Convergence

by Marita Smith

  “Your father’s making dinner.”

  “Oh,” said Fletcher, trying not to sound disappointed. His Dad could deconstruct classic literature but couldn’t wield a spatula to save himself.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got some backup taco mince defrosting.” She grinned.

  The sharp edges of The Mystic Paw poked through his bag. Fletcher shifted in his seat. He couldn’t tell her about the dreams.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Thanks for picking me up.”

  The taco bowls were delicious, even eaten in the haze of smoke that left a sour, burnt odour hanging in the kitchen.

  “It was supposed to be beef bourguignon,” Dad sighed, reaching for more guacamole. “Sorry, cupcake.”

  Fletcher made a face. Cupcake, sugarplum, honey pie. Gross. He scraped up the last few skerricks of brown rice and dumped his bowl in the sink.

  “I’m going to bed.”

  Mom straightened from her slumped position on the couch. Fletcher noticed the bags under her eyes. “Remember, I’m at the clinic tomorrow until after lunch, and your father has tutorials.”

  “Copy that,” Fletcher yelled down the stairs.

  “Do your homework before you go down to the lake.”

  He read until he fell asleep, dreaming of the bear again.

  Saturday. The note on the kitchen counter pointed him in the direction of taco leftovers and reminded him to do his homework.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Fletcher said aloud. “I don’t remember where the fridge is.” He chucked leftovers into a container, grabbed his fishing rod and a thermos of hot chocolate, and pronounced himself ready.

  From the back of the house, the path to the lake was only a few miles along a narrow trail. Fletcher breathed in the heavy scent of pine, relishing this one precious moment of the week he truly had to himself. No teachers, no essays. Even the air smelled crisper when you didn’t have to be anywhere in particular. The lake opened up a wide horizon of shimmering, reflected sky when he reached the end of the trail. Fletcher dropped his backpack and stared for a long moment before casting his line.

  The flick and dance of the lure on the water calmed his mind. Fletcher propped The Mystic Paw on his lap and sipped hot chocolate. Every few pages he flicked his attention back to the river, gave the line a jerk. It beat the calculus textbook he usually hauled down here, though at least mathematics is a predictable language.

  Tugs on the line grew infrequent and the book absorbed more of his attention. Eventually, he anchored the rod in the ground by his feet, nudging it when he remembered.

  A splash caught his attention. His inner angler perked right up, scanning the water. He rarely caught anything. Today might be his lucky day. He squinted against the glare on the water, searching for the source of the sound.

  Holy shit.

  Fletcher stared at the dark shadow on the rocks. His nightmare made flesh stood on the opposite bank. The bear. His throat tightened. Alone in the woods, no-one for miles.

  Heart pounding, Fletcher leapt to his feet, the book falling onto wet stones. Some part of his mind winced, knowing it would be soggy in minutes, but he didn’t dare look down. Didn’t dare let the animal out of his sight. The drawings didn’t do it justice – the brown bear sniffing the air was enormous. Shaggy cinnamon fur hung on thick limbs ending in massive claws, claws designed to rip and cleave.

  One word echoed in his skull. Predator.

  Fletcher licked his lips. All that separated them was 25 feet. Screwing his eyes shut, he counted to three, willing the apparition to disappear. When he opened them, the bear hadn’t moved. It wasn’t a dream, then.

  Again there was a splash in the water, this time on the other side of the lake. The line strained and his reel spun in a tight circle. Unable to move, Fletcher watched as the rod jerked free and sailed into the water, heading downstream.

  Another splash. He didn’t see the actual movement, just caught the ghost of it in his peripheral vision. He only had eyes for the bear.

  The animal tensed, launching itself from the rocks and flying through the air for a graceful, long second before hitting the water. A cascade erupted as the bear went under.

  Fletcher backed up, tripped and fell on his butt.

  Get back, his mind screamed.

  A wet snout appeared above the waterline, holding a flailing, shiny fish.

  Shit. The bear doggy-paddled, not back to its side of the lake but toward him.

  Fletcher scrabbled backward, felt the mushy leaves beneath his fingers as he left the bank. The bear closed the gap, faster in the water than Fletcher could have imagined.

  Go go go. Scrambling to his feet, he ran, battering at branches, stumbling along the track he thought he knew inside out. It was an age before he clattered up the porch stairs. Slamming the door behind him, Fletcher brought the dining table screeching across the floor. Blood pounded in his ears, and his legs felt jerky. The floor was cool under his bare feet. He hoped the table would be enough.

  His heart kept hammering as he slid down the fridge and cradled his head on his knees. Safe, he was safe here. Jesus, it had been so big, so bloody close.

  The door lurched, hit the table, retracted. He screamed, couldn’t help it.

  “Fletcher?”

  Dad. Fletcher pushed upright onto shaky legs and peered out the window above the sink. Just his Dad.

  Fletcher dragged the dining table back to the middle of the room.

  “What the hell?” The professor shrugged off his jacket and tie as he stepped around the puddle near the fridge. He was transformed instantly back into Dad – tired, hungry, TV sports lover.

  “The lake. Bear. Fishing.” It was hard to get the words out. Spots appeared on the inside of his retinas, they wouldn’t budge.

  “Huh. Where’s the taco mince?” Dad poked around in the fridge, not listening.

  Fletcher hit the floor, unconscious.

  He woke up swaddled in dry clothes under a blanket on the couch. He worried a loose edge.

  “Fletcher, honey.” His Mom’s voice. She shifted into focus, waved a finger between his eyes.

  “He’s tracking well enough,” she said to his father before turning back. “We were both worried about you.”

  Fletcher coughed. A glass of water appeared at his lips.

  “What happened?”

  Fletcher drained the glass, thinking. “Something down at the lake. I guess I freaked out.” An appropriate response to seeing a bear, Fletcher thought.

  “A bear.” Dad sank into the couch opposite, holding a sandwich.

  Fletcher backtracked. “I’m not sure. I – I didn’t get a good look. Whatever it was looked big, so I just ran for it.”

  “Darling?” It was the voice Mom used when she expected something. Darling, could you change the taps. Darling, I thought I asked you to fix the lawnmower.

  Taking the hint, Dad put the sandwich down. “I’ll check it out. You’d better show me where you were, son.”

  They walked in single file. Fletcher focused on the glinting shotgun bouncing against his father’s shoulder. He felt silly now, wrapped in a big coat and traipsing behind his father like he was twelve, needing reassurance that the monsters under his bed weren’t real.

  Except the shotgun only came out for real things.

  The lake was still, misting over as the temperature dropped. On top of his backpack sat his book, his rod resting against its spine.

  “Ho, you didn’t mention your haul,” Dad exclaimed.

  Frowning, Fletcher looked to where his father had pointed. On the rocks lay an enormous, gleaming fish.

  There was no sign of the bear.

  4

  Contact

  “The boy’s blood is difficult to analyse; they assure me it has something to do with the mutations.”r />
  “Why isn’t Fang working on it?”

  “She’s busy with the main experimental subjects. We will crack this, Brock. Can you imagine breaking through the barrier that divides life itself? It will prove the legends are true. All of them.”

  “We’re not gods, Miranda. Something that has lain dormant for millennia …”

  “… Deserves to be freed.”

  Robyn couldn’t remember ever feeling so grimy or on edge. Long-distance travel sucked. The packed arrivals hall hemmed her in on all sides. Clutching her backpack strap with one hand, she edged through the crowd, holding the phone to her ear with the other.

  “We’re having gin and tonics on the deck. I thought you’d call, dear.”

  Robyn cursed under her breath. She’d completely forgotten that her parents had left on their cruise today. Robyn glanced at her watch, trying to reconcile the time difference and failing. God, she was tired.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, Mum, just traffic noise. Reception is terrible.” Not to mention costing her mother a fortune.

  “I thought I gave you the dates?”

  “You did, Mum. I’m so sorry. Uni has been hectic the last few weeks.” China? Or was it Canada? Robyn couldn’t remember. She picked her way through arrivals. There it was. Bus terminal.

  Robyn tried to decipher the faded runes on the timetable. Greasy film covered the plastic surface. Static rippled in her ear as her mother jostled the phone on the other side of the Pacific. Her father’s gruff voice made her smile.

  “Ro. Can you check on the farm while we’re gone?”

  “Of course. Remind me, how long is that?” Robyn said.

  Her father guffawed at the other end. “Three months. It’s a big world, apparently.”

  Robyn cringed. Right. “Sorry, Dad, I’ve just got a lot on my mind. Have a lovely time.”

  “We love you, honey, make sure you take care of yourself –” The phone cut out as Robyn entered the terminal. Great. Pulling her backpack closer, she got on the bus.

  Fletcher woke up unsure of his surroundings for a heartbeat, the smell of humus and decay in his nostrils. He bunched the blanket in his hand. He was in bed, his bed, still wearing the jeans and t-shirt he’d had on yesterday.

  The evening came back to him. Grilled fish and salad for dinner. Exclamations at his prowess while his parents had finished a bottle of red wine. He’d collapsed into bed early, slipping into sleep as their giggles from the couch rose up the stairs.

  He sat bolt upright, the gentlest tug on his mind. His whole head jerked and he found himself on his feet, moving toward the window. Bright sun tumbled in when he shifted the curtains.

  Fletcher wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this. The bear sat in the backyard, a dappled statue. His mouth went dry. A dream, another dream.

  When he cracked open the window, cold air coiled into the room. The bear seemed to shift without moving, like a mirage. Flickering.

  The tug again, more insistent this time.

  What do you want from me? He screamed in his head at the animal. Leave me alone.

  Curling fingers bore into his skull. Nausea rose in the back of his throat.

  I found you.

  Fletcher gagged as pain ricocheted through his head. He vomited on the floor in a thick stream. Gasping, he rested his elbows on his knees. Now he heard voices? A female voice. Maybe it was food poisoning. Or schizophrenia.

  None of these.

  Fletcher wheeled back to the window. The bear was on the roof. He’d broken a dozen slate tiles one summer when he tried to climb the downpipe to watch the stars. No way in hell could they hold the bear’s weight. He was having a psychotic breakdown. Chest heaving, he started to hyperventilate as he backed toward the bed.

  The bear poked a wet snout through the open window and tilted its head.

  My name is Eva.

  Jesus. The bear has a name now. Fletcher searched the room for a weapon. Anything. Even if this were some self-inflicted delusion, he’d feel better with something in his hand. His right hand itched toward the heavy book under the raggedy quilt.

  You are Fletcher.

  His hand caught the edge of the hardcover book.

  You know my name? He chided himself. Of course a delusion staged and directed by his subconscious would know his name.

  Yes. You are a walker, able to see the spirits. The bear’s voice. The fictional bear his mind had created. The animal that shimmered and appeared on rooftops.

  He faltered. The fish had been real enough.

  The bear nudged the window. Fletcher blinked and it was now crouched on the floorboards, stepping around the pool of vomit. Frozen in place, he could only watch in horror as it advanced. The bear reached forward with a muscled forearm and curled thick claws. To his surprise, he found himself reaching for her.

  Their knuckles grazed and something raced through his arm, zinged into his chest. Images flashed before his eyes. A green orb of light, a rush of voices, dozens of flickering pairs of eyes.

  You see?

  It was too much. He fell back on the quilt as the spots appeared in his line of vision, a mixture of humus and floral perfume in the air. His last thought was one of mild outrage – again?

  5

  First Meeting

  A deep humming enveloped him, brought him swimming back to consciousness. It was a beautiful sound. The quilt wrapped around him was a snug cocoon. He wondered if the bear – Eva – had done it.

  Of course. You are my spirit partner.

  Fletcher blanched, spinning on the bed. Eva curled against the headboard, her muddy paws on his pillow.

  Oh my God, I can’t have a bear in my room. The absurdity of his reaction brought a giggle to his lips.

  Your den is homely. Eva’s smooth voice reminded him of molasses. He felt his eyes close again, the humming building in volume.

  He snapped them open. What are you doing?

  The bear blinked, long, dark lashes fluttering. It’s not me. It’s the spirit energy.

  Spirits? Fletcher felt the remnants of the strange, zinging sensation in his system, as if he’d drunk two of those terrible energy drinks before finals. His skin itched with it. Fletcher scratched his forearm as the sound went up an octave. His skin began to thrum with a faint green colour. When he looked up, Eva’s fur rippled with light as well. The green of a forest canopy.

  The green aura faded as quickly as it had appeared.

  What was that?

  Eva answered him. It began to twig that she wasn’t talking, but speaking in his mind. Somehow it wasn’t as terrifying as he knew it probably should be.

  You are the spirit walker of the earth, and I am your guide. We have both been called.

  We are both called what?

  A dull thud carried up from the open window. There’s someone at the door, Fletcher thought. The old clock on his nightstand read 9:24 am.

  Eva yawned. A girl. She can be trusted.

  Fletcher peered out the window. A woman in jeans with a navy backpack stood on the porch, fiddling with her sleeve. When he looked back, Eva’s butt was hanging out of the doorway.

  Where are you going? Fletcher’s heart hammered. He heard a thump as Eva hit the stairs and followed at a jog.

  There was a note on the stair rail. Gone out for flour and eggs, pancakes at 11 am. Love, Mom and Dad.

  Good. His parents weren’t here. It was a small miracle, all things considered. Eva pawed at the doorframe, shaking the entire door on its hinges. Fletcher elbowed her in the gut, at least what he guessed was her gut.

  What do you think you’re doing? She’ll freak out if she sees you.

  “Hello?” A tentative female voice.

  I’ll get it. Fletcher cleared his throat. “Just a minute.”

  Fletcher tu
rned to Eva. You have to hide. Right now.

  Eva pivoted heavily on the spot, knocking the hall table over. Loose change and keys bounced off the floor. Eva wailed in apology, rearing up on her hind legs. A real-life Wookiee in his hallway.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Fletcher assessed the big open space. Without siblings, he’d never catalogued hide-and-seek spots.

  The kitchen. Get into the kitchen, and don’t make a sound. Fletcher wiped sweaty palms on his jeans and opened the front door.

  “Hello,” he said, trying for a winning smile. The woman was pretty, with dark hair that fell to her shoulders. She stared at him as if he were a different species, mouth agape for a long moment.

  She coughed and collected herself. “Hi, my name’s Robyn Greene. Are you Fletcher?”

  Fletcher nodded, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I don’t know you.” He shifted his weight and crossed his arms. Robyn looked slightly manic. He’d already had enough excitement for one day.

  We can trust her. Let her in. Eva spoke in his mind again.

  Fletcher sighed. “Come on in.” He felt Eva hum in approval.

  Robyn crossed the threshold, tugging on both shoulder straps.

  He existed. A real-life research subject. It made Robyn’s head spin as she let her backpack fall to the floor and perched herself on a worn couch. Fletcher Lowman. I’ve found you.

  Robyn rotated her aching shoulders. “Sorry for dropping by so early,” she called out to Fletcher, who was in the kitchen pulling mugs from the draining rack.

  “Tea?” he queried.

  “Yes, please.” She’d rather have coffee directly injected into her veins, but tea would suffice. The pine-clad house was deceptively large inside, with a fireplace smack bang in the middle of the open plan kitchen/living area. Now that she was here, Robyn didn’t have a clue how to broach the subject. Hey, you’re a mutant, and you should let me take some blood samples? Yeah, right.

  Fletcher shuffled around the kitchen and eventually thrust a warm mug into Robyn’s hands. It was a godsend.