by D M Fike
It rang several times before I realized it was the middle of the day. They might still be at their jobs. I was hoping I could just leave a message on the answering machine (seriously ancient!) when my mother picked up.
“Hello, Nakamori residence,” she said in her best ‘customer service’ voice.
“Mom!” I cried. “How are you?”
“Gene?” Her professional demeanor melted away. I winced at the sound of my childhood nickname. “So good to hear from you!”
I never liked the name Gene. Sounds too much like a car mechanic. I suppose it’s better than my birth name, Imogene, but that’s a low bar. That’s why, when I had the chance to start over as a shepherd, I went with a Japanese-esque mash-up of my first and last names: Ina.
“Didn’t mean to bother you, Mom. Just calling to say I’m alive.” I’m generally pretty sarcastic, but sometimes, the truth works just as well.
“No bother at all, Gene! It’s so good to hear your voice.”
“Good to hear yours, too.” I floundered with what else to add. Now that I’d accomplished letting my parents know I wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere, I had no idea what else to say.
“Actually, I was hoping you would call. Are you coming home for Easter?”
I held back a sigh. Visiting home was always tricky because most shepherds don’t have a family to go back to. They generally cut ties with all civilization once they accept the Nasci life. I basically have to steal a half day when I’m somewhere near Lynnwood to visit my parents, and I can’t plan ahead. “Probably not, Mom.”
She misinterpreted this as some sort of condemnation on Western society in general, Christianity in particular. “We don’t need to go to church,” she threw in hastily. “But wouldn’t it be nice to have dinner as a family? We haven’t done that in a long time.”
She hates that I never give her any advanced warning. When I show up unannounced, she’s never prepared. I once really put a cramp in her weekly bunko game, and I don’t think she’s forgiven me yet for ruining that session. “I wish I could, Mom, but I have plans.”
“Well, what about Mother’s Day? Have you got better plans with your… friends over your own mother?”
Uh-oh. Red alert. I drew the sigil for a gust of wind again, this time angling it into the phone. “Sorry, Mom!” I yelled, the currents cutting into our conversation. “We’re driving out near the coast again. Have to catch you later.”
She tried to say something back, but I yelled that I loved her and hung up.
I finally released that pent-up sigh. I may be a snarky jerk sometimes, but I really don’t enjoy acting like an ungrateful prick. My parents and I have never really seen eye to eye on things, but after hearing some personal history from other shepherds, I realize I had a happy upbringing at least.
My parents just can’t know the truth. Even if I wanted to tell them, they couldn’t handle it. It would break their brains.
I pushed all that gloomy stuff somewhere deep inside my body, buried beneath my rumbling stomach. The wad of cash practically burned a hole in my hoodie pouch. It was supper time!
A will o’ the wisp hop, skip, and a jump away from Mapleton is Florence, Oregon—not to be confused with anything authentically Italian. It ranks as one of the larger coastal towns, which isn’t saying much, and pretty much exists to cater to tourists. Since I was experiencing serious withdrawals for a cheap, fast meal, I’d come to the right place.
I teleported out of a tree into a forested area sandwiched between a neighborhood of McMansions and the Siuslaw River. I emerged onto a cul-de-sac with a weather-beaten basketball hoop at one end. Because the weekday afternoon sky threatened rain, everyone kept mostly inside, television sets flickering next to large bay windows here and there.
Most shepherds avoid population centers. We’re not supposed to have a lot of contact with generic humans, so that puts one strike against cities. The second is the lack of contact with the earth. Walking around barefoot on rough sidewalks doesn’t generate any earth pith, so shepherds can only rely on a stale breeze and a bit of moisture to absorb any other elements. I, on the other hand, miss creature comforts too much to care about constant pith absorption. I would have traded my wad of bills to someone in one of those houses if they’d let me channel surf for an hour with a bag of BBQ chips. I kind of doubted anyone would go for that offer, so I settled for the next best thing.
I plotted a path that kept me along quiet residential roads until I hit Bay Street, where all the out-of-towners ate. The locals would have rolled their eyes at me eating at the “unauthentic” restaurants, claiming the local dives have all the good stuff, but the tourist traps have the best clam chowder. I aimed on having a bowl plus a tuna melt. Maybe fries and a pop too.
Hey, you burn a lot of calories running around the woods all day.
It was the off-season before spring break, and also not quite dinnertime, so I barely passed anyone, even on Bay Street. As I walked over the pier bridge to enter my favorite seafood restaurant, the warm aroma of baking bread hit me. My mouth watered as I scurried past all the kitschy knick-knacks they sell before seating you. The jolly middle-aged waitress did not blink at a single young woman dressed in shorts in March eating alone. She set me up with a sweet view of the river, only a handful of other patrons among the many empty tables. I told her not to bother with the laminated menu, gave her my order from memory, and snacked on a cracker packet as I regarded the seagulls swooping over the gently flowing water.
When they brought out the cup of chowder first, I slowly topped it with crumbled saltines like a gourmet chef. I grunted in ecstasy as I savored the first bite. My taste buds danced. My tense shoulders loosened. I could not have felt more limber if I had been soaking with Guntram in the hot spring back at the homestead. And if the chowder made me feel like I’d just attended my favorite band’s concert, then the tuna melt and fries constituted getting to meet them backstage.
You might think I’m being dramatic here, but trust me. If you went from a normal American diet to a shepherd one, you’d miss this kind of food too. Sipho grows a lot of great produce, and we even eat meat on a few very special occasions, but sometimes, you just need a greasy meal.
I paid for dinner and meandered back the way I came, full and content. If I had been a cartoon character, I would have been chewing on a toothpick. I had forgotten all about my worries with the exploding whale and the vaettur breach as I approached the dilapidated basketball hoop. I’d had my fun and was ready to go back to the homestead.
The sound of ambulance sirens jolted me back to reality.
I paused in mid-stride. They sounded as if they were coming closer, but I didn’t spot them anywhere. I realized they must be on the other side of the forested woods, headed toward Florence’s community hospital. That got me thinking about that park ranger back on the beach. A wave of guilt crashed over me as I pictured him rolling around moaning in the sand. Guntram said he’d been alive, but that’s not saying much if you’ve been clobbered by whale guts. The explosion happened close enough to Florence that he could have been transported here for evaluation.
I should have just left it alone. It would take a while to get back to the homestead, and Guntram would find me missing sooner or later. And yet, I couldn’t shake that lingering sense of shame. I had caused the blubber rain that injured the ranger. He had just been trying to help. He had no idea he was about as useful as a light bulb on the surface of the sun against the cockatrice.
I had probably eaten too much. I always made bad decisions on a full stomach. I decided to go check on Vincent Garcia.
Made of red brick with asymmetrical pointed roofs, the building looked more like a trendy strip mall than a hospital. Still, an ambulance was parked in the emergency driveway with two EMTs evaluating someone bandaged on a stretcher. I avoided the flurry of activity around the ambulance and stepped through the hospital’s main entrance.
The secret about doing something dumb is to act absolutely confident.
I found a receptionist with bouncing gray curls at a counter inside the main lobby and strode right up to her.
“Hello,” I said, slapping my hand on the table, slightly startling her. “I have a question for you.” I read her name tag. “Sharon.”
“Sure?” She peeked over her red-rimmed glasses up at me.
It hit me right then, as she scrutinized me, that I had no idea if the park ranger had received medical attention, much less if he was taken to a hospital or even this particular one. My idiot lips forged ahead. “A college buddy of mine had an accident on the beach today. We used to play volleyball.” I realized I’d made an accidental connection. “We didn’t play volleyball on the beach today but back in college. That’s how we know each other.” Sharon’s confused gaze convinced me to sail past my bogus backstory. “His mom told me he was taken to a hospital. Can you tell me if he’s here?”
Sharon brightened once she figured out what I wanted. “What’s his name?”
I knew this one. “Vincent Garcia.”
Her face lit up. “Oh yes! Hit by a whale carcass I’m told, isn’t that just the nuttiest thing? He has a concussion, and they’re keeping him overnight just to be on the safe side.”
My heart pounded. “So, he’s going to pull through?”
“Oh, sure, honey, he’ll be just fine. It’s just routine observation. You should go see him for yourself. He’s in room 23.”
Well, at least I hadn’t killed a man today. Score one for me. “Nah, I’d hate to bother him. I’m just glad to hear he’s okay.”
To my horror, Sharon walked around the desk and motioned toward the hallway. “You came all this way. You really should say ‘hi.’ Vincent’s such a sweet boy. He’d love visitors.” She took a step to escort me herself.
“No, no, no,” I waved my hands. “I hate to be any trouble. I can find it myself.”
Sharon faltered, and I knew in that moment if I didn’t dash down the hallway, she would drag me down it. She had that obstinate glint in her eye, the kind parents give whiny teenagers when they’re forcing them to do something like play mini golf together ‘as a family.’ I speed walked away.
I didn’t know if she’d follow, but as I entered the archway of patient doors, I glanced over my shoulder. She did not appear on my heels. I sighed in relief. Clear for now.
But I couldn’t just leave the hospital immediately. Enough time had to pass so that snoopy Sharon believed I’d had a heart-to-heart with her ‘sweet boy.’ I hesitated, glancing around the monotonous off-white walls. The corridor smelled like hand sanitizer combined with salty ocean air. I considered loitering for five minutes, but there was nowhere to sit. I studied the worst watercolor reproduction of a bowl of fruit ever made like a patron of the Louvre itself. A nurse with a bobbed haircut came out of a side room and glared at me, not buying my performance. I sauntered forward, deciding it couldn’t hurt to stroll slowly by room 23.
Once near the park ranger’s room, I felt funny just standing off to the side. I inched my face over for a peek, ready to bolt if he saw me. To my relief, I found him lying in a hospital bed with the railings raised, his face turned to a window on the opposite wall. He slumped forward with his chin resting on his chest, his ebony hair still showing the faint outline of where his crowned hat had matted it down. The hand draped on his chest rose and fell with deep breaths.
He was asleep.
No sense acting like an idiot in the hallway. I tiptoed forward, craning my head to get a better look at his face.
Ridiculous bedhead aside, Vincent lounged like the protagonist in a movie recovering after the big bad fight at the climax. He appeared serious even in sleep, like he might write you a citation. His hospital gown stretched taut across his shoulders, exposing the muscles throughout his upper body. I couldn’t quite place his ethnicity, which made me relate to him even more. And he had just enough of a black eye emerging that he appeared menacing and still cute at the same time.
Oh, boy. I winced at that last thought. Obviously, I had been running around with a grumpy old fart in the woods way too long.
“Excuse me. Who are you?” a voice asked loudly.
I jumped as the nurse from the hallway entered the room. She had a chart under her armpit and gave me the same skeptical ‘why-are-you-here’ expression.
“Sorry,” I whispered, backing up out of the room. “Don’t want to wake up Vincent.”
She blocked my path. “No need to be quiet,” she practically yelled. “I’m prepping him for a procedure.” Responding to Ms. Loudmouth, Vincent stirred in the bed behind me, making a half-snort as his eyelids cracked open. The nurse frowned at me. “How do you know the patient?”
“Just an acquaintance,” I threw my hands up in the air. “I’ll get out of your way.”
Vincent inhaled a sharp mouthful of air. “Huh?” he wheezed. “What’s going on?”
The nurse’s expression softened as she turned to the groggy park ranger. She placed the chart down and pulled an otoscope out of her pocket. “Just getting you ready for the MRI,” she cooed.
Vincent locked eyes with me for one long moment. When a flash of recognition went across his face, I felt doomed for sure, but the nurse shined the small medical light into one of his shocked eyeballs. I used the distraction to exit the room.
“Wait!” I heard Vincent cry after me.
“Keep still,” the nurse’s voice grew faint as I fled. “I’ll just check if you’re dilating and then—”
I shuffled as quickly as humanly possible down the hallway. I did not respond to Sharon as she called after me to sign the visitor log. Once my feet hit outside concrete, I ran at full tilt across the parking lot and back into the woods.
Good one, Ina. Real smooth.
CHAPTER 4
I DIDN’T MAKE it back to the homestead until the sun had almost set. A sharp chill had long since settled in the forest, a dampness penetrating my bones that only comes from being smothered under ginormous trees. I gathered fire pith in my hand and drew a sigil for a bit of warmth.
Why had I visited that stupid park ranger in the hospital? Everyone’s clearly better off when I keep to myself. I’m an introvert by nature, but curiosity and guilt had woven a web too strong for me break. I wanted to make sure the guy made it out okay. Despite the risk, I was glad I did it. It made me feel much better knowing Vincent would be giving kids lectures this summer on how to fight off a bear attack, or whatever it is that rangers do.
Still, that didn’t erase the fact that it had taken me way too long to return to the homestead. Guntram would have surely noticed my absence by now. When I spotted the cluster of deer grazing along the outskirts of the homestead property, I knew things had escalated beyond just Guntram’s wrath. Most augurs have a special bond with a particular animal breed. Called kidama, those animals tend to cluster around a particular augur, like Guntram and his ravens.
Tabitha had her deer.
Homesteads are the headquarters of all shepherds, but they’re not really homes, per se. You don’t have a bedroom that is yours in the lodge or anything like that. It’s run more like a hostel where shepherds come and go at will. I’ve met a lot of shepherds during my 4-year tenure as an eyas. I can’t say I get along with many of them, mostly because of my own unique background.
Then there was Tabitha and Darby, the Sassy Squad.
They were waiting for me in the lodge common area. Eyas Darby sat cross-legged on the edge of the pool, her soft white feet pointing outward in a delicate curve, stirring the water with casual grace. She wore a gray cloak with leggings that hugged every curve of her cheerleader body. Perfect ringlets of platinum blond hair glided artistically from each side of her face. Given that she could barely purchase alcohol, she looked like a grown-up sexualized version of Little Red Riding Hood doing yoga.
At the kitchen counter, her augur Tabitha lit the stone fireplace, the slab of rock hanging overhead acting as a stovetop for a bubbling kettle of nasty-smelling tea. Several decades Darby’s se
nior, her stern face held only a few wrinkles, none of them laugh lines. She drew her own blond hair back into a severe ponytail, fur-lined hood swaying softly behind her. Her sharp chin lifted as I entered the lodge, her frown deepening. Tabitha could easily pass as the messed-up offspring of an Amazon warrior and a drill sergeant.
“Look who finally showed up,” she sneered.
Darby opened her jasper green eyes to mimic her augur’s expression. “Welcome back, haggard.”
I hate to say that the name-calling stung. “Haggard” is a term for a shepherd trained after their teenage years. It’s meant to make me feel inferior, since it is quite rare for a person to retain ken after puberty without training. They believed my magical ability would be stunted somehow, having lost those crucial training years. I’m the only eyas in the Talol Wilds that an augur decided to train at my ‘advanced’ age. Tabitha had made it clear since day one how she feels about haggards like me, and her sniveling little eyas Darby always followed suit like the programmable high school bully she was.
I hoped I didn’t betray any emotion on my face as I asked, “Where’s Guntram?”
Darby shrugged a pale shoulder toward the hallway of bedrooms. “Waiting for you to show your face.”
Great. I didn’t want an audience for this conversation, but I’m not a coward. I proved it by marching straight toward Guntram’s room.
Guntram laid into me the minute I knocked on his door. “You decided to come back, now, did you?” he yelled as he threw the door open. I stepped inside and closed it, knowing it would not prevent the conversation from wandering down to Tabitha and Darby.
Lodge rooms are completely functional: just large enough for a bed with a straw lumpy mattress, similarly uncomfortable pillow, simple square bedside table, and stark wooden chair. A large window lets in as much natural light as possible, which means none now as evening waned. A lantern glowed softly on the table, casting even darker shadows across Guntram’s angry face. There was barely room for four people to stand, so I took a seat in the chair.