I skimmed the article and read about how Marshall Blake, head of a company that makes cleaning supplies and household chemicals, was found dead in his office, having spontaneously combusted in his four-thousand-dollar office chair. The article didn't directly mention the chair, but a picture of a scorched leather office throne was one of the pictures behind a warning that the viewer might find the image disturbing.
What a way to go, I thought, one minute he's probably deciding which shareholder to wine and dine to help with the next company policy, and the next, fwoosh. Dead. I closed the article and leaned back in my own, forty-dollar office chair I'd gotten for five bucks at an auction for a school building that was closing down. I wondered if the dead guy was at least comfy in his chair before he died.
Closing the article, I looked around my tiny, dimly-lit apartment. I only had one window, but it faced a brick wall from the building next door. Even then, that alleyway often filled up to the window with snow blown down from the rooftops. Between the second-hand couch, the bookshelf full of old computer parts, and the electric oven that looked like it remembered when Jimmy Carter was president, I was pretty certain if I spontaneously combusted for whatever reason, none of my stuff would be interesting enough to photograph. Well, maybe the computer parts if the news wanted to run a theory on me being some sort of shady unabomber type or something.
I sighed and scratched my bearded chin, trying to let go of the article and the train of thought that would likely have left me feeling depressed about my own financial situation. Instead, I found myself looking at the stone tablet again, and enjoying the texture of my fingers along its surface. The cup full of pens and pencils was still sitting on the indentation in the middle, but there was still plenty of room for me to trace my fingers along the shining wire everywhere else. I thought about how the tablet was cool to the touch. I thought about how seamlessly the wire passed through the speckled design of the dark granite. I even took the USB cord and plugged it into my computer to make sure it still fit. But as much as I tried to not focus on how I was living paycheck-to-paycheck, or how I probably couldn't afford an emergency expense of something even half as expensive as that CEO's chair, I found myself feeling more and more stuck on that line of thinking.
“Screw it. I need some air.” I said to myself, starting to stand up to open that tiny window. Just then, there was a flash of light like a small sun and a sound like a spraying aerosol can or something, I stumbled, reeling from the sudden burst of light and sound, I cursed, rubbing my eyes and leaning on my wall as a sudden rush of dizziness hit me like a freight train. Then, it was over. As quick as it started, the brightness ended and I was left stunned and with those weird flickering spots you get when you stare at a camera flash. For a moment I thought I might be dead, that I'd just combusted like that guy and that my apartment was going to be my afterlife for all eternity. But that passed when I was able to open my door and step into the hallway before leaping back in. I wasn't forced inside by any sort of supernatural force, I'd just stepped on a wet spot from melted snow and I was only wearing socks.
From my front door, I looked around, expecting my desk to be a smoldering crater, but everything was fine. The computer was still running, my chair was where I left it, and nothing else in my apartment seemed like it had been affected by the blast, or flash, or whatever it was that happened. Something still seemed off, though, and I couldn't quite figure out what it was. It took me a while to notice that my cup of pencils was no longer on the tablet. I looked to see if I'd knocked it over the back of my desk, even checked behind my shelf and under my couch but it was just...gone.
“What the fuck?” I said, picking up the tablet. “That was my favorite superhero coffee cup.”
There was another flash, but this time, it wasn't as bright. Or maybe my pupils were still constricted from the one before. Either way, I was able to see what happened. The wires on the tablet glowed like molten hot metal before light seemed to leap up from the impression in the stone like water jumping up after an object splashes into it. The light coalesced into the shape of a coffee mug, and then the light was gone, leaving my coffee cup sitting there on the stone as if it never left. Except the pens and pencils it used to hold were all gone. I also had a slight headache creeping in from the base of my skull.
“Okay then.” I gingerly set the tablet back onto my desk and kept my distance. I wondered if I should start searching online for a local therapist's office, or maybe even 911 because I thought I might be having some sort of hallucinatory panic attack. But even with the slight headache, I realized that I otherwise felt completely fine. My heart was still racing from being startled, but the usual feeling of impending doom, or buildup of my overactive fight-or-flight response wasn't there.
I took a second to replay the events of what happened in my head. I wanted to go outside and get some air, and I'd said as much to myself. I couldn't remember if I'd been touching the tablet at the time. Despite the fact that I knew I should be panicking my eyeballs out right now, I couldn't help just wanting to figure out what happened like it was a puzzle, like there was something in me that wanted to make that happen again.
I picked the tablet up off the desk, unplugging the USB cord from my computer. I set it back down on my kitchen table, and took my coffee cup off the indentation because I didn't want to risk my favorite cup in this insane experiment. I grabbed my empty beer bottle from earlier, and set it in the impression. I took a step away from the tablet and cleared my throat.
“Air.” I said aloud. Nothing happened. Puzzled, I gingerly put a finger on the stone surface. Nothing happened, Then I tried speaking while touching the tablet. Once again, there was a blinding flash and a hiss of pressure releasing, and the bottle was gone. I was still wondering what happened to it, though. Was its volume being replaced by air, or was its mass? I was pretty certain its atoms weren't being split up into breathable gasses, because I was pretty sure that would be fission and that would mean I'd likely have reduced myself to a radioactive shadow on the opposite wall. But the dizzy, almost drunken feeling I sensed before jumped up a notch, so maybe I was frying my brain cells after all. Deciding to try again, I took a large black trash bag and another beer bottle from my fridge and tried setting up my next attempt at figuring out what was going on. Let me just say, I don't believe in magic, or supernatural beings or whatever, but I was becoming very open to the idea that I'd just discovered some sort of superpower that didn't give a damn about physics. I set the second bottle in the center of the tablet, and draped the trash bag over it so that I'd be able to see any movement of air. I reached under the edge of the bag, touched the surface of the tablet, and said 'air' again.
The flash of light was dimmed slightly by the black trash bag until the hiss of pressurized air inflated it like a balloon and pushed it up at my ceiling. The light lasted for a second, but I'd managed to turn away when I saw that the bag was moving, and so I avoided the painful glare. The reaction took a bit longer this time, and I guessed it was because the full bottle had more mass than the empty one, or even the coffee cup and pens. When the light shining through my eyelids ended, I looked and once again the bottle was gone. With giddy, drunken amusement, I repeated the same thing with the last four beer bottles from my recycling can. Each time, the flash of energy and the rush of air was punctuated by a new level of that warm, dizzy, energized feeling.
The next logical step for me was to try to record this happening. Even if this was a series of tiny nuclear explosions, I could at least try to record what happened that led to what I imagined would be me laying in my bathtub with my brains leaking out my nose. I set my pone on my tiny kitchen counter, pointed at my table.
“My name is Chance Nathaniel Clarke, and either I'm going crazy or I've just discovered something really, really weird.” I said into my phone's camera lens before opening my kitchen cupboard and pulling out an unopened jar of pasta sauce since I was out of beer bottles. I set the jar on the tablet but furrowed my brow when the glass bottom did
n't fit in the indentation completely. I set the jar so it was partially touching the bottom of the indentation and prepared myself for the possibility that I might be about to make a mess of my kitchen. I was too out of it to care. I looked at the camera one more time before draping the trash bag over the tablet once more. I crouched down, putting my face below the surface of the table in case broken glass went flying.
“Air!” I said when my hand touched the stone, and just like all the other times, there was a flash, a rush of air, and the jar was gone. Victorious, I lept to my feet, but drunkenly smacked my head on the underside of the table, stunning myself and causing me to stumble as I tried to get back on my feet.
“Woo hoo!” I said, raising my arms into the air dramatically for the camera. “Now let's try this another way.” I touched the tablet and said “A bottle of beer!” With another flash, a bottle of beer sat resting on the tablet, still cold like the one I'd taken from the fridge. Some of the head-spinning energy faded from my head, and I was coordinated enough to lift the beer bottle, open it with the bottle opener Grace had left on my table, and take a long drink.
“That's one small step for chefs, and one giant leap for beer lovers everywhere.” I said, grinning at the bottle in my hand. And then I passed out, falling to the floor and blacking out as if I'd finished an entire bottle of tequila by myself.
4
When I woke up, I wasn't at home anymore. Bright white light shone down on me from above, and I squinted and held up a hand to shield my already sore eyes. Great, I thought, so I really was dead and now I've gotta explain behaving like an idiot. The tug of an IV tube on the back of my hand brought a double-edged sword of emotions up. On the one hand, I wasn't dead. On the other, I'd likely have hospital bills or an ambulance ride to pay for now. As if it were waiting for me to realized I hadn't shuffled off this mortal coil, my headache chose that moment to make itself an intense part of my life.
“Mister Clarke, how are you feeling?” A voice came from toward my feet. I looked in that direction, too afraid that moving my head would make the migraine worse. Standing at the end of the hospital bed was a doctor, hands on the plastic foot board thing. She had long, blonde hair tied in a braid that ran over the shoulder of her white coat and hung below the end of the stethoscope that was draped around her neck. Her name tag said “Dr. Peters, MD.”
“My head hurts.” I said.
“Do you know why you're here?” she asked. Her professional look of concern was very believable.
“I think I fell in my kitchen. Did I have a stroke?” I asked.
“We don't think so. I pulled your file and you don't have any family history of stokes either, so I'm pretty sure you've just got a concussion. I need to ask you a few questions, is that all right?”
I nodded and was relieved that it didn't split my head open right then and there. Dr. Peters went through a bunch of questions that I was pretty sure were made to test me for amnesia or some other brain damage. I answered each one, and she looked satisfied that I hadn't scrambled my brains.
“Mister Clarke, I believe you suffered a concussion You were brought here when a neighbor heard a shout coming from your apartment followed by a loud noise, and called 911. Your landlady's granddaughter let the paramedics in. They said there was a spilled beer but nothing else too out of the ordinary.”
“Oh.” I said. “How long was I out?”
“You were picked up at a little past two and it's six now, so four hours. Normally if someone is knocked out more than a minute it's a sign of some serious trauma. Do you have someone we can call?” she asked.
“Not really,” I said. “Do you know where my phone is?”
“Anything you had on you when you came in is in the drawer to your left, Mr. Clarke. But I think you should rest a bit. I'd recommend we keep you here for 24 hours for observation.”
“Oh, okay.” I said. “Can I have an ice pack or something for the headache?”
“I'll have someone get you an ice pack and something for the pain shortly. Are you sure we can't call anyone?”
“I guess you could call my boss if you think I might not be in on Monday.” I said and gave her the number for the office.
“I'll have someone do that too. Is there anything else you think you need?”
“No, I think I'm good. Thanks, doc.” When I was finished talking she nodded and left the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. How much of what happened was real? I remembered messing with the tablet, getting really dizzy, and that's it. Were there really flashes of light, or was I just hallucinating? As much as knowing I was going to have a huge bill to pay for a hospital stay would normally bother me, I still felt fine. I was calm, focused on planning my next move and not scared about what to do. Assuming my boss didn't fire me for missing any work from this, I'd just pull a few extra hours and try to work overtime to pay off the bill. It would suck, but I'd be fine if I budgeted carefully.
I was laying with my eyes closed, concentrating on parsing out my memories and figuring out what was and wasn't real, when someone knocked at the door to my room. A happy, slightly-plump nurse in floral scrubs and wearing a cheerful smile stuck her head in the door and spoke. “Hi there, Mr. Clarke. My name is Nancy. I have some ice and pain relievers for you. Also, you have a visitor. Is it okay to let them come see you?”
“Sure.” I said, and watched as the nurse set a tray with the pills in a little paper cup and a disposable cup of water next to it on a little table attached to my hospital bed. When I took the pills and let the nurse tuck the cold gel ice pack thing under my head, the nurse pointed out the call button for if I needed help and walked back out.
A few minutes later, Grace came in with one of those giant mylar balloon assortments you sometimes see given as gifts. She walked over to the little couch in the room, set the balloons on the end table, and sat down.
“How are you feeling?” She had a look on her face like she couldn't decide whether she was sympathetic or unsurprised to see me in a hospital bed.
“I, uh, I'm okay.” I said. “I think I slipped on something and hit my head pretty hard.” I tried to smile to make light of the situation but Grace's expression only grew more stern.
“I brought your phone.” she said, holding it up.
“Oh, cool, thanks, can I have it?” As I reached for her to hand it over, she tapped the screen and I heard my own voice through the phone's tiny speaker.
“That's one small step for chefs, and one giant leap for beer lovers!” I heard the sound of me opening the beer bottle, then the thud and the clatter of the glass bottle skittering across the kitchen. The whole time, Grace stared at me with her best “you are such a moron” face. It's a face she's mastered using on me.
“What the fuck is this?” she asked, tapping the screen one more time before turning it to face me. She'd paused it, and I could see myself, frozen in time, the flash of light from under the bag clearly visible. “Is this some sort of performance art? Or are you just getting into video editing?”
“Um, yeah, I dunno. Would you believe that I have no clue?”
“Were you high or just drunk?”
“We've been over this, I don't smoke weed, and I had the rest of your beer and the first few sips of that one.”
“Uh huh, sure. So how did you do the flash?”
“I'll show you when I get home. You won't believe me otherwise.”
“I'd believe you if you tell me it's special effects or fireworks hidden in the bag or the tablet, but I also know you're too much of a worry-wort to intentionally burn toast let alone light off a flashbang in Grandma's building. Honestly, I've been over the footage on my computer and I can't find anything, so why don't you just tell me how you did it so I can let it go and tell Grandma you just tripped and fell in your kitchen.”
“It's the tablet.” I said, pausing before I could force the next words out. “I think it's got weird properties.” I made sure not to use the word magic, or Grace wouldn't take me seriously even if
I showed her in person later on.
“So, it has a way to make a jar of meat sauce disappear, shoot air into a trash bag, and then later conjure a beer for you?” She raised her dark eyebrow in skepticism. “Or there's a simpler explanation, and I'm just guessing here, you altered the footage.”
“But, my computer can't--”
“Your computer can't run video editing software, yeah I know. And you didn't have a chance to edit the footage since it records all the way until the paramedics arrive and I picked it up. So it's practical effects. Whatever. I just want to know how, so,,,” Before I could say anything, she pulled the tablet out of her backpack and set it on my chest. “Do it again.” she ordered.
I sighed and reached for the paper cup of water I'd taken my pills with. It was still half full and I showed it to her. “It's just water.”
“Hold on,” she said, taking it from my hand and sniffing it before taking a tiny sip. “Okay, yeah, I believe that's water.”
I set the paper cup on the tablet as it rested on my chest, then paused. “Do you want to examine the tablet too, or should I continue?”
“Carry on,” she said, leaning back in the couch and crossing her legs as she watched.
“Okay, it's going to be bright, so fair warning,” I said, and then I put my fingers on the tablet. If I conjured another beer bottle, Grace probably wouldn't believe me, so I asked to see the phone one more time. She held it up, and it was paused at the moment where Grace was reaching for the phone, but my table and everything on it was clearly visible. I smiled and said “My favorite superhero coffee cup.”
There was a flash, and Grace lept back to shield her eyes, but I was watching her, so the light didn't bother me. Unlike last time, there wasn't a rush of air, but my headache jumped up just a hair in intensity. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I could see what was sitting on my tablet. It was my favorite yellow coffee cup with the word “Superhero” in blocky red letters on it. Grace rubbed her eyes for a bit and then stared at the cup, picking it up and examining it everywhere. Then, she reached in her bag again and pulled out the coffee cup that had still been sitting on my kitchen table. She lifted it up and compared the two mugs. Even from my bed, I could see they were identical. They had the same coffee stain on the bottom. They each had a slight chip in the handle from an imperfection in the ceramic. They even had the same writing in permanent marker on the bottom. “To Chance, from Grace, come visit us sometime.”
Arbiter's Word (Alchemist's Fire Book 1) Page 2