Mask

by C. C. Kelly

  He started to turn and look upon the temple and then decided he would sit here a time longer as he caressed his forearm with the tip of the blade, which pulled goose bumps out of his childhood. The breeze caught the delicate hairs of his arm and gave him a wonderful chill that made him quiver.

  Sharlle stared at the tomato as he continued to tickle his forearm with the grass, but he was disappointed that the sensation the second time was not as satisfying as it had been at first. And as his mind shifted thoughts, again a sense of waiting and again the shadow-faced man was above him. But he was not afraid of the shadow man.

  In his mind Sharlle thought about where the sun would be, where he was sitting, what direction he was facing. He sensed rather than comprehended his position. Gently, he pushed with his legs and wiggled his lean body into the same position as that day so very long ago when he was but a child. Yes, now he could remember more. The images came to him.

  He suddenly swallowed hard as the images of his dreams resurfaced with a memory of the train. New Chicago was not his home. They had been — running? Escaping? Was he in danger? Was his father in danger? They had been going somewhere, somewhere safe — somewhere they could be happy. Sharlle remembered being happy on the train and being with his father. And even though he felt the sense of urgency in hiding, he also felt the safety and protection of his loving father — secure in the knowledge that no one could ever hurt him — he would always be safe. And apparently he was, for now he was older than he could recall and had been happy and safe — his father must have protected him in the end.

  And again it came, that sense of waiting.

  What had he been waiting for? This was different than waiting to board the train or waiting to see the elegant needles of glass of New Chicago come gliding across the prairie to greet them; this was a more intimate sensation. Again, Sharlle wanted to go inside the temple and sit in the shade to think. But he was afraid he would lose the fragile thread of these few memories, and even if this was a forgotten daily ritual, he tenaciously clutched at the images, trying to hold them, trying to reel them in — into the light of this morning’s sun. He wanted to share his memories with his last tomato, the small red orb also coming to the end of its life. He grinned to himself at the thought, even though he knew that tomatoes did not have memories, but then he mused, this last one can, it can have some of my few memories. We will share them.

  He shifted slightly and stared at the tomato as he hoped for more images of his past to settle over him, and he would let the tomato listen.

  You’ve been waiting too haven’t you, he thought to the tomato, you were waiting to rest in the moist soil under the shadows of your vine. And now, we are much alike you and I, tomato, very much alike.

  He thought about the tomato lying in the dirt, covered and protected for a brief time by the shadow of its vine when the shadow man returned to his visions. The shadow man had spoken to him. He was quite sure of it. They had talked that morning, and even though he knew that somehow it was not intended to be their last time together, it had been. The shadow man had never returned.

  He recalled the shadow man giving him instructions, tasks he must accomplish and responsibilities he was obligated to. Somehow Sharlle knew this list of tasks were now his daily rituals regarding his garden and tending the temple. He had not failed the shadow man, although he could not specifically remember what he had been asked to do. Somehow, he did know he had done as he had been asked and that the shadow man would be proud of him.

  He felt his eyes grow moist and the muscles of his jaw clench, but he did not understand why he felt that way.

  Oh, this is sadness.

  Why did he feel sadness at this memory? Then he recalled the shadow man leaving and he recalled being sad then as well. He recalled standing up and following the shadow man over to the temple, his tunic dragging behind him. He looked down again at his threadbare tunic, faded from pastel orange to a light tan — yes, this was the same tunic he had been wearing that morning so very long ago.

  He thought again about the temple and recalled a bath of crystal blue light. He had walked through that light and out of the temple into this prairie. The temple, like the shadow man, was larger then, but now he realized he was smaller, but a boy then.

  He had jumped off the train with glee, excited at the vast and amazing sights of that city, New Chicago. He had started to run down the high-ceilinged platform, but his father had held his hand firmly. He recalled turning in surprise and then his father knelt down and spoke soft, reassuring words to him, making a deal that Sharlle would listen to him in this new and bustling city. Then his father leaned forward, touching their noses together to seal the bargain. Sharlle had giggled, and they had left the huge train station and descended down into the city streets of this fantasy world of glass and steel and — people, so many, many people.

  He recalled more as the visions became clearer, his mind sharpening. They had not dallied after leaving the train station. He followed his father, who seemed to be nervous and watchful. Sharlle could not fathom why, but he kept close to his father and listened. Eventually, they had come to a very old muted black steel and brick building that appeared to have been abandoned and was lying silent in the shadows of the tall glass buildings that seemed to reach up and kiss the sky from the sidewalk far below.

  They had gone into a deserted alley and slipped through a broken hole in the sidewalk. Sharlle crawled after his father through a crumbling section of wall and into the building. He had quickly gotten disoriented and began to become frightened as the light faded from the building, as though sucked out by the city outside, stranding them in darkness. He recalled asking his Dad if everything was all right and his Dad had responded with a radiating smile that cut through the darkness. Sharlle smiled. Everything was going to be all right after all.

  Floor by floor they descended into the building, following a maze of corridors until they came to a room in what Sharlle thought was the center of the building and then he saw the temple for the first time — his responsibility these many years. But the temple was white and seemed to shine even in the gloomy darkness of the building.

  The temple looked very different now, but then it was as he had seen in his dreams, new and powerful. But he knew that although the temple shared his same haggard look, it was still powerful.

  His father had scooped up a large bundle by a strap handle and took Sharlle by his ever so small hand and led him into the temple, to his new home. His father had touched symbols carved into the walls of the temple and they had lit up like stars in the night sky, sparkles glistening off the shiny walls. Sharlle remembered amazement at the sight. The symbols did not sparkle anymore, but perhaps he simply did not know how to make them sparkle.

  Sharlle looked again to the horizon. The sky was the same color as the sparkles. And then the sparkles had filled the room, shooting out through the open portal, bathing the old building outside in a soft blue light. He saw the light begin to recede back into the portal as he stood holding his father’s hand. He held on tight to his father, not from fear, but from excitement. His father squeezed back, and then they were no longer standing in the old building.

  Sharlle gasped as he stared through the portal to the world outside. The building, the city, the people, everything was gone, replaced by a beautiful meadow, a prairie of long green grass that stretched on seemingly forever. He looked up at his father who nodded that he could go outside. Sharlle slipped his hand from his father’s and raced out in to the grass, staring up at the vast open sky that, like this day, was unmarred by clouds, only the glow of the sun came from above. This place made him happy and content and he did not question why then any more than he had for all of the years between.

  His father had stepped outside and watched him play he recalled, smiling as young Sharlle ran around in the grass, sliding his hands along the blade tips that reached nearly to his face. He raced around the temple and came to stop before his father, looking up questioningly.
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  His father had bent down, opening the bundle that he had brought with them. He began pulling out tools and other smaller boxes. His father had tousled Sharlle’s fine brown hair then and picked up several tools and a small package of seeds and walked down the hill, staring along the field and at the sun above. Finally, he came to a stop, turned to wink at Sharlle and began to dig the garden.

  Sharlle opened his eyes and squinted at the garden and his tomato, smiling as he recalled his father clearing the tall grass, tilling the soil and seeding the garden. His father had called him over and explained about gardens and how to tend them, when to pick the vegetables and fruits and how much he should eat each day. His father had worked for three days on the garden and setting up the daily needs of their adventure.

  At night, Sharlle would curl up with his father under a thick blanket, the same blanket he clutched when the bad dreams came now and fell asleep in his arms. He could remember how his father had smelled now, like a flower, some fragrance long forgotten until today. The memory made him smile.

  When his father was taking a break from the garden, he would show Sharlle how to take care of the temple, what needed to be done or repaired if necessary, but he had never had to repair anything, just the few tasks he performed routinely as he had been instructed. His father was proud of him and he didn’t want to disappoint him. His father had told him how to take care of the garden throughout the growing season and how to begin again, what to do to feed himself each day from the supplies he had brought with them and how the small heater and fire starter worked should he ever need them. His father had explained many things in those three days and Sharlle had been as a sponge, listening, mimicking and learning.

  Later on, he had worked hard on the garden and made sure that every task was performed perfectly each morning as instructed and then he would sit before the portal and watch and wait until the shimmering sky was replaced with the velvety cover of night. Then he would turn and watch the skies, amazed by the stars and meteors he would see. Eventually he would fall asleep and then either awake from the sea of grass or from the temple and then repeat his morning ritual so that he could sit before the portal again — waiting.

  As the years passed, he began to face away from the temple portal, staring out at the horizon, thinking perhaps his father would return from another direction. And then in time, he thought less about his return, until finally in these last years, he had trouble remembering anything at all.

  But now, on this particular morning, he recalled the third and final day of his father’s adventure here vividly.

  His father looked down at him from under the glare of the sun, no longer the shadow man, and said softly, “I’ll be back soon, mind the garden I planted for you and don’t get too skinny.” He winked. “If you forget how to do something or have a problem you don’t know how to fix, just go to sleep. You’ll dream of what to do. I’ll be back sooner than you can blink.”

  Sharlle blinked mischievously through a grin.

  “I love you, son. Tend the Time Portal as I showed you. The machine is more than that. Trust the dreams. You’ll be safe here. This is the end of the line. There are no people here, no animals, and no sickness, nothing to harm you. You will be safe until I return. Remember to dream.”

  “Yes, father,” the young Sharlle had said, bolstering his bravery.

  “I know you are only seven, but can you be brave for me, Sharlle?”

  Sharlle grinned at his father and puffed out his chest.

  His father reached down and rustled Sharlle’s hair. “Soon, I’ll be back very soon.”

  His father turned and stepped into the portal of the temple, the time machine, and turned back, resting one hand against the rough stone facade. “I love you, my son.”

  He smiled and disappeared into the shadows of the temple.

  “I love you too, Dad,” Sharlle shouted as he ran to the side of the temple.

  A soft blue glow emanated from the interior and spread gently out like a puddle that had run over its banks. Sharlle pulled up short at the edge of the light to see his father waving at him as the light receded and grew dim, taking his father with it, until the temple again fell into shadow.

  Sharlle felt a tear on his cheek, but he wiped it off and puffed his chest out again. He was going to be brave and he would not disappoint his father. He would tend the machine and his garden, and he would not be afraid.

  Sharlle glanced over to see that the tomato lay on the ground, now covered in shadow, its time at an end.

  Sharlle had been brave. He had tended the temple, minded the garden. He had let the dreams tell him what to do to survive and he had waited. He had not disappointed his father and he knew he would be proud of him. But now, so many, many years later, he was tired. Would his father mind if he lay down for a moment to rest his eyes? Would it be irresponsible to just rest his tired and aching body for a brief moment — just the briefest of moments?

  Sharlle leaned over slightly, his grip on his walking stick loosening, allowing it to slide further down his lap. He spared one final glance over to the tomato and bid it farewell and closed his eyes against the glow of the sun and concentrated on the heat it cast upon his bare arms and legs.

  “Yes,” Sharlle whispered aloud in a shallow, gravely unused voice, “I think Dad would let me rest now. I love you, Dad. Please don’t be disappointed. I'm just so very tired.” And Sharlle let out a long slow breath and slumped further forward.

  And that wondrous morning’s sun, the sheltered tomato and the storied temple behind would share in no more memories; neither would they hear his breath mix with the soft babbling of the brook or the gentle rustle of the tall green grass under the gentle embrace of the breeze again.

  Gamma Series

  “I see the Propaganda Department has powered up the Aquarius vid over on State. Quite imposing. They may have outdone themselves with this one,” Director Vincent said as he entered the third-floor conference room, an empty, white sterile space with floor to ceiling windows and a graphite carpeted floor.

  Doctor Sorenson continued to stare out the windows at the Chicago skyline, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his white lab coat. “The Off-World Colony propaganda is all over the planet, Vincent – so what? What did he say?” Doctor Sorenson asked.

  “We have our directives,” he said as he smoothed back his graying hair.

  “This is bullshit, Vincent, and you know it.”

  “What a wonderfully antiquated colloquialism. You should apply yourself more diligently to its evocative and charming employment.”

  Doctor Sorenson scowled.

  Vincent joined him at the wall of windows. “More the pity they insisted on removing the train lines. A landmark of some renown, the ‘L,’ did you know? I think it added a certain character to the city. The monorails are just so – twenty-first century gauche, don’t you think?”

  “Are you questioning the merits of all progress or just the tech we don’t control?” Sorenson asked.

  “You misunderstand. The merits have no relevance. Progress is a commodity, nothing more. And ultimately, my young friend, we control it all.”

  Director Vincent lingered at the windows starring down at Wells Street. “And there, how poetic. Our funding is passing through the security array now. We should adjourn to the lobby.”

  “It’s not right. We aren’t ready,” Sorenson continued as he glanced down at the convoy and then turned to Director Vincent and said in a low voice, “I don’t think it’s right.”

  “The monorails or the funding?”

  “You know damn well.”

  Director Vincent put one hand up, cutting him off. He smoothed his Italian silk suit and straightened his tie and then faced Doctor Sorenson directly. “Thank you for your impressions, Doctor Sorenson. A time comes in a young man’s life when he must put away boyish angst, stop swimming upstream and become a man of substance.” He squeezed Sorenson’s shoulder with fatherly care. “Seize opportunity, son. Don’t squand
er it. With age, comes wisdom and you might say I have an ample measure of both. I trust you will ruminate on the subject.

  “But as you are no doubt aware,” he continued, releasing Sorenson’s shoulder and narrowing his common brown eyes, “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  He stepped back, suddenly smiling and then with a flourish, gestured for Doctor Sorenson to lead the way down to the lobby.

  ******

  The black government transports drove out of the bright afternoon and into the shadows of the obsidian brick and glass structure that was Luna-Dyne Carbide’s research and assembly facility.

  Armed guards emerged from the transports and building simultaneously, forming a perimeter around the convoy. The black-helmeted guards of each camp nodded to one another. This was not their first meeting.

  The driver stepped around the center car and opened the back door. The congressman and the general stepped out of the vehicle, ignoring the guards around them and marched up the steps to the front lobby. The glass doors opened and they walked in to a vaulted austere hall, void of windows, promotional posters or achievement plaques. No clue was apparent as to the corporation’s purpose; even the company name and logo were absent.

  At the far end of the white stone floor of the lobby was a glass and red anodized steel reception desk, the only furniture in the hall. The two stopped just short and a young blonde with ruby red lipstick, deep green eyes and dangling feather earrings looked up to greet them.

  “Welcome to Luna-Dyne Carbide,” she said in an almost seductive voice through a vacant smile.

  The congressman alternated between staring at her eyes and her breasts, which the white blouse did little to conceal. He grinned like a school boy and started to lean onto the reception desk to engage the young lady with his charisma. Perhaps a lunch date was in the making, perhaps more. He was, after all, a congressman.