Next History: The Girl Who Hacked Tomorrow

by Lee Baldwin

  When she looks at him, Clay is not waiting, not impatient. He is just being. He squeezes her shoulder.

  “Come downstairs, I got the fire going. Scotch. Wine. Finger food.”

  Sure, sure. She follows him down, gets herself on the sofa wrapped in her favorite blanket. They stare into the blazing woodstove. Words unsaid cling to the silence that surrounds her. Clay hands her a large flat package wrapped in gold tissue.

  “What?”

  “Your birthday. Tomorrow.”

  She reaches up, hugs his neck. “I forgot. Twenty. Kind of young to become the Devil’s doo-dad.” Her voice is shaky.

  Clay says nothing. She pulls away the gold tissue. It’s a drawing pad of heavy paper, good pencils and erasers. Places it beside her on the sofa. He can see her wondering when she’ll have time to use it.

  “Something I need to tell you,” Tharcia says. She drops the blanket and climbs the stairs. Returns wearing her red velvet robe with the hood folded back, holding a sheet of pink paper. Picks up the sketchpad and pencils. The dark fabric contrasts her striking white hair. Sits on the ottoman across from Clay, opens the drawing pad on her knees, tells him to hold still just like that.

  “It’s what I’ve been ashamed of my whole life,” she says, not meeting his eyes. Her pencil moves evenly over the paper, she glances up at Clay then back at the sketch. She works for so long that Clay is about to ask why she would be ashamed of her drawing. She stops, looks up.

  “I’ve never said this to anyone. Except my mom. My first girlfriend. But he did abuse me, Clay. More than I ever could admit. It’s possible that tomorrow I will be dead. I think lots of people will be dead.” What she’s been crying over, about the other ones. Not the fate she has called down upon herself.

  “Here,” she hands over the sheet of pink paper. Lines of verse written in her open hand, graceful vines and blossoms sketched around. She watches as Clay reads.

  Be the One

  From birth you have this dream

  is you will tell yourself

  who you shall be

  cross all creation

  task for you alone

  Voices said you never worthy

  you listened trusting

  harsh that curse of being young

  trusting let them twist you

  hurt your lil child hopeful

  How long to trust again?

  and what your reason why?

  what need to forgive

  think, move on

  from that hard place?

  Now your deeper vision comes

  your loving mind serene

  song of all creation

  flows through you

  wants you

  is you

  Now you own your safe adult

  sees that lil kid so hurt

  holds her to you, holds her soft

  tells her not her fault not ever

  You, the one she's waited for

  you, will loving let her in

  be the one to her as mother

  she your best still hopeful child

  trusted you to come

  From birth you have this dream

  tell this girl who she will be

  be the one

  When Clay looks up he cannot bring her shimmering outline into focus. “Did you just write this?” Knows there is more to be told, the place this poem comes from.

  “I was fifteen. Never showed it to anyone.”

  Clay stands, arms out. She steps in. “So personal. Thank you for showing me.”

  She says nothing, muffled sound of warm snuffle against his shirt. Turns and sits, sketchpad on her lap. Her pencil starts moving.

  “But Tharcie, you told me the deal you made, I know you have a good chance.”

  “Do I think people of the world want what’s best for them, or best for everyone? I’ve turned it around in my head for days on end. Don’t know. Out there right now people are going to sleep, the smart ones. Or maybe they are the fearful ones. Those ones will vote. The others, the ones who stay awake, will meet their karma.”

  “Why didn’t we go to sleep?”

  “I asked for us not to. I wanted this time with you. Say goodbye. Whatever comes I want to face it conscious. With someone.”

  Outside the walls there is a loud grinding crash, as though a giant stage set has been crushed for scrap in a machine of whirling blades. It shakes the house. Clay opens the door, wind lunges inside. His torch probes swirling darkness. A platoon of bipedal mechanized robots lurches by, metallic faces turn, red eyes glow in Clay’s light. Snarls of gleaming metal teeth, menacing gestures. Far down the hill obscured by trees, the orange nimbus of flames, angry curses, screams.

  Tharcia watches from over his shoulder. “I don’t think they can come any closer.”

  The phalanx of clanking robot soldiers tromps through the trees and out of sight. Something howls up on the ridge. Clay turns. She has the hood pulled up. Deeply shadowed in the porch light, her face holds a look of solemn purpose, fierce she-warrior from a distant time.

  “Lian said we would not be touched,” she whispers, “so long as we stay here.”

  “What happens when the Sleep ends?”

  “The survivors pick themselves up and sort out what’s left.” A chorus of auto horns filters through the trees, beyond the hill. She turns inside. “There is something I’ve been meaning to do.”

  Tharcia upstairs, rummaging in the crammed hallway closet, in her room. Comes down with black plastic bags, sets them on the porch. She goes up for another load. In the bathroom, door closed, she stands before the mirror. The little goblin is there, wearing a tiny T-shirt with a picture of Darth Vader on the front. His eyes are open and he’s not wearing any pants.

  “Vardøger?”

  The eyes flare green, hungry. “Yes, my Creampie.”

  “You are such an amateur.”

  In the mirror, she flips him the bird. A sweet smile, and she repeats the three little words that Lylit whispered to her in the garden.

  “Go to hell.”

  Vardøger’s shocked expression has a millisecond to register before he vanishes without so much as a puff of smoke.

  She carries the last bags out to the clearing, as far as she dares, dumps the contents on the ground. It’s a pile of her mother’s clothes. She has a can of kerosene Clay keeps for the hurricane lamps. Stands before the rising flames, a wrenching pull from the abandonment she’s lived with all her life. Watching Tharcia’s silhouette from behind, Clay sees the high priestess, can almost hear her chant of incantation. But the words she whispers at the flames hiss between clenched teeth. Mom, you almost made me hate myself. I love myself. I do not hate you. I want us to work it out. The fire is burning high when she walks up the porch and into the house.

  “Sit,” she says, taking up her sketchpad, glancing from the paper to Clay’s face.

  “What I was telling you before. Something I need to say. Need to. She left me, Clay. With different babysitters, her boyfriends, overnight sometimes. We would go places in their cars, I’d see them with their other girlfriends, men friends, pool tables and bars. One of them took me to the swimming pool one afternoon, which was fun. But on the way home he said I’d been bad. He stopped on a side road and made me get out. He spanked me with his rubber flip-flop. He said I had to be quiet. He said I had to make him happy or he would tell. I was nine.”

  Clay sits up straight. “Nine. Jesus. What was wrong?”

  “He gave me some quarters for the snack bar. I forgot to give him his change. Still had it, just forgot. I told him but he kept repeating I was a very bad girl.”

  “Cripes.” A heavy sick place tells him there’s more to this. Clay leans forward. Wants to get up and punch a hole in the wall. Knows she needs for him to listen.

  “He made me take him in my mouth. Beside the car. He held my head very tight. On the way home he told me how much he loved me, that he would do anything for me, that I was so special. I didn’t believe him. He said if I
ever told it would be worse than a spanking.”

  “How long did that go on?” Jaw rigid with anger.

  “It never happened again. The next time Mom left me with him, I ran to a babysitter’s house. I told her. I was so scared, Clay.” Tharcia turns the drawing pad, rapid shading strokes with the pencil. “When Mom came home she threw a fit because I wasn’t there. My girlfriend called and told her what happened. She ran the guy out of our house.”

  “Did she go to the cops?” Fists clenched so hard his nails bite, eyes intent on her face.

  “That was the crazy thing. She said I had to keep quiet. Said if I told she would get in trouble and maybe go to jail. She could lose her job and I’d get foster care.”

  “That doesn’t make any fucking sense!” He is shaking, holding it in.

  Her eyes on him steady. “I believed her. I went along with it. She would hardly talk to me, angry, saying nothing for weeks. I was so frightened, Clay. I thought I was a pervert. I was so goddam alone. I attached myself to my babysitter. A few years later we knew we loved each other. She was the first girl I slept with.”

  Tharcia turns to the drawing. “I’ve had to go through my whole life as this distortion,” she says in a whisper, “an ugly worthless perverted nothing with no value and no name. Unattractive to anyone, can’t face people sometimes. I miss my mom though in a way it’s good she died cuz I started getting my rage out on her. Lian told me something though. She’s not in hell.”

  Clay concentrates on his breathing. In. Out. He’s furious, knows this is not the time to let it fly. “You said a little.” Long exhale. “How did Lian explain it?”

  “We all go back to the same place, or maybe it’s a state of being. One Spirit, a single consciousness, according to Lylit. They say humans are evolving to see across time. Whales do already. Lylit says there’s a rising level of vibration that humans will hear. Then I came along and fucked everything with my stupid spell!”

  She brings the drawing pad and sits beside Clay, hides her face in his shoulder. “I am so sorry I got us into this. You. Me. Everyone.”

  “Maybe it’s only one of your dreams, Tharcia.”

  “If it is I never want to go to sleep again.”

  She holds up the drawing to show him. In the sketch he’s wearing jeans, stands bare-chested. His arms are out wide, like he’s inviting someone into a dance. His face is turned down to one side. Somehow, with only the side of his face visible, Tharcia has captured a loving radiance in his expression.

  “Thank you for the present,” she says.

  Clay gets up, wanting to shake off the moment. “Since we’re celebrating your birthday, we should have wine.” From the kitchen, he says, “Do you remember your last birthday party? The one we had here?”

  She laughs, accepts the glass of red. “That jam session here, only I didn’t clue you.”

  “Your place now.”

  “I invited myself. I wish for your sake I’d never come here.”

  “Grab a brain Tharcie. Look who’s feeling all sorry-self. My life would have been stone empty without you.”

  “Even the mistreater I have been?”

  “You had shit to work through. Shit is shitty. I’m glad you’re back.”

  “Yeh.”

  “That night was the first time you told me about abuse.”

  “But still I lied. Dr. Novack tried to pry it out of me. No fracking way.”

  Clay is watching the windows, full dark outside, orange glow through the trees. “There is something coming down. Is that soot from your fire?”

  When they open the door a scent of roses sweeps over them, overpowering sweetness warms their faces. It is not dark embers from the pile of burning clothes. From high above drift soft blades of deepest red. Tharcia walks out into the fall, air so thick with drifting petals her robe blends, if not for her white hair she would disappear. She gives a squeal of delight.

  “Roses Clay, come dance in the roses.” Twirling arms out head back to catch one in her mouth. The aroma so intoxicating. Clay holds his glass of red wine, swings himself around looking upward into the fall of petals. Tharcia twirls past, laughing, stops long enough to grip his wrist, drink deep of his wine. The fall of roses so dense they disappear from view, find each other from their laughter.

  “Did Lian tell you…”

  “About this? He said maybe lucid dreaming.”

  Clay drains the glass, throws it into the dark. The thing accelerates over the trees, first glowing then fiercely aflame, a meteor cutting skyward into black. Petals thick as autumn leaves upon the ground, their dancing feet leave furrows. Tharcia twirls past Clay, arms in the robe wide as wings, falls backward. Clay lurches to catch her but she lands softly in the springy mass.

  “Clay, the stars.” She’s on her back, perfectly hidden in the robe, face a faint glow against the dark.

  He looks up. How can we see stars when it’s raining rose petals? A scattering of colored stars across night sky, uneven outline of dark trees frames brilliant starscape. Gold, blue, amber, violet. The wind changes, clouds hurry in, the first warm raindrops. A damp smell and pitter-pat, it catches, then down it comes like hammers of hell. Clay pulls his sodden shirt over his head, lifts his face to falling petals. They land on his tongue and turn a salty sweetness. Tharcia has completely disappeared.

  “Clay,” she laughs from somewhere. “I can’t get up.”

  Clay’s head thrown back to catch drifting petals. Looks around in the pouring dark, raindrops run down his chest. “Where you at?”

  On the ground a dark form moves. She’s buried in dripping rose petals. He tries to lift her. The robe hangs leaden.

  “Can’t get up. Get it off!”

  Finds the hem and pulls it up her legs. Sweet-scented, she gets to her knees, laughing. The robe lifts above her head. It hits the ground with a weighted splat. Her arms reach up. Hands in her armpits, he lifts the wet girl. She gives a little jump, her legs enfold his waist. He walks them to the porch. Sits her bare rump on the porch rail. Hands clasping his neck she leans back, mouth open to reach for falling rose blades. White hair dripping rain. Petals land on her smooth arms, stomach, breasts. On her face they alight as glowing jewels, constellations of bluish radiance encircle her eyes, line her cheek bones. He finds a rose petal clinging to her shoulder, brings his tongue to it and gathers it in, sucking the sweet juice it makes. Sees another appear on her skin, drinks it down.

  Her face tilts up. Her features a jeweled pattern, red to electric blue. Bluish glow lights her aureole of white dripping hair, she regards him solemnly, not laughing anymore, her soft mouth a circle of surprise. Her skin on his, thighs clasp lightly his hips. The world stops. She cannot speak.

  She tries to say, you are eating my rose petals, but her words come out as, Clay, you are kissing me. He does not understand, drunk with rose petals turned salty liquor on her body. He smiles at her, tongue finds another petal, it belongs to him. They all do. As each one alights on her smooth flesh, he claims it, smiling gratitude in her eyes. Her body arches as he claims her nipple, so like the rose petal.

  “Clay.” On her face a tenderness of waiting. He has never before seen her naked this way, and never touching him skin to skin. Yes they share a home, yes he’s seen her walking the hallway in a towel, yes they shared a bed, in a way, when her room was a deep freeze. In a timeless breath their eyes hold.

  By her wrists he lifts her, presses her body to the post, breasts pulled taut. Thunder of rain in their ears, the drifting mist of rose-scent fills their nostrils.

  Her astonished face. “Clay. Are we…”

  By instinct their lips brush, eyes of stunned surprise. He pulls back. “Tharcia I’m…”

  “Hush,” she says, finding his mouth. Eyes close.

  And then it is instinct fear and rage, loneliness, a well of hunger, of waiting and unknown longing. With a hungry whimper she lifts her legs to grip him.

  A shadowy form materializes behind her, hunched shoulders and black wings.
Reaching clawed hands for the neck of the captive girl her hot breath coming faster into Clay’s open mouth. Melting together with her, Clay does not see, uncaring now as to why this is, wanting it. They both have, always.

  Unseen wicked claws reach toward her from the dark.

  A warning cry from high above. The dark form whirls toward the sound. A silent blur rushes in, a white owl, luminous wings outstretched behind. With unstoppable fury it hits the shadow, seizes and rips with muscled talons, wrenches the heavy burden into the dark. Cries of futile pain carry away on the wind. Silhouette against sky and gone.

  “My wrists,” she says, breath hot on his face. He releases, her arms come around his neck.

  Clasped in warm embrace, a single breath of sanity.

  “This is not a moment’s pleasure,” he says.

  “It wouldn’t be, for me.”

  “Or me.”

  “Your bed.”

  Mouth on hers, he carries her there.

  Hours deep in dark of night Tharcia dreams of whales, swims with them toward a ribbon of light. Clay sleeps peacefully. Her leg across him, she wakes, listens to his breathing come and go. Delicious surprise washes over her. Through the night they had awakened, noodle-limbed. Sweat running down half-conscious they had lunged at each other open-mouthed in ancient hunger. Unreal. So wrong. So perfectly right. But how is the world doing?

  Stands naked on the porch, night wind on her skin. Tries again to pull the whale knowledge to her. Over the hill, the gold of flames, distant muffled sounds. There are no sirens.