Ourselves

by S. G. Redling

  He told her of the various small boxes that were displayed throughout his house, most of them from sites important to his parents and a few antique boxes of his ancestor’s with sacred soil. Her favorite description was that of the highly varnished pine box that bore the words Calstow Mountain, NY, that Tomas had picked up at a souvenir shop. Inside, it held a handful of dirt and moss he had grabbed from their spot near the blackberry bushes beside the creek. She clutched the smelly chip bag to her chest and rested her head on Tomas’s shoulder.

  They drove north for another hour and a half, taking winding roads, enjoying their shared blood high. Tomas felt he could drive forever, that he could do anything forever, but around him he was increasingly aware of the common and his curiosity demanded to know what it would feel like to be among them in his altered state. They pulled into a truck stop diner on Route 23. Tomas took Stell’s hand as they crossed the parking lot.

  “Do I look okay? My clothes, I mean?”

  Stell laughed. “You’re asking me?”

  “I mean, can you see any blood?” He pulled her close and kissed her.

  “No, but I smell it.” Her hand slid under his shirt along his still-sticky skin. “And I know where I can find some.”

  “Behave!” He pulled open the door of the diner and pushed her in front of him. When the door closed behind him, he staggered against the glass, unprepared for what awaited him.

  “Tomas? Are you all right?”

  His mouth hung open, his breath shallow and harsh. They were attracting attention and Stell pulled him into a booth. Tomas spun his gaze around the room. He couldn’t speak, could only stare, until he finally had to close his eyes and cover his face with his hands.

  “What is it? What are you seeing?”

  He shook his head as an older, heavyset waitress whose nametag read Dee approached their table. “Everything okay here?” Tomas let his eyes move up to her face and let out a small sigh. He nodded and looked back down. “You gotta order.”

  “Pancakes,” Stell said, squeezing Tomas’s hand. “And Coke. Cokes.”

  Dee shot them a withering look and turned to the kitchen to put in the order.

  “Please tell me what’s happening, Tomas.”

  Alone with her on the highway, he could feel the presence of the common all around him, hear them like the whir of crickets at night. But here, within the greasy confines of the crowded diner, his mind staggered under what lay before him.

  “You know how I told you I can sense connections between people, what they want, what they think?” His speech was slurred. “I can just sense it. I didn’t know how. But now, now there are these . . .” He gestured widely with his hands over the crowd around them, “these . . . tubes?”

  It wasn’t the right word but his mind couldn’t grasp the vocabulary to describe the columns of solid-looking smoke that snaked out of each common around him, some thick and dark like the shells of armadillos, some wispy and transparent like cigarette smoke. They whipped and undulated, appearing and disappearing as their sources ate and spoke and rose to use the restroom. Dee dropped off their drinks and tears filled Tomas’s eyes.

  “She hates us.” He whispered to her retreating back. “Drugs. She thinks we’re on drugs and she hates that. Her brother—her little brother—is doing time, that’s what she calls it, ‘hard time’ for drugs. He killed someone.” The words tumbled out. “She hates our drugs. She would save us. If we asked her she would give us anything to get us off the street. Why won’t we save ourselves? No one can do it for us she wants to tell us but she won’t because we’re just another set of junkies coming in, hippies, useless. Oh, Stell.” He put his head down on his hands. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Stell dragged Tomas onto his feet and out the door. Outside the bacon-stench of the truck stop, he began to breathe more easily, his mind clearing. He looked through the windows at the curious stares of the people within. The smoke snakes had disappeared. There was nothing connecting the common within except their curiosity about the dark-haired hippies in the parking lot. They climbed into the truck and headed back onto the highway.

  They were over the Kentucky border before Tomas would speak. Twice Stell offered to drive and twice he shook his head. He needed something to focus on, somewhere to direct his concentration to anchor himself while he sorted through his mind.

  How could he describe to her what had happened? It was as if his mind had touched a live wire in the universe and the power of the jolt had thrown him deep within himself. He could feel the blood coursing through his body, could feel his muscles and nerves rejoicing and rejuvenating even while his mind scrambled for equilibrium.

  “Did you hate it, Tomas?”

  “Hate what?”

  “R ‘acul.”

  “No. I didn’t hate it. That wasn’t your first, was it?” She shook her head, and he reached over to stroke her cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was afraid you would think I was . . .”

  “You were what?”

  “I was dangerous.”

  Tomas pulled her close to him. “My beautiful Stell,” he spoke in a whisper. “You are very dangerous. You are oascaru.” The word meant deadly and among the Nahan it was high praise indeed. Stell pushed her face into his neck, breathing him in as he stroked her hair.

  “Did you feel this too, Stell? Is this what they talk about after killing, this sick pain? These visions?” He felt her stiffen in his arms. She kept her face turned away.

  “I didn’t feel anything like that,” she whispered. “I didn’t feel anything bad.”

  “Figures it would tear me up.” He sighed and kissed her hair. “Another Tomas Desara success story. I can’t even feel bad things right. And now I’ve got to get back for my interview with the Storyteller. What if I’ve screwed this up?”

  By the time they reached Deerfield, their blood high was wearing off and the sun was setting. The Desara house was lit up when they pulled into the driveway. Beth opened the front door and stood with her hands on her hips.

  “Could you have cut that a little closer, Tomas? He’s going to be here tomorrow afternoon.”

  Tomas set his bag down. “I know, Mom. That’s why we hurried.”

  “No, hurrying would have been to get home yesterday so you had time to eat and rest and gather your thoughts. Instead, you’re flying by the seat of your pants, as usual.”

  “Mom—”

  “You’re the one who said how important this is to you—”

  “Mom!”

  “But it’s obviously not important enough for you to actually plan for—”

  “Mom!” Tomas grabbed his mother’s shoulders. “I’m home! I made it!”

  Beth clenched her lips, looking at her son through a puddle of tears.

  “Why are you crying?”

  She smoothed his hair and tried to keep her voice steady. “You may find this hard to believe, young man, but your happiness is important to me. I’m your mother. I worry about you. If being a Storyteller makes you happy, I want that for you. And if this so-called expert coming in tomorrow can’t see what a wonderful man you are . . .” Her voice broke and she pulled Tomas close to her. They rocked each other for a moment before Beth pulled away, her brusque self recovered.

  “And of course you make this no easier for me. Showing up at the last minute. You have no idea what we’ve been going through.”

  Tomas turned from her to embrace his father. “Has she been like this the whole time?”

  “The whole time.”

  “Fine! Fine! Make fun of me!” Beth threw up her hands and marched to the kitchen. “When you get disqualified for not following the directions, don’t come crying to me.”

  “What directions?”

  Richard pulled a letter from the bookcase. “This arrived earlier this week from Mr. Albion. It’s a set of very specific instructions for your interview. If this is any indication of what it’s like being a Storyteller, I can’t imagine what you’re i
n for.”

  Tomas read over the directions. “Kind of particular, aren’t they?”

  “It doesn’t sound like any of it is negotiable either.” Richard read the letter over his shoulder. “Your mom and I fed earlier today. You’re grandparents are out now. Louis and Aricelli said they’d be ready too.”

  Tomas let out a worried breath, glad for his father’s calm help. “What do you think he’s going to ask? Why does he need everybody here? Why all these superspecific instructions?”

  Richard shook his head. “I have no idea. I’ve never worked directly with a Storyteller before but I’ve seen them around the Council complex. They’re an odd lot but, then again, they’ve got a big job. Without them, we never would have made it among the common. Do you understand what you’re getting into, Son? This is more than a job. If you get accepted, if you become a Storyteller, you’re responsible for the survival of our people.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I didn’t think it was possible for me to get any more nervous.”

  Richard laughed and pulled Tomas into a hug. “My pleasure, Son. How about a beer?”

  “It should be on the next block, Mr. Albion.”

  “Thank you.” He centered himself as the car pulled up to the curb of a modest ranch house. His driver held the door as he took three deep breaths before stepping out.

  As instructed, the front door had been left ajar. That was one small victory. He always forwarded very specific instructions. They weren’t arbitrary. His job was difficult enough without having to slog through family chaos and local traditions. The family was seated as he had requested and no one raised their eyes as he entered. Most of his colleagues made the same requests of interviewees, particularly the request for no unsolicited eye contact. Each Storyteller had his or her strengths but as a group they found eye contact to be especially exhausting.

  He stood for a moment in the living room, taking in the surroundings. It was a nice house, comfortable and welcoming. There were family photographs in frames and he could spy at least two boxes of sacred soil. That was a good sign. Everyone seated wore shades of blue, showing their respect for tradition.

  He stood before the parents and touched them on their cheeks, their sign to meet his gaze. They looked up together. The father was calm, the mother slightly defiant. Albion could feel a protective energy around her, which was to be expected from a parent, but he could feel nothing unbalanced. These were all good signs but not enough to make him optimistic.

  He nodded to them and stepped to the couch to the elder couple seated there. He studied their bowed heads until he could discern their identity. They were the paternal grandparents. He could feel their son in them. Touching them on the cheeks, he looked into their eyes. His fingers lingered on the grandfather’s face and learned of the bond between grandfather and grandson. This was not a picture-perfect family. There was no real dysfunction, simply the usual generational friction.

  Albion bowed slightly to the elder couple and crossed the room to the three young Nahan sitting uncomfortably in wooden dining-room chairs. He made a point as he moved to not see the young man in the doorway at the end of the room. The first one he came to hid her face behind a wave of lustrous black hair. He touched her head and as she turned her face to him he couldn’t help but smile.

  She was a beauty and, despite her early years, she was already adept at using it to her advantage. Albion liked working with beauty. Not for any lascivious reasons of his own, but because beauty was the easiest tool to wield and brought the sweetest results with the least effort. He enjoyed her face for a moment and could feel her understanding of his enjoyment. There was a potential for hardness within this one and, if he had been called to do so, he would have some warnings for her parents. He touched her head again and she looked back to the floor.

  The young man beside her raised his head at his touch. It was an interesting combination, this young man and the beauty beside him. The young man had an edge, not exactly cynicism but a keen eye for reality. Albion felt the affection and nervousness of the young man before him, could feel how badly he wanted to help his cousin. A touch on the head and the Storyteller stepped before the last young woman.

  There was suspicion in her eyes as she looked into his face and that set him off his pace for a moment. Who was she to look at him with insolence? He gathered his thoughts and breathed deeply. Then he saw it. She was True Family. Or had been. For the second time in the visit he felt a smile play on his lips. One thing this candidate had in abundance was fierce women. Did it mean he would qualify? Probably not, but at least it gave Albion a break from the endless grind of the interviewing process. He put his hand on the girl’s head and nearly laughed as he was forced to actually press to get her to lower her eyes. What a family.

  Albion stepped into the center of the circle to collect his thoughts one last time before approaching the boy. Part of him wanted to hurry it up, part of him wanted to delay. Despite all the disappointments, despite the fact that it had been nearly four years since a new Storyteller had been admitted to the training, each failed interview was a bitter disappointment. He, like all Storytellers, was hesitant to face another failure.

  Albion stood before the boy but he didn’t see him. He closed his eyes, preparing to ask the same question he had asked eighteen times so far on this journey, that he and his colleagues had asked hundreds of times over the centuries. He wondered which of the variations on the theme he would hear:

  “What do you mean?”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Different words that meant the same thing—he had wasted yet another day of his life. He put his fingers under the chin of the young man before him and, when he felt his face rise, looked him in the eye and asked his question.

  “What does it look like?”

  It took a heartbeat for the words to register to Tomas. They banged around his head before he understood the question. When he went to speak, however, his voice failed him.

  Tomas burst into tears.

  His eyes didn’t well up, his voice didn’t break with emotion. Rather, his body convulsed with ugly, wracking sobs that bent him in two. The question tore through him like a knife thrown with force. Around him the room dissolved into chaos, Stell leaping to his side and pushing the Storyteller away. Beth and Richard fought to comfort him and beyond the raw sounds that issued from his throat he could hear his mother screaming at Stell, blaming her. He wanted to stop, to correct her, to assure everyone he was all right, but the sobs tore at his abdomen, bending him double as if he had been punched.

  When he heard the front door close, Tomas felt a small dose of composure return. His throat was raw and his eyes burned as he fought to be heard in the din.

  “Stop! I’m all right.” The room quieted as he raised his tear-stained face. “I don’t know what happened. I just, oh god. He’s gone, isn’t he? I blew it, didn’t I?”

  Nobody spoke. He could see their concern changing to embarrassment.

  Tomas rose to his feet. “This is nobody’s fault but mine. I don’t . . . this is . . . I’m sorry I wasted everybody’s time.” He wiped his fists across his face, noticing for the first time a wadded up note in his hand. “What is this?” He unfolded the crumpled sheet and fell back into the chair.

  “It’s the address of a hotel in Chicago. It says ‘Conference Room B, 11 a.m.’ Am I in?”

  Conference Room B was bedlam. Long tables packed the center of the room, set up at right angles in no discernible pattern, creating a maze teeming with Nahan men and women waving their arms, shouting out messages, and flinging papers and files. Tomas stood on the periphery. No one had greeted him. No one had acknowledged him until one sharp-nosed woman in a Chanel suit stood too close to him, glaring up at him over the edge of her reading glasses.

  “Who are you?”

  “Tomas Desara.”

  “Who?”

  “Desara. Tomas Desara. Mr. Albion sent me.”

  “A
lbion?” She said the name like it tasted bad. “You’re the candidate for Storyteller? You look like a cabana boy.” She held his sleeve in an iron pinch and yelled to a man digging through a cardboard box beneath the nearest table. “Wilson. It’s Albion’s boy. Our future.”

  From somewhere to his left, a voice yelled out, “In those shoes? We’re doomed!” Laughter scattered through the room and Tomas glanced around helplessly. Whatever he had expected of his training, this pandemonium was not it.

  “I got him.” The man she called Wilson took his arm and led him deeper into the fray. Nahan both young and old moved and talked and passed files around him as if he were no more than a pitcher of water. “I’m Wilson. You gotta listen, kid. Don’t say anything. Don’t try to talk to anyone. Just listen.”

  “To what? It’s chaos in here.”

  “Exactly.”

  Tomas saw stacks of bank records, computer code printouts, contracts, divorce decrees, even a document that claimed to be an annulment with what looked like official stamps from a Catholic church. He kept his hands behind his back to fight the temptation to rifle through the documents. Doors on both sides of the room opened and closed as messengers came and went. People shouted into cell phones and screamed at laptops. When Wilson took a break from the file folder he had been studying Tomas ventured a question.

  “Are these all Storytellers?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Wilson asked. “A room full of Storytellers? I’d put a gun in my mouth. No, kid, this is just a quick info confab. We’ve got three days here for Region Six I-M-F to get as much damage done as they can, then we’re off.” Tomas nodded as if he understood what any of that meant and continued to follow Wilson.

  A voice from the doorway shouted, “Who left the spook in the lobby?” Nobody answered so the young woman who had asked the question fought her way deeper into the fray, two laptops filling her arms. She dropped one computer off with a worried-looking man chewing a pencil and searched the room for the recipient of the second laptop. “There’s a girl in the lobby with suitcases. We calling in hookers?”