed out and zoomed away, Kelly stepped up to Nathan’s side. “So, you have a personal tutor? Must be fun.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty cool, I guess.” He watched the Jeep as it turned onto the main road.
His last attachment to the life he once knew was now gone. His throat sore and tight, he forced out a few words, hoping to end the questioning without hurting Kelly’s feelings. “I don’t have anything to compare it to.”

  She cupped her hand around his elbow and led him inside. “You tired?”

  “Sort of.” When the Jeep disappeared, the image of the trunk on the backseat flashed into his mind. He snapped his fingers. “I left the trunk in the car.”

  “A trunk? Is it important?”

  “Maybe … It’s kind of hard to say.” He stepped into the foyer, which opened up into a huge sitting room with a cream-colored leather sofa and loveseat on one side, a Steinway grand piano on the other, and a crystal chandelier suspended above. The dangling crystals sprinkled tiny shivering rainbows on the walls where they tickled the faces on a half-dozen framed portraits, mostly of pleasant-looking elderly folks who seemed to grin at the sudden attention.

  Nathan resisted the urge to whistle at the rich décor. Kelly’s mom must have been a pretty successful lawyer to afford all this stuff.

  The breeze from the open doorway nudged the chandelier, making the crystals sway. The prismatic colors seemed to converge on the wall and spin, and the sparkles tumbled in a kaleidoscopic merry-go-round. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the rainbows had scattered into their former chaotic pattern.

  Kelly closed the door and joined him in the piano room. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” He took in a deep breath. The aroma of polished wood blending with a hint of peanut butter carried a warm welcome message that worked to ease his tortured voice. “This place looks great.”

  “Thanks. My mother really knew — I mean, really knows how to decorate.”

  He caressed the piano’s glossy rosewood. “A Model B Victorian!” He glanced up at Kelly. “What is it? Seven foot two?”

  “Good eye.” She nodded at the matching bench. “Go ahead. My father told me you play.”

  “Well, I’m a lot better at the violin, but maybe I can remember something.” He slid into place in front of the piano and set the mirror at his side. After reverently pushing up the keyboard cover, he draped his fingertips across the cool ivory keys. Then, with a gentle touch, he played the first measure of a Beethoven sonata. As he increased to forte, however, he fumbled through the piece, clumsily missing note after note. Heat surging through his cheeks, he stopped and cleared his throat.