by A. Sparrow
I worked my way around the wall. Where the heck had she gone? I searched for an opening but the wall was seamless. Why hadn’t she waited for me?
There was a ripping sound and a whole section of roots collapsed behind me. The Reaper had broken out of the tunnel and was coming after me.
“Hello? Where the hell did you go?” My voice was shrill.
“Up here,” came her welcome voice. “Climb.”
I looked up. She was halfway up the dome, clinging to a narrow groove. Scowling, she reached out a hand to help me up.
“Where did you go? I tell you to stay close!”
“Believe me, I tried.”
She let out a sigh, leaned down and traced a circle with her finger. A seam appeared where there had been none. A hatch almost a foot and a half thick flopped open. She swung in feet first.
I followed a little too closely and we collided, dropping and rolling onto a spongy, carpeted floor. She popped up, grabbed the hatch and pulled it shut, sealing its edges with a swish of her wand, if that’s what it was.
I found myself in a chamber the size of an efficiency apartment. The walls arched up to form a domed ceiling decorated with a chaotic mishmash of flags and tapestries surrounding what looked like a circular stained glass window of a dove silhouetted against the sun.
I rested my back against the wall, my knees strategically folded to conceal my privates. She waved me towards the center.
“That is not a good place to sit,” she said.
“Why not?”
“It is just not. Please. Come over here.”
I crawled over and set a cushion on my lap so I could sit cross-legged without shame.
“No need to sit on floor. I have nice furniture. See?” She pointed to a chair that looked something like a gilled mushroom, flared up at one edge.
“Um … that’s okay. I’m fine like this.”
There was a tremendous thud as if the dome had just been hit by a truck. The wall shuddered.
“Oh merda! It followed us. Would you like some tea?” she said, bustling over to a little potbellied stove on the far side of the dome.
“Wait … that thing is out there?”
The walls shook again. A circle of lamps hanging from the top of the dome clanked into each other.
“Oh, no worries. It is just a small one.”
“A small one? How big do they get?”
She shook her head. “Big.” She filled her tea kettle from a small tap in the corner.
The thing outside growled. Something scraped against the outer wall.
“Don’t worry. He cannot get you. I make this place strong.”
“You built this place?”
“My … eh … grandfather … helps me. But is not really building. It is Weaving. I think you are a Weaver, too. Yes?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“To change the roots. Make them be what you want. That is what we call the Weaving.”
“Yeah, well. Then I’m not much of a Weaver, then. I couldn’t even break out of my cage, without your help. Thanks for that, by the way.”
The dome rattled again. I wheeled to face the source of the battering.
“You are welcome. It is always nice to find another Weaver. Our colony is so small. It is not every day we find a new soul like you.”
The thing outside groaned and there was this sound like a saw ripping through wood. The dome of the ceiling bowed in and popped back up. I winced and held a cushion over my head.
The girl laughed. “No worries. I promise, it will not get you. It is just a small one. The big ones can’t leave the tunnels. They are too fat.”
“I just want it to go away.”
“Ah, but you have the smell they like and seek because you are new to the Reaping. You are like fresh meat.”
As if that was supposed to comfort me. The creature’s groan turned into a shriek that made a shiver go up my back. “You’re saying … I shouldn’t be scared?”
“Of course you should be scare! These are Reapers. Are you not scare of the truck when you cross the highway? The train when you are on the Metro platform? It’s like the bear that gets loose in the zoo. We must respect them.” She peered into her tea pot and squinted. “But inside here, you are safe.”
The Reaper scraped and scratched across the dome. I held the cushion tighter.
“Jesus! I wish it would just go away.”
“Patience. It is persistent, this one. But it will lose your scent and go back to its tunnels. That is what it is made for—the Reaping in the tunnels. But don’t worry. They are very stupid and forgetting. Once it goes, it will not come back.”
She poured hot water into two stoneware mugs, blue and bone. I found it odd that her stove had no flue and produced no smoke. It had no switches or dials, either. She brought over a mug and handed it to me.
The water was clear.
“Is there … a tea bag?”
“Taste it,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Go ahead, taste it. And then you tell me what you think it needs.”
I took a tiny sip and my mouth filled with rich, sweet black tea flavor, tart and astringent with lemon.
“Whoa! How did you do that?”
“Lille taught me. I just have to remember the good cups of tea I have had. And this was one of the best.”
Her pointing stick was tucked into her belt like a sword. She caught me staring at it.
“You like?” She pulled it out and ran her fingers over the sparkly tip. It was cut crystal, in the shape of a honeybee.
“Swarovski,” she said. “I find it in the tunnels.”
“Does it have … magic in it … or something?”
She chuckled. “It is nothing special. It is just pretty. A thing to help focus my thinking. I could have used, a lump of coal or a rock. Luther just uses his eyes.”
She retrieved her sack and pulled out a handful of little metallic objects that twinkled, and started hanging them on what looked like a little brown Christmas tree that had lost all its needles.
“That’s … a lot of earrings,” I said.
“Yes. I collect them. But it is an endless job. They are always disappearing.”
“What do you mean? People take them?”
“No. You see, these do not belong to me. These are lost things. They end up here when their loss haunts the people who lose them, when they care enough to think and be sad about them. When people find them or forget them, they disappear. That is why I have to keep decorating my tree.”
“Where do you find them?”
“In the tunnels and chambers. You would be amazed what you can find there. Gloves. Money. Passports. And some people lose some very big things. How? I don’t know. But I like the earrings. There are so many. And I am not allowed to wear on the other side. My father, he is … strict.”
She smiled and lifted her hair. She had at least six earrings studding that one ear and none in the other.
“Um … nice,” I said, with a delay that made it sound awkward. “Why do you hide them?”
“I told you. Papa does not approve.” She frowned at me. “Look at you, always hiding your boy parts. We had better make you some clothes, yes?”
She went over to a wooden chest and threw open the lid. She rummaged through a jumble of items, selecting a plaid skirt and a white blouse that each looked like it might be tight even on her. She tossed them over.
“I … I can’t wear these,” I said. “I’m half again as big as you.”
“So make them bigger.”
“How?”
“How else? By Weaving.”
“I might be able to make them glow, maybe, but I haven’t the slightest idea how to—”
“Oh, just give it to me!” She snatched them back and laid them flat on the floor. She ran her palms over them, each swipe expanding the fabric. She smoothed each item down its length and then across, and handed over a blouse and skirt that if anything, was too large now.
&nb
sp; “I am no tailor. If you need more fitting you can do it yourself.”
I looked at the skirt and looked back at her.
“Oh, for goodness sake. Yes, it is a skirt. Make believe it’s a kilt, and that blouse is a shirt, if it makes you feel more manly.”
I nodded and pulled on the shirt, which had buttons on the wrong side. I wished that the kilt had come with some underwear, but was grateful to have any clothes at all.
I noticed a silence outside the dome. “Hey! Is that thing finally gone?”
“I think so. What did I tell you?”
“Phew! That bad boy was eager to eat me.”
“He will have to wait his turn. I get to have you first.”
“Excuse me?”
“It is not often we have new Weavers come to the colony. So, lucky me, I get to show you off to Bern and Lille … and the others.” She acted so proud, as if I was one of the little treasures she collected in the tunnels. It was really cute to see.
“But don’t worry. They are all very nice. Except for Luther. He can be … eh … unpredictable. But his heart … it is not cruel … not intentionally, anyway.”
“What’s your name?” I said.
“Me? I am Karla. Karla Raeth.”
“Sounds … German.”
“My father, he is from Dolomiti. In Alpini, near Austria border. Bolzano.”
“So you’re Italian?”
She scrunched her eyes. “Kind of. What about you?”
“Well, I’m James. I’m from Florida, but I was born in Ohio.”
“Disney World,” she said.
“Well, yeah, that’s in Orlando.”
“Is near to you?”
“Kind of.”
“I always wanted to go,” she said.
“So … what about this place … what is this place?”
She shrugged. “I like to call it Root,” she said. “But it has many names.”
“Like what?”
“Eh, some say Purgatorio, but that is false. It is not. Luther calls it the ‘Limen’ or the ‘Liminality.’ I don’t know why or what that means.”
“Who the heck is this Luther guy?”
“He is King of our colony. Mayor. President. Godfather. Grandpapa. Whatever.”
“We’re not … dead … are we?”
She scrunched her nose at me. “Stupido. No, we are not dead. Not yet.”
Her eyes went sad and she gave me a lopsided and disappointed smile.
“What’s wrong?”
“Already, you are fading.”
“Huh?
“Your arms. Look. They have the speckles.”
I looked down and saw empty space—holes—where there was supposed to be flesh, and what flesh remained was turning translucent, as if my body were dissolving.
“Holy shit. What’s happening?”
“You are going home. That is good. Maybe this is one time visit. Who knows? Maybe you come back. Not if you are lucky.”
“Wait … how do I … where do I find you? On the other side. Assuming that you—”
“Silly boy. Why would you want to find me over there? I am right here.”
And just like that, she was gone. I gasped and lurched awake, finding myself in that stuffy storage shed, the only light a few streaks coming through the vent from the flood lights that bathed the alley. I lay all covered with sweat, staring at the spider webs above my head as a thunderstorm drummed a brisk tattoo on the corrugated metal.
The image of that last, crooked smile haunted me—the pity and regret it combined. It touched me, the way her bangs fell over that one eye like a veil. I already missed her, and I didn’t even believe she was real.
Chapter 14: Probate
Day after day, leading up to the funeral, I tried to re-conjure a visitation. I would go into that storage locker tingling with expectation, dangling my misery like a bass fisherman trying to seduce a lunker out from under a sunken log.
I tried my best to wallow in my gloom, I really did. But not a sprig of root ever came to visit, no matter how much I begged and prayed. It knew I wanted it and my desires were toxic. The faintest spark of hope was enough to keep it away.
I didn’t even care about the damned Reapers. They never entered the equation. The way Karla had gone about her business like they were raccoons knocking over her garbage cans—maybe that emboldened me.
The project insisted I skip work all that week. They paid me leave even though, as a part-timer, I didn’t qualify. I should have been grateful, but having nothing to do only aggravated my restlessness.
In the daytime, I basically wandered, catching cat naps on the patio furniture of abandoned houses I knew, showering under lawn sprinklers, raiding gardens for cukes and zukes between my twice daily runs to the Burger King.
There weren’t many logistics to organize. Mom had pre-arranged for a minimal funeral, followed by a cremation. There would be no wake, but some of our old neighbors were hosting a little post-ceremony get-together at their house—a sad little party for folks that knew her.
Uncle Ed and his family were staying behind in Ohio this time. He apologized profusely. He was so damned busy, he said, and with the two deaths so close together, it was just impossible for them to attend. I told him I understood even though I didn’t. This was Darlene—his only sister, his only sibling.
On Thursday, we finally held her pathetic little funeral. Mom had wanted it humble, and she had certainly gotten her wish. Some of dad’s buddies, a few friends from work and some families from the home school network showed up, but that was all. Turned out, mom was almost as big of a recluse as me.
A Unitarian minister came to the funeral home and got us to share some stories about Mom and participate in some free-form praying. Marianne was there, and so was Jenny. I could barely bring myself to glance at them, never mind talk.
After the funeral our old neighbors, the Trudeaus, hosted a little memorial luncheon. I went a little nuts, pigging out on all the dishes to pass that people had brought. It had been ages since I had seen so much free food in one place. And it was so nice to be in air conditioning for a change.
Marianne cornered me in the kitchen at one point, her eyes so earnest and desperate to help me. I wish I knew how to let her, but I was turned so inward, it just wasn’t possible. There was no room in my head or my heart for anyone real. It really was too bad. She seemed like such a good soul.
I ended up conking out on the Trudeau’s couch. When I woke up, everyone was gone. I had a pillow propped under my head and a throw draped over me.
It was twilight and already dinner time. The Trudeau’s invited me to spend the night, but I told them I had plans to stay with friends. Mrs. Trudeau made me take a couple of roast beef sandwiches, an orange and some cookies.
I trudged back to the Handi-Stor, all wired and miserable. The turbulence in my skull was intolerable. I couldn’t calm it down. I had the sense that it would never go away unless I did something major. This was unsustainable.
Of course, there were drastic, i.e. permanent, means of escape, but I wasn’t quite ready for that yet. But maybe leaving Ft. Pierce would help. There was no reason for me to stick around here. Maybe a change of scenery would shake things up.
Ohio seemed like the most logical place to go. Uncle Ed still lived in Berea, the suburb of Cleveland where I had been born. I would be going back to my roots, so to speak. Maybe Ohio would save me, if nothing else would.
How to get there, though, was still a little bit iffy. I had a meeting with the probate attorney the next day to see if there was any chance of hanging onto Dad’s pickup. There were still credit card bills to pay, so there was a chance it would have to go up for auction. They were holding the truck for last while they tallied up the rest of our assets.
I had hung onto the spare key and kept it in my front pocket. It was my talisman. I would twirl it constantly in my fingers like a worry stone.
Gideon was already gone for the night when I reached the storage facility.
Jules, the elderly Haitian night watchman, was barricaded in his booth with his fan and portable TV.
He wasn’t much of a guard. He never made rounds; didn’t seem to even notice the world beyond his lighted windows and TV screen. He just manned his booth every night and went home every morning. It was surprising that the place didn’t suffer more break-ins.
I gave Jules no reason to turn hero. I made a wide berth around his watch station, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. There was a loose panel of chain link at the back of the complex that was common knowledge among us squatters. I slipped underneath, and made my way to the middle-most bank of sheds that was home.
I undid the lock, lifted the door of the bay and crawled under, plunking down on the mattress after setting up the window screens. Hot air wafted in from the sun-warmed pavement.
I laid back and thought of Ohio. I remembered that park in Berea where Grams and I would feed the ducks and squirrels with crumbs of stale Wonder bread from polka-dotted plastic sacks. I used to pretend that acorns were space capsules and maple seeds helicopters.
And then I lost it. I don’t know why, I just lost it. I had barely cried during the funeral itself, but now I sprung like a leaky hose. I heaved and writhed and punched at the walls, bloodying my knuckles.
I spent whatever energy I had left, my anguish settling down to mere snuffles. I kept checking my watch, wishing for sleep that refused to come. Midnight became 12:08 which became 12:37 and then 12:49.
I rolled over, leaving behind a patch of sweat-dampened mattress. My shirt clung to my sticky back. A quick rinse and some clean clothes might help. There was a hose down by the main office. I grabbed a musty towel and a clean T-shirt left the locker.
As I turned the corner down the alley, I noticed the gate of one of the side entrances ajar, its padlock undone and hooked onto the mesh fence. I went over to lock it. Gideon had probably left it open by mistake.
I heard voices. Three guys stood around the open trunk of a Honda under the glare of a flood light. Their conversation halted when they spotted me. I froze.
“What you staring at?”
“I’m not … I wasn’t … “
“Get out! Get the fuck out of here. What the fuck you doing here? No trespassing!” One of the guys pulled a baseball bat out of the trunk. Another guy stepped back from the car into the shadows, something bulky and angular tucked under the front flap of his hoodie.