Emit

by Jack Beal

  “I said it isn’t real,” I correct snidely.

  The voice chuckles lightly. “I comprehend, but that’s neither here nor there. It won’t lead us to either, anyway.”

  “Won’t lead us to either what?”

  “Why, here or there, of course. For statements rarely shine the light that questions might. Don’t you see?”

  My head wobbles no.

  “Clearly. Which is why sometimes the simplest of questions are those most in need of asking. So I repeat: what is real?”

  I have no clue what’s real, to be honest. Nothing seems plausible in the slightest. And yet, here I am, talking to an invisible voice, urging me to reflect on the facts. I try to yield, but my thoughts wrestle together, ripping at one another violently. None of this is real. I gulp down the ball that’s bounced up into my larynx. But if it isn’t, what does that say about me?

  The idea is overwhelming. I wish I could go back in time and never have touched that stupid metal tablet!

  The voice slices in so swiftly I’m not sure if it’s out loud or in my head. “Therein lies the problem. If all you can think about is yesterday, how do you expect to mend anything?”

  That’s an awfully loaded question to ask someone who’s being thrown backward against his will, I want to shout.

  But the voice hasn’t finished. “A lot of the trouble lies in your perception of what’s real. You’re a genuine Doubting Thomas, aren’t you? Can only believe it if you see it.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Oh yeah? Take me for example.”

  “How can I take you for example? I don’t even know who you are!”

  “Touché,” the voice grows somehow familiar. “And yet you do.”

  A prickling sensation washes over me. “Siri? Is it you?”

  “Almost, but no cigar.”

  “Why can’t you just tell me?”

  “Even if I did, you’d never believe me.”

  “Try me!”

  The voice lets out the same kind of sigh Dad used to when he was fed up. “I can’t. You must discover me on your own. It’s been specified in black and white.”

  “What has?”

  The voice tiptoes around me. “You have been chosen. You and you alone. This is your journey, nobody else’s.”

  “But I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing!” I blurt. “Why can’t you answer any of my questions? You said you were here to help!”

  “I can answer your questions. But not the one you keep asking.” The voice stretches into a roomy whisper.

  “Fine,” I huff. “Then what’s my mission?”

  “Your mission is to uncover the great secret the tablet holds. We thought you’d be cleverer in figuring it all out, but you’ve gone and lost the tablet. That complicates things, I suppose.”

  “How can I find it again?”

  “You can’t. When the time is right, it’ll find you.”

  I’m feeling sorry for myself. “Then I’m doomed to stay lost forever.”

  “That isn’t so. You can still move forward. Or backward, if you prefer thinking of it that way. What’s important is that you stop only attending to one side of the equation. Every equation has two sides that need balancing.”

  “I don’t understand!”

  “Correct. It’s no wonder since you refuse to consider the signs.”

  “What signs?”

  “The signs right before your eyes! Haven’t you noticed them?”

  I swallow hard. In retrospect, everything seems like another part of the puzzle. The things I see when I’m coming to. The places I’m taken, the people I meet, the stories they tell.

  “Do you mean there are symbols around me?”

  “Those are clues left to help you. But that’s not all,” a new voice chirps. “Do you remember what I told you?”

  A vision of the old owl lady flicking through the radio stations wings into my mind. “That when people go away, they aren’t really gone?” I ask tautly.

  “And sometimes they’ll even give you a little sign to remind you.”

  The feathers?

  “Yes, my child,” the owl lady says. “Don’t forget to be looking for them. They’re messages from the other side.”

  “From the other side of what?”

  The chirruping voice is overtaken by a stuffier one. “Of the equation, of course. Each feather falls from the exact opposite point from where you are.”

  “Can’t you tell me where they’ll be so I’ll be sure to find them?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? I thought you were supposed to answer my questions.”

  “That question, I can’t. Everything in this world is changing. Nothing stays the same. Maybe the symbols, but never the signs. The feathers that fall will depend upon the choices you make, altering to balance the equation.”

  “But I still don’t have any idea what equation you’re talking about!”

  “Then it appears you’ve discovered the task at hand. Which means, alas, the time has come for us to part ways.”

  “But you can’t leave!”

  “I never said that I was the one who must go. These dingy walls hold nothing more for you to learn.”

  “Where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do?”

  “Follow the signs and finish the equation. But don’t forget to look at both sides. Only then can things be truly mended.”

  I wait for the crackling voice to speak again. But it never does.

  By the time I’ve showered, shaved and changed into something more suitable, my stomach is the one shouting insults at me. I search through the fridge, but it’s empty. I guess the invisible voice was right. Unless I’m interested in eating condiments by the spoonful, I’m going to have to leave. A NASA mug sits idly in the drainboard. The caption is something about needing space in the morning. I want to laugh, but I can’t. Just above the caption is a jagged chip. It’s the same mug I broke yesterday. Not yesterday. From the looks of it, years have elapsed since the day the world stood still.

  I fling the mug back where I found it, unconcerned. It’s not like today’s the day I’m going to break it.

  A pile of crumpled dollars sits cock-eyed on the table. Cramming it into my back pocket, I turn and make for the living room. The papers are just where I left them on the sofa. After shoving the note with the wad of money, I pick up the rotary phone and dial the number scribbled on the card.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice responds.

  “Hi, Fanny?”

  “Yeah? Who is this?”

  “It’s Robbie Flynn,” I announce, relieved. “You’ve got to help me!”

  “Robbie Flynn?”

  “Yeah, I…”

  “I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong number.”

  I want to tell her she’s wrong. That she gave me the number, herself. But how can I mention something that hasn’t happened yet?

  As the dial tone whirs boorishly in my ear, I grasp this page of the story has long since been turned. The door slams loudly behind me before the card even reaches the floor.

  The view outside stands in sharp contrast to the condo’s interior. Old and unkempt are replaced with fresh and new. Stepping onto the white picket-fenced porch, I respire deeply. A delicate mélange of hyacinths and iris sails over to greet me atop an inviting breeze. Down below, an immaculately cut lawn leads to a cheerful garden. I march down the painted wooden steps, past the carefully trimmed trees and through the iron gate.

  Maybe this is the ot
her side of the equation. I should start looking for the symbols.

  Tidy rows of red brick splay out like herringbones beneath my feet. I follow them to a wide, golden fountain with a matching brick-laid pedestal. Above, a dangling sign gently sways. “The Village of Providence,” it reads.

  The Village of Providence, I consider. Why does it sound so familiar? I wait for one of those brown and white feathers to drop, but it doesn’t. “What am I supposed to see? Why can’t you tell me?” I roar, neck craned to the sky. My only response comes in the form of a pair of openmouthed onlookers scuttling by, ogling me like a fish in a bowl. They think I’m crazy.

  With a faked display of composure, I offer the couple a tight wave. It’s the self-satisfied kind where your hand stays open as if you’re signaling “stop.” Averting their eyes, the oglers quicken their pace before disappearing into one of the boutiques across the way.

  I stand back, taking in my surroundings. Stores with names like Flower Shoppe, Myrtle’s Antique Garden, and Old Dixie Linens line the city center. Some of the boutiques parade pastel streamers, others, vivid flags. US stripes and stars ripple alongside of Southern crosses in the warm morning air, already thick with the scent of barbecue. Wherever I am, it’s small and southern.

  The closer I get to the hub, the surer I am. The locals’ eyes burn into me like infernos, razing through my façade, leaving me naked. You don’t belong here, their stares silently convey.

  I’m being paranoid! I maintain, beginning to pick up the slack. It’s easy to stick out like a sore thumb in a small town.

  But my excuses are thin as lies. Hissing to one another under their breath, the ring of townspeople is closing in on me. Before they can advance any further, I hare off down a stone-slab corridor and out of view.

  I don’t brake until I’m at the back-door end of the string of decorative shops. Granting myself a minute to catch my breath, I wipe the sweat from my eyes and look around. The alleyway extends incessantly in both directions. Choosing one at random, I chug on.

  When a crossroad leaps out before me, I swerve to the left. My eyes ignite. It’s the first sign I’ve found all day, not to mention one I can relate to. “Breakfast Special Only $4.99!”

  The door jangles open. Inside, it’s cozy and woody. Lanterns hanging from the industrial ceiling cast faint shadows across the tall booth-backs. The air is thick and syrupy, smelling of waffles. An older woman with her hair pinned up in a bun shows me to the last empty table.

  “You’re not from around here, are ya Sugar?” she cries over the hullabaloo. I’m wishing she’d keep her voice down.

  “No, I’m from New Mexico,” I whisper.

  “Home of the famous alien invasion? How ‘bout that!”

  Her comment is double-edged. While I’m relieved to know I was right about the flying saucer, the idea doesn’t cease to scare me.

  “Seen any little green men?”

  I’m deciding how to respond when the waitress lets out a series of cackles. “Just joshing! What can I get you? A coffee?”

  The glob in my throat only allows for a nod.

  After hustling over to the counter, she returns with a steaming coffee pot and a finger-print speckled jar busting with cream and sugar packets.

  “What brings you to the Cotton State?”

  “The Cotton State?” I croak.

  “Alabama, of course!”

  What the heck am I doing in Alabama? “Travelling,” I fudge.

  “Great place to visit! We’re kind of a nation of our own.” She hands me the menu. “What have you gotten to see so far?”

  My heart drums wildly. “I’ve…only arrived,” I say, half-hiding behind the page of breakfast options.

  “Well, you’ve got the Space and Rocket Center pretty close by. There’s also the State Park and the Botanical Gardens if you’re more of the green-thumb type.”

  The server’s words fall on deaf ears. Beside a glob of coagulated strawberry preserves, I see the diner’s name: The Plumed Viper.

  My mind soars upon the back of the feathered snake before landing back in Corona. Grandmom is tucking me in, pulling the covers all the way up to my chin. I watch her perch onto the bedside, eyes like chalices of light, as she begins telling the tale.

  “Long ago, there was nothing but impenetrable darkness. Not even a hope of light existed. How could it? There was nothing.

  “Most people will try to tell you nothing can come of nothing, but this is not the case. Because one day, that which was nothing became something. In a wonderous explosion, that nothing grew into bands of something, expanding outward like the roots of a tree. From the roots, emerged the originators.

  “The originators lived in the far corner of the universe, where they had room to grow. From their seeds, four sons were born. The originators called them the creators and told them to govern the elements. Do you remember what those are?”

  I see myself perk up in my bed. “Fire, water, earth, and…”

  “And air. The third son, a grand snake with flowing feathers, was ruler of the air. He was also the god of wisdom. While his brothers remained in the far corners of the universe, the Plumed Viper would venture far from his home. He’d fly through the cosmos to gaze into the windows of other universes. Then he’d bring his knowledge back to his family so they could grow stronger.

  “Until, of course, one time: the time he peered into our universe. Here, he found a world veiled in darkness where people lived in sin and suffering. So, intrigued with what he saw, the Plumed Viper bent over to take a closer look. And he fell in.

  “An invisible force gripped to his feathers, plucking them out as he plunged downward. Upon reaching the ground, not a single feather was left. In other words, the ruler of air could no longer fly.

  “But that’s when something extraordinary happened. The feathers that had been yanked from his scales began glowing, casting light on the dark land. The people understood this god had been sent to save them from the valley of their grief. They knew he’d sacrificed himself for them, and they’d always be indebted to him. In his honor, they erected a monumental temple lifting high into the heavens. On the ground, they dug a doorway for him to crawl in through. At the top, they built a second gate, hoping it was high enough to reach the heavens. They hoped by climbing up to the temple, their god could find his way back home.

  “Even now, when in trouble, the people of this Earth look to the sky. They know that one day, the Plumed Viper will come back again.”

  Grandmom’s voice is replaced with that of the waitress. “So, what’ll it be, Sugar?”

  “I’ll take the special,” I bark without even looking down at the jelly-speckled menu.

  “Great choice. If you need anything else, holler.”

  “Actually, do you have a newspaper?”

  The waitress returns with my order and a creased copy of The Huntsville Times. Shoving a forkful of scrambled eggs, grits and gravy into my mouth, I pour over the paper, searching for the date. Up in the corner, I find it printed in black and white: September 10, 1995. As my mouth gapes, a bit of scramble tumbles onto the placemat. Six years and a day. The last time I woke up was exactly six years and a day from now.

  Jumping up, I quickly empty my pockets onto the table: a bunch of crumpled bills and a small folded page. The waitress hurries over. “Are you all finished, honey?”

  “Not yet! I need a pencil!” My excitement is uncontrollable. I’m on to something. I can feel it.

  When she offers me a pen, I forget to say thank you. Instead, I throw off the cap, unfold the page and add to the bottom of the note. I can almost hear that spindly voice urging me on. Follow the signs and finish the equation. But don’
t forget to look at both sides. Only then can things be truly mended.

  Then I look at what I’ve already written. Is that the other side of the equation?

  I’m not surprised when I see a spotted feather on the window sill beside me. I’m finally on the right track.

  “Eck-hem,” a tall young man standing at the edge of my table draws my attention away from my paper. “Can I sit down?”

  I glance quickly around the diner that’s packed tighter than a can of sardines and grunt something in the affirmative before turning back to my calculations. After leaving 2001, I spent six years in the void. I look at the list again. And what if…

  “That’s incredible about the heat wave, huh?”

  I gawp back up. Doesn’t this man see I’m busy?

  He’s pointing at the newspaper spread out between us. I glance down at the headline:

  1995: HOTTEST YEAR TO DATE. Scientists are calling this phenomenon Global Warming…

  “Yeah, I guess,” I grunt, jotting a few dates on the page. The fifth time is 1995. The fourth is 2001. The second is 2013. Twelve years span between the fourth and the second times. I do the math. It fits. I add to the timeline.

  First time—Mayo Clinic, 2019

  Second time—Chicago, 2013

  Third time—New York City, 2007

  Fourth time—Empty Condo, Huntsville AL, 2001

  Fifth time—Huntsville AL, 1995

  This discovery brings vital new information. Even if I don’t know why or where, at least now I can predict when I’ll wake up next.

  “Goodbye, then.” Without ordering, the man gets up and leaves. Letting out a sigh of relief, I turn back to my sheet of notes.

  By the time I’m finished, its overlapping with calculations. The next time I wake up will be in 1989. Then again in 1983. Then in 77, 71, 65, 59, 53, and 47. 1947, when all of this began in the first place!

  I count the zaps awaiting me: eight. Each of them lasting roughly a day. The hairs on my bare arms prick up. Whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing, I’ve got the next eight days of my life to do it.