by J Jordan
Romney moved to the next one, an interesting headline on politics in Camerra, when the unthinkable happened. The 30 percent battery life on his phone had become 20 percent while he wasn’t looking, and then 5 percent a moment later. Before Romney could read the opening line of the article—something about the Camerran parliamentary ruling class—his phone went dark. He clicked the power button frantically. A small, red light flashed his doom.
Okay, he said in the privacy of his mind, that’s fine. He had probably burned an hour or two while reading those articles. The rest of this trip would be over before long. He looked up at the alarm clock on the dashboard. It had been seven minutes.
Buses can be a place to really contemplate the intricacies of life and nature. It can be a truly rewarding experience, for those of a pensive persuasion. But Romney was never equipped for this. He was a man of the moment. Usually, people of the moment would use conversation to while away the time, but his only conversation partners had no interest in talking to each other, or to anyone, in Tykeso’s case. And, worse, now his cell phone was dead.
For Romney Balvance, each moment spent in that bus became a waking nightmare.
The remaining eight hours and four minutes went by, one second at a time. Romney made the best of this. He stared at everything that passed by his window.
There would be very little scenery along the route to Andrea’s Course. Valda, their driver, had chosen the optimal route into Tiena the night before. They would pass through rural Cresdale into the even more rural Ivordale, across Toramona, then down into Terravale, and finally to Tiena.
Those asking what’s in Ivordale will always get the same answer, regardless of where they are in Ontar: nothing. Ivordale was simply the place where the sparseness of the countryside of rural Cresdale slowly transformed into barren desert. Occasionally, you might see a lone housing settlement or a beleaguered gas station. But nothing more.
Over the course of an hour, the dried grass became dirt and rocks, and the sparse vegetation gained strange shapes and various spines. Romney had seen cactus before, but it still surprised him when everything had suddenly become cactus. Trees were now cactus; and bushes, cactus; and grass, small cacti. Even the flowers that bloomed were attached to giant super cacti, with spines as long as fingers. Everything in the desert, great and small, was specifically designed to maim passersby. Even the rocks.
For a moment, Romney was relieved to live in a city like Lanvale, where trees grew in specific areas and carried no vendettas against the world.
Ivordale led westward into the Andrea Course provincial limits and, once the line was crossed, became the town of Toramona. There’s a lot to be said about Toramona’s burgeoning housing market and its continued growth across Andrea’s Course, not to mention its up-and-coming commercial district and the newly erected shopping plaza in downtown Toramona. They’re always building something new. But in terms of anything specifically unique, Toramona was too young to have historical sites and too small for an appreciable museum. In terms of the historical or the artistic, Toramona came up short. But, Goddess help them, they were trying.
In the not-too-distant future, Toramona would gain a sizable art museum, a respectable community college, and two recreational parks. But these were barely in the conceptual phase at this point in the story. When they were completed, each would be a very nice place to spend an afternoon, or an evening depending on your major.
The bus passed by a second identical shopping center on the exit ramp toward Terravale. And before they reached the city limits, they had already seen five billboards all promising different mysterious wonders. The road sign that followed promised a reprieve. Tiena was only 138 miles away.
What should be said about Terravale? Imagine you are among the first settlers to reach the south central territory of Andrea’s Course. The city Casandrea, to your north, is already recognized as the largest city in the province. In fact, many believe it will soon be named the provincial capital. And that’s just fantastic. Really, it is. Casandrea is a beautiful, large, and majestic city, truly worthy of the title “capital.” But that is one hells of an act to follow.
Casandrea has a lot going for it. It takes its name from the Prophet Andrea, literally “Andrea’s Home,” because her tribe once occupied those lands before she made the epic journey to claim Andar for her people. So, they have holy sites dedicated to the prophet. Plus, they already have museums, taverns, rows of market stalls, and the eighteenth-century equivalent of a water park. How do you top that? Who would ever want to stay in Terravale for more than a night?
Then your weird uncle comes up with an idea. It involves a stick he found during his prospecting days in Monterna, which he swears is enchanted. He wants to build a small shed, where people can pay to look at it. The idea also involves making over 300 hand-painted signs that really “sell” this stick. They should say things like “Come see the Stick, nature’s greatest enigma!” and “The magical, mystical Stick. It’s really Fanta-STICK” and “The Stick! Enchanted? Mythical? Wooden? Follow the arrow!” And each sign would have an arrow pointing to where to find this strange enigma. The idea is crazy, some even call it stupid, but no one else has provided anything constructive beyond “I bet they’re coming up with better ideas in Casandrea.” So, you start painting signs.
And after a year or two of setup, your weird uncle’s idea starts paying off. People come from all over Andrea’s Course to see “The Stick.” They pay good money to wait in a line that ends at a shed, where someone has placed a long stick on a pedestal. Of course, many don’t come back. A few even threaten to burn your entire town to the ground, shed and all, for making them stand in line and pay to look at a twig. But some, a rare few, make it a point to come out every year to see “The Stick.”
Word spreads across Ontar. In the coming months, Terravale gains housing for everyone, a general store, two taverns, and a blacksmith, all on the proceeds of “The Stick.” The settlement thrives. And then, one day, your weird uncle emerges from his house with an odd-looking stone in his hands. In the right light, it kinda looks like Katrese.
This was Terravale. All signage, slogans, and freestanding buildings are geared toward one purpose: to get you to pull over and pay to look at something weird. “The Stick,” “The Goddess Stone,” “The Thumb,” “The Pinky,” “It,” “The Fork from Beyond,” “The Spoon That Time Forgot,” “The Stick II: The Stickening,” and its various sequels. All of these attractions operate on the same premise. They offer an average-looking item with an overblown past. It is a town built entirely on that premise. The bus did not stop at any of these attractions. There was only enough time to fill up at the “Gas Station of Lost Souls.” Tiena was fifty miles away.
Romney took this time to use the “Bathroom of Sleeping Giants,” which was really just a standard gas station bathroom with a nice hand-painted sign, although it was well kept. And the hand soap had a nice musky scent to it. When he returned to the bus, he found Cora and Tykeso standing at the folding door. They were five feet apart, arms crossed, and each avoiding the other’s gaze. The last six hours had done nothing to improve their moods. When Cora looked to Romney, she turned and stomped up the steps into the bus. Tykeso acknowledged him with a nod.
“Hey,” ventured Romney, “how about that stick, eh? Sounds pretty cool.”
“Mmm-hmm,” murmured Tykeso, through his grimace.
“We should check it out, when we have more time.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Romney nodded. The conversation was winding down, and there would be no hope of it returning on the bus.
“I mean, unless you’ve already seen it before. I’ve never been to Andrea’s Course. I guess I was expecting more desert. It isn’t like they portray it in the movies. It’s a nice place. I could see myself living in Toramona someday. It’s got everything.”
Tykeso nodded, his grimace softening.
“Have you ever been outside of Lanvale?”
Thank Katrese, t
hought Romney. After all this time, a conversation was forming.
“Yeah, sure. I’ve been to Camerra a few times, back when I was a kid. And I went to Alta Mirra once, just to see what it was like. But I’ve never been here or anywhere else in this continent. And this will be the first time I’ve ever been to Andar.”
“Then we should make a point to show you the rest of Ontar. When there is time.”
Tykeso’s gaze moved to the gas station, where Valda had emerged from the front door. She held a coffee in one hand and a fresh pack of cigarettes in the other. She tapped at her watch as she approached, and then waved them onto the bus when she reached the folding doors.
“We leave soon,” she bellowed. “We will be on time.”
Romney followed Tykeso up the steep steps onto the bus. Tykeso took the first seat and crossed his arms once more. His glower had returned in full. Romney looked back to Cora, who was still glaring at the back of Tykeso’s neck. She looked to Romney, shook her head, then returned to her book. Romney moved silently back to his seat, where he returned to looking out the window. The final hour would be much like the past six.
The signage for roadside attractions had only just subsided when the sign for Tiena appeared, like a ray of hope in the afternoon sun. Romney marveled as the sign approached, then craned his head to watch it zoom past in a blur of blue and silver. Tiena city limits. The metropolis emerged from the periphery, in the form of hotels and shopping centers. Then the car dealerships, offering cars old and new at unbeatable prices. Yes, the signage said, they did speak Andaran.
Then came the looming glass towers that mark any city, with names Romney had never heard before. Banks, insurance companies, headquarters for grocery chains. Each had a citadel. Some were wider than the others, and some were taller, and some fit the perfect square of affordable office space. Each housed thousands of elves and humans, braving the last few hours of their workday. The weekend would come again.
Romney was jolted from his reverie as the bus shifted into the turn lane. The next exit was for Tiena International Airport. He never knew he could be so excited to see an airport. And what an airport. Tiena International was the central travel hub for all of Ontar and the largest airport on the continent. Sure, you could get a flight to Camerra or Tambridan at Lanvale International. And Alta Mirra had the occasional flight into eastern Azerra. But if you needed a flight anywhere else in the world, for a good price, then you would fly from TIA. As they approached, they could see the planes rising over in great howling whooshes, and others coming in for a perfect landing. It was a busy day for the largest airport in Ontar.
But as they pulled up to the departure gate, Romney noticed the walkway was empty. This was the final genius of Valda’s schedule. It had found the optimal route to Tiena, while bypassing afternoon rush hour and reaching the airport at the exact start of the 3:00 p.m. lull. It was a true stroke of commuter genius. As the bus came to a stop, Valda pointed to the alarm clock affixed to her dashboard. It read 3:00 p.m., right on the dot. Truly, Valda Arkhyver would be remembered in the annals of bus driver history. Her farewell was terse.
“You are on time. Go.”
The three associates navigated the airport, their luggage in hand and over shoulder. Romney pinpointed their flight to terminal 5, which was prepared to leave in thirty minutes. As they made their way through security, then through customs, those thirty minutes quickly melted into five. Then, as Cora disappeared into the food court, those five became one sizzling minute. Romney sprinted for the gate. And he made it just in time to see their plane pull away and start its taxi down the runway.
Nine hours on a bus had led to this moment.
Romney plugged his phone into the nearest wall outlet and slid down the wall. He began his text to Mila. And after minutes of agony, he came up with the perfect message.
“We missed the plane.”
Her response came a moment later.
“Find Lucco.”
“Ah,” said Romney aloud, “find Lucco. Fantastic. Find Lucco in an airport.”
He looked up to the crowd of people moving to and fro, to the hundreds filing out of each terminal, and to the hundreds more boarding flights. None of them looked like a Lucco to Romney.
“What’s going on?”
Cora appeared beside him, sipping at a coffee in one hand while balancing two more in the other. She offered Romney one.
“We have to find a guy named Lucco somewhere in the airport. Anyone in here look like a Lucco to you?”
Cora frowned at him.
“Did she give any specifics? There are four more terminals. We have to take a tram to reach the others.”
“Nope,” said Romney, with an unenthused grin, “just that there’s a guy named Lucco somewhere in this airport.”
He watched his phone and waited for another text from Mila, perhaps with something helpful. Like a surname, or a physical description. Or a location, even a vague one. Nothing came up.
Tykeso emerged from the crowd, carrying luggage for two. He had insisted on carrying Cora’s things, despite Cora’s protests. When he approached them, he looked ready to concede. They made a quick trade of one cup of coffee for a laptop bag, a duffel bag, and a rolling suitcase. This did little to ease his burden.
“Are you okay with all of that?”
Tykeso nodded to Cora. She wasn’t convinced.
“You could get Romney to hold something. He only brought one suitcase.”
“Yeah,” said Romney, “sure thing.”
Romney took one of the duffel bags and slung it over his shoulder, then nearly lost his footing as he did so. Luckily he had traded his dress shoes for something with more grip.
“Goddess, what do you have in here?”
“Personal effects,” said Tykeso.
“I thought Romney would be the one to pack a bunch of crap,” said Cora.
Tykeso’s expression suggested that her input wasn’t appreciated. Cora was the only person in the group who didn’t seem to pick up on these subtle nuances. She seemed to be in a relatively good mood since arriving. She hadn’t once yelled at Romney.
“Who? Where? What does he look like?”
Romney sent the message. The reply came back a moment later.
“Lucco Darro. Terminal 6. Outside.”
And then his phone buzzed again as he made for the door.
“Can’t miss him.”
“Where are you going?”
Romney waved them over. Then he readjusted his burden.
“Terminal 6, outside.”
“On the tarmac?”
“We aren’t allowed out there.”
Romney opened a door labeled “Solo Empleados” and stepped out into the oppressive heat of Andrea’s Course. Romney was unaccustomed to the dry heat of the desert, and was ill-equipped for it in his Camerran silk jacket and slacks. He scanned the small buildings and found none that were clearly marked as terminal 6. He did find several people in orange safety vests, who eyed him suspiciously. His phone buzzed again.
“Across from terminal 5.”
The Tiena International Airport had five terminals. No one working for the airport would ever admit to a sixth terminal, across from the fifth. Senior staff would brush it off as a mechanic’s hangar. This explained why aircraft would occasionally emerge from its depths and take off. For test flights. That was a sufficient explanation. Passersby would best describe it as well kept yet shady.
However, on occasion, the questions were more prying. A careful observer might ask something like, “Isn’t that known mafioso Seymour Smoak? The one who was acquitted of multiple homicides due to lack of evidence?” or “Is that a rocket launcher?” or “That sure is a lot of baking soda, isn’t it?”
These questions were often answered in a very vague way, like, “It looks to me like your good friend/significant other/spouse, who works in a nice establishment not too far from here, and who frequents a restaurant/shop/café/bank close by, a friend/significant other/spouse
who would be utterly leg-broken to hear you asking those silly questions.”
The next question always seemed to be, “Don’t you mean heartbroken?” And the reply would always be, “That’s up to you, friend.”
The fewer questions, the better. That was the airport’s unwritten policy.
And it worked just fine.
When Romney moved into terminal 6, he did so with brash determination. So did Cora, marching right behind him. Tykeso followed slowly behind them, his pace set to caution and his hand resting on the zipper of his duffel bag. Romney’s pocket buzzed as he crossed the threshold into the obscure hangar.
“You will be hitching a ride. Andarametra o nada.”
When he looked up from his phone, he saw shady-looking people in uniforms, some in suits, and others in military fatigues. And they were all glowering at him. He cleared his throat.
“We are hitching a ride,” he said. “Andarametra o nada.”
The sudden hush that fell over the hangar took on a tangible tension, like piano wire. Romney could taste gun smoke in the air. For terrible seconds, no one said a word and no one moved a muscle. Their hard faces and piercing eyes spoke about a great many things, like what happens to luckless tourists who wander in. Things that involved large, sharp objects and the worst months of your life. The buzzing in Romney’s hand could turn a steel bar to jelly. He carefully raised the phone to his face.
“Say you’re with Lorna.”
“We are with Lorna,” Romney said mechanically, focusing on each word.
The grimaces softened imperceptibly. Hands moved away from hidden armaments and lay at their sides, itching nervously. The silence remained taut.
“Do any of you know Lucco?”
An elf emerged from the dark corner of the hangar, looked Romney in the eye, and continued to say nothing. He looked too old for the bushy soul patch under his lip, but he somehow managed to pull it off. Maybe it was his dour face that accentuated it.