Emit

by Jack Beal

  The glowing tablet offers the room’s only light. As soft, silvery beams fall upon the little girl, she takes off the big, black glasses revealing eyes of an unparalleled blue.

  I’ve thought of what I’d do in this moment a million times. But now that it’s here, I can’t find anything worth saying.

  “Here. Take it,” she whispers. “You are going to need this to get where you must go. But be careful, Robbie. Sometimes the monsters we must slay aren’t those we’d imagine.”

  The tablet buckles beneath my white-knuckled grip as I watch her body grow fainter.

  “No! Don’t go! Please come with me! I’m too scared to go alone!”

  I can no longer see her. All that’s left is a voice rippling as if transmitted across the sands of time. “It is when we are most afraid that we accomplish the most remarkable of things.” Then it, too, is gone.

  The lights have flicked back on, and yet it feels gloomier than ever. Because she left. Something tells me that’s exactly what I’m supposed to do, too. Turning for the staircase, I pass the neatly stacked shelves of boxes filled with silver slates just like mine. Transferring my tablet to the opposite hand so I can take the railing, my eyes round.

  “No!” I scream, rotating away from the stairs. The tablet is gone. In its place, clenched in my left hand is a dirty old shovel with a handle in the shape of a capital T.

  I clamber back to the shelves of boxes, counting from the left until I locate mine. As I climb up to the top, the shelf sways dangerously. I try shifting my weight, but it’s too late. The entire load comes crashing down, bringing me along with it.

  Rubbing my head, I look around. Which is which? The stack of boxes lies jumbled on the ground. Tearing off a lid at random, I plunge my hand inside one of the wooden boxes. But there isn’t a single silvery slate inside. Instead, it’s filled with earth.

  Box after box, it’s the same story. Before long, piles of soil cover the floor. With no other choice, I strap the shovel under the elastic band stretched over my back and turn for the staircase.

  “Dad?” I try again, retracing my steps through the shapeshifting rooms. But I already know he’s not here. Something tells me he never was.

  When I get back to where the doorway lies hidden inside the wall, a tight ball forms in my throat. This isn’t the way things were supposed to play out. I was supposed to come here, find Dad, and bring him back safe and sound.

  Lighting up like a sign, the red knobs burn into my retinas. With a shaky hand, I press my palm into the space between.

  With a mechanical whoosh, the door opens. I let myself down to the ground gently, landing beside my original shovel. At first I consider leaving it here. I mean, what in the world would I need two shovels for? But then I change my mind. The first shovel was a present from Dad. And the second one…Thinking back to those blue eyes, I decide to take them both.

  After strapping the first shovel onto my back along with the second, I look around. Below an ebony sky stretching out eternally, I take a first step.

  I’m not sure where, or when, or how. I’m not even sure what I’ll find when I get there. The only thing I do know is what I’ve got to do. And that is to start digging.

  “Everyone thinks of changing the world,

  but no one thinks of changing himself.”

  ~Leo Tolstoy

  NINETEEN

  A MOMENT. A LIFETIME.

  1947-2020.

  Despite the fullness of the moon, the Earth is plunged in near-obscurity. I stare up quizzically, as if to ask it to impart a bit of its light. But the moon is greedy. It’s not in the mood for sharing.

  All it stubbornly offers is a perforated trail, illuminating the tip of a leaf here or there. I connect the dots, following them further into the field.

  The air smells heavily of corn pollen. Rows and rows of stalks go on for miles in every direction. I shiver, wondering what might be hiding beneath their outstretched branches.

  I want to be brave, but every step deeper into the unknown leaves me feeling weaker, more vulnerable. I tell myself it’s because I’m only six, but I know better than that now. A couple hours ago, I was twelve. And before that, eighteen. While some of my memories have been warped by the passing days, a lot of them have stuck with me. For six, I know a lot more than I should. Come to think of it, I knew too much for being six even the first time around. Unless…it wasn’t the first time. I swallow hard.

  Another thought floats in, more upsetting than the last. How do I know I still am six? My teeth chatter uncontrollably with fear. Strangely, a wave of relief washes over me. If I have teeth to chatter, I’m still six. I still have time.

  “Thank goodness,” I murmur, my words falling into the emptiness.

  Somewhere within the shadows, they’re caught and thrown back at me. “Thank goodnesssss. Thank goodnesssss.” The rattling echo makes me think of cicadas, those bugs that leave unbroken silhouettes when they shed. Only, cicadas usually come in groups. Here, only one voice skids through the darkness.

  A snake!

  My eyes circle in panic, but the night provides cover. The rattling grows steadily closer.

  Stay still or run? As the yellow eyes glower into mine, my mind blanks. My mouth dries, giving it the overwhelming taste of clay. Is this what dying tastes like?

  Under the moon’s sickly luster, the snake artfully creeps. One circle narrower than the last, it closes in on me, never once taking those sallow eyes from mine. Hypnotized, I can’t move. All I can do is watch and wait.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! As a crackle of explosions crash around me, the night is dappled with color.

  My mind lurches back to the last time I saw my dad, earlier today over seventy years ago. As the sidewalk rushes up beneath my soles, it brings with it the sound of the Star-Spangled Banner and the sweet scent of pie. Dad’s voice drifts through the air. “I’ll take you to see the fireworks.”

  Then it’s my voice. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  As the scene fades away, I let out a long sigh. It’s the kind I used to make when I was an old man. I thought I could save him. I guess I was wrong.

  As the last flamboyant blast spreads out and fades into nothing, the sky is black as pitch. The moon is gone.

  The yellow eyes have vanished, too. All that’s left is a gauzy spiral. The snake has shed its skin. Atop the coiling heap sits a feather.

  This is the place. Unstrapping one of the shovels from my back, I pierce its tip into the ground and step down. The earth comes loose easily. I toss it away before plunging my shovel in again. And again.

  I burrow all through the night. By the time the sun’s early rays rise upon the cornfield, my arms are stinging and my fingers are raw. The hole’s become so deep I can’t reach any further. If I want to dig deeper, I’m going to have to get in.

  In contrast to the blinding sun, the hole is dark and dank. Pulse raised, I peer into the abyss. From the darkness, something unseen reminds me to be careful of the monsters I might find. Still, I dive in.

  But as my feet hit the bottom, the earth falls out from under me. “Ahh!” I scream as I plummet into the void. I fall for what seems like eons until, suddenly, everything stops.

  I look around. Deep within the Earth’s womb, the air is cool but not cold. It’s earthy yet surprisingly sweet. A faint trickling gurgles nearby, but no water’s in sight. It’s dark, and yet a soft glow illuminates the limestone walls. I recognize where I am now. The Dwelling of the Two Gates. I’ve been here before.

  “Hello?” I call out. When something howls in the distance, I regret having opened my mouth. The monster! The wailing grows louder, closer! All at once,
it’s on top of me! Leaping to my feet, I spin around, searching. “OM,” it hums in a long wavering note that goes on and on. My pulse calms. It’s only my echo.

  I wander along the walls engraved in languages, unknown, tracing my fingertips across the secrets they keep. Shivering, I pass paintings of animals, etchings of beasts, and piles of bones into a larger cavity.

  At the center of the opening stands an enormous stone the color of wet sand. From it, three faces have been carved. The first stares calmly forward. On its left, a glowering man. On its right, a peaceful woman.

  I reach out my hand, but something stops me. It’s like an imperceptible barrier sits between me and the sculpture. From the other side, a boy appears. He reaches out and touches the immense rock. Then he turns to me and smiles.

  When I see his face, my jaw hangs limply open.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” calls the boy from behind the invisible glass.

  “But you’re,” I stutter, “you’re…me?”

  “Are you sure you’re not me?”

  Perplexed, I scratch my head.

  The boy erupts into a fit of laughter. I watch awkwardly as he rocks back and forth, holding onto his sides, until the chuckling subsides. “Can’t you see? We’re both me! Or, if you prefer, we’re both you. Think of it the way you like. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “Is this because of the aliens?” I ask, the last word coming out as a whisper. What happened that night? All I remember is falling asleep with a bum ankle and waking up healed. Did they do more than heal me? Did they clone me?

  “I think you’re confused.”

  “About what?”

  “There are no aliens. Just us.”

  “But I saw the space ship with my own two eyes!”

  “I never said you didn’t see a UFO. But that doesn’t mean it came from far away. Sometimes what we think we see isn’t necessarily what is true. How many aliens did you meet inside?”

  I want to scream that I saw one! The little girl with the big, black glasses hiding her eyes. But before I can, I remember her eyes. Eyes of an unparalleled blue. “It’s not possible!” I stammer. I’m quivering so violently that my words are all chopped up. “It couldn’t have been…”

  “And yet it was. What’s harder for you to believe, Robbie? Little green men coming from faraway galaxies? Or us coming back to help each other from this galaxy, right here?”

  I swallow hard. “But how?”

  “By moving in retrograde. Going backwards in time.”

  “But I wasn’t going backwards when I met Siri.”

  The corner of the other Robbie’s mouth lifts in a smirk. “You weren’t.”

  It takes me a minute to figure out what he’s trying to say. “You mean, she was?”

  The other Robbie nods. “And what’s the name Siri in reverse?”

  As I spell it out in my mind, my mouth gapes open. “I don’t understand.”

  “And yet, you were so close to solving it when you added a dimension to the equation! It’s like this statue, here.” He motions behind him. “What do you see?”

  I hesitate, not sure what this has to do with anything. But the other me is as stubborn as I am and he’s waiting for an answer. “I see three faces,” I mutter.

  “And you’re wrong. Because there are five of them.”

  “What do you mean, five faces?” I point to the different heads, and count, “One. Two. Three.”

  “Three are visible. But, in reality, there are five faces. One for each direction.”

  “But then there should be four, not five!” I counter.

  “In a world of three-dimensions, there would be four directions. But this isn’t a world of three-dimensions.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten? After all, you’re the one that discovered it!”

  “A fourth dimension?”

  “You got it! Even if you can’t see it, it’s there.”

  “But how can I be sure it exists if I can’t see it?”

  “Because without it, everything else would fall apart. Don’t you remember Grandmom’s story of the serpent that holds up the celestial seas?”

  I shake my head.

  “According to the legend, the snake’s coils hold up the universe. The universe holds up the sky. And the sky holds up the Earth. But we don’t see the snake because we only ever look at the surface. It’s like when we look at a painting, we ignore the canvas it’s set upon. But just because we don’t see it, it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here. Or which one of us is the real one.”

  The other Robbie frowns. “Let me ask you something. Don’t answer, just think about it. Who were you yesterday?”

  I visualize myself back in the school yard, pegging that bonehead Arty McComwell with the rubber ball.

  “Okay. Now how about the day before yesterday?” His eyebrows rise. “And the day before that? Who are you now and who will you be tomorrow?”

  I’m starting to understand where he’s going with all of this.

  “So, tell me,” he states matter-of-factly, “which one of those is the real one?”

  Lips quivering, I mouth, “All of them.”

  “It’s the same for us. I’m just as real as you are. Which brings me to my next question: can I have my shovel back?”

  Of course, one of the shovels is his. “I would,” I say, hunching my shoulders at the invisible partition between us, “but I can’t.”

  “Oh come on. Don’t pretend you know nothing about breaking barriers.”

  Grabbing the twin shovels from the ground, I strike them into the invisible divider. With a deafening crash, the wall falls in twinkling fragments, lighting the cave up like a nighttime sky.

  “And now for the question of all questions,” the other me announces. “Which one is yours? The blue handle or the red one?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes! It makes all the difference in the world! If you choose the blue handle, everything you’ve seen and done will simply fade away. You’ll dig along the left-hand path until you grow too tired to continue. When you wake up, it’ll be like none of this ever happened. Everything will be different…even you. But you won’t know the difference.”

  “What happens if I pick the other shovel?”

  The look on his face grows serious. “If you choose the red handle, you will continue down the right-hand path. It’s a path of discovery, not unlike the one you’ve been travelling upon. As you already know, it’s a dangerous path. With understanding comes hardship.”

  I’m not fond of either option. All I wanted was for things to go back to normal. To save Dad. Now, all I can think of is finding Mom. But neither path leads in either of those directions.

  Time stands still, and I stand with it. How can I choose knowing everything that’s riding on my decision? Do I make a choice to change the future? Or the past? After a long moment of deliberation, I hand the other Robbie one of the shovels. Together, we approach the giant wet-sand colored statue. Together, we lift our shovels high over our heads. Together we strike. As the stone splits in two, a shining stream comes pouring out from its center.

  I watch, wide-eyed, as the other me bends over and plunges his head into the water. Resurfacing, he turns to me. “Drink!”

  Cupping my hands together, I dip them into the fountain and draw them to my lips. The water is bitter and thick. Heaving, I jerk away. Between my palms, the fluid congeals, beading up like droplets of quicksilver. I watch in awe as the drops conne
ct and slither out from between my fingers.

  “We have to go!” the other me screams, yanking me beneath the cascade of liquid metal. We hold our breath as the mercury streams ooze over us in thick globs. When we finally emerge on the other side, we look around.

  “Oh no!” I scream, spying the dead end.

  A thunderous rattling reverberates from behind us as a goliath quicksilver snake slithers closer.

  “What are we going to do?” the other me wails.

  But we both already know. We’ve known it all along. We have to dig.

  As we pierce our shovels into the earth, tossing the loose dirt behind us, we’re unconcerned about the rest. We work swiftly, regardless of which side of the path we’re tunneling. For the moment, we’re both in the middle.

  As we labor on, the hissing grows fainter. When the last slithery sounds of the snake’s call dissipate into the silence, I let out an exhausted sigh.

  The other Robbie smiles at me, rosy-cheeked. “Robbie?” His hand is warm and soft on my hollowed shoulder.

  “Yes?” Talking educes a long, wheezing cough which I direct into my elbow. The hairs on my arm are white as snow. My skin, as cold.

  “This is the end of the line for me,” he chirps.

  “What do you mean?” I rasp. “You can’t stop now!”

  “And yet, I must. This is where our paths part ways. From here on in, you have to go alone.”

  My eyes brim with tears. I extend my hand out toward the younger version of me. But it’s too late. He’s already gone.

  Turning back to my own path, I plunge the old, rusted shovel above my head. The soil loosens, tumbling onto me in steady sweeps. “If you choose the red handle, it’s a dangerous path,” my young voice echoes.

  As heaps of cold, damp earth collapse down, I shield my face. I’m going to be buried alive. Holding my breath, I brace myself for the end.

  Instead, a more inviting sensation settles in. As the sun’s gentle rays expel the darkness, the abyss fades away. Crawling through the dirt, I leave the Dwelling of the Two Gates behind me. As a warm feeling flows around me, I lift my age-speckled face to the sky and smile.