Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

  Brant opened his moist eyes. His heart hurt. His head hurt. And he almost wondered: was it all a dream? Did it really happen to me?

  Gracie was wise. She had known that in the course of time, all recollections fade from memory and tale, and find themselves inevitably on the shelves of oblivion—gone forever like a desert’s face in blowing sand. But the written mark lives and endures well beyond the age of man. It patiently sleeps, like hieroglyphs in an undiscovered cave. And when new eyes fall upon it, it awakens and spills its magnificent story.

  Yes! There had been an event! There was a record made ascribing to that event! And he, Brant Stephens, had left his script as a testimony to all that had taken place. This is how it had happened! Wasn’t it?

  Brant sensed his jaw tighten, his frustration build. “I don’t want to forget!” he suddenly cried out with clenched fists into a darkness that neither cared nor could reply. His booming exclamation echoed, expanded then died to silence.

  “But it reads for you now as it did then?” came a startling voice from out of the shadows. “How can you doubt?”

  Brant jumped from his ATV and whirled to face the source, unknown.

  “As an eternal friend who bends to your ear and whispers: do not forget, Brant Stephens. You were there!” The voice rolled across the black terrain, then stilled.

  Brant felt his heart explode in his chest! He went numb as confusion engulfed his senses. He blinked with eyes wide and unbelieving. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. There, directly in front of him, was the outline of a boy; a boy he had not seen for over twenty-five years!

  The teen stood brilliantly in the silhouette of a doorway that had simply materialized in midair. And then, right before his eyes, the rest of the attached transport appeared, and Brant knew it instantly.

  “The Sandray!” he gasped. How could he forget that he, himself, had once been a passenger in the sleek little hover-craft. The Sandray shimmered in the moonlight. Her curvy surfaces as radiant as when Brant had last laid eyes upon her.

  The boy quickly descended the steps until he stood firmly on the ground.

  “Jacob!” Brant choked in broken gulps. “Is it really you!”

  The teen’s face beamed. He ran toward his old friend and threw his arms so tightly around Brant’s waist that the two of them nearly tumbled to the ground. It took a few moments for Brant to rebound, for his senses to catch up with the shock of the moment. But as the adrenaline gradually subdued, he let his arms fall around the small figure.

  Jacob’s hair was just as it had always been, the large cowlick still poking up right at the base.

  Brant let his chin fall gently into it, and they both wept for a silent moment.

  When Jacob finally pulled back, and had rubbed at his damp eyes, he stared up at his friend with a scanning, cheerful regard. “You got old, Brant!” he said. Then laughed pleasantly, like he used to do, clear from his toes. “And your hair is going gray!”

  Brant grinned and let go a last sniffle. “And you look exactly the same. You haven’t changed one bit!”

  “Indeed. It is true. It seems the Nazi geneticists were very thorough with me.” The boy’s eyes moved on, and swept over Brant’s features as if rebuilding upon an old memory; and he glowed with the elation of days long since passed. “I have been here for a time, watching you. I had to be certain that you were not followed. They monitored this area for so long after—”

  “Yes, I know,” Brant put in, taking another cautious glance out and around the darkness. “They followed us as well, Teresa and I, everywhere we went, for years. They did the same with Jessie and Sam. Sometimes I feel that we are still being watched.”

  “You must always be vigilant, dear friend.”

  “Yes,” Brant nodded. “And we are.”

  “And how is Teresa?” the boy asked, his intonation as clear and precise as a literary scholar.

  “She’s fine. We are both good. Older, but good,” Brant smiled.

  Jacob absorbed every word, seemingly embroiled with anticipation.

  The two bandied questions back and forth with the exhilaration of a tennis match. Brant could hardly answer the kid’s queries fast enough. But then a question came which was void of the enthusiastic tenor of those which had preceded it. And when Jacob asked it, his words were biased with nostalgia, and a sense of loss: “. . . and the kids? How,”—he stumbled on the words—“how is Jessie?”

  Brant hesitated a moment. The boy’s expression held such yearning that he had to pause, and contemplate the right words before answering. “Jessie is happy, Jake. She’s all grown up and has a family of her own now. So does Sam.”

  “So does Sam . . .” Jacob parroted, as though in a trance. Then his eyebrows rose, delightfully. “Ah,” he sighed, blinking back the glistening pools. He swallowed, and his voice returned to its normal tone. “I am so very happy to hear this.”

  “And you?” Brant redirected the conversation. “How are you and the rest of the team?”

  “We are all very well, and occupied,” Jacob replied, matter-of-factly. “Ruthanne continues to make incredible advancements on her artificial intelligence algorithms. In fact, she just completed a test, one which would reveal the aptitudes of her latest series of androids. It nearly destroyed the rest of us, but she was thrilled with the results . . . talk about one-sided,” he frowned.

  “What on earth did she do?” chuckled Brant.

  Jacob snorted. “She had the idea of teaching the Delta-7’s to sing. Can you imagine!” he whooped. “Of course Eli said she could not achieve it, which only made her more determined. We had to endure a week of Ruthann’s Delta-7 choir practice—hours of it!” the boy continued with a scowl. “And to be honest, Brant, it was truly unbearable. But you know, she did it! An entire verse of If I Only Had A Brain. The Delta-7’s harmonization had minimal frequency deviation. Admittedly, an impressive start for her new prototype. Do you not agree?”

  Brant threw his head back and roared hysterically. “Oh yes! Dear Ruthanne!”

  Jacob joined in the laughter.

  “And how are the twins, Eli and Ellen?” Brant asked, finishing up a last hoot.

  “They are also very well. They continue to have their sibling squabbles now-and-then—no surprises there,” Jacob winked. “But other than that small foible, they are exceptional. Eli keeps all of the equipment in excellent working order and monitors the HOPE orbiters most dutifully. He has also made modifications in the joint structures of the SR-17s, which would astound you, Brant.”

  “I can only imagine,” Brant replied, remembering Eli’s meticulous attention to detail. The mechanical genius never settled for anything less than perfection. “And Ellen? What is she up to?”

  “Oh, I could talk for hours about her accomplishments,” Jacob rhapsodized. “She has developed an entire class of new elements, which are so very esoteric and truly marvelous! And her work on the angiosperm genus . . . you would be amazed at her newest genotype: a variety of flora that blooms a different color every day, and by night, fills the darkness with vivid iridescence. They are spectacular!”

  Jacob prattled on until he finally took in air, and Brant had to laugh recalling how the boy used to carry on so relentlessly that at times he almost turned blue. But Jacob had obviously saved the best report for last, because now as he grasped hold of Brant’s arm and leveled an intense gaze upon the man, he nearly bubbled over. “But her pinnacle achievement,” he continued excitedly, “has been in the replication of a new DNA sequence. A protein augmentation which promises an optimistic outlook. It is hoped that the new strain will eventually repair the Nazi alterations made to my own genome.” He hesitated, as though to contain his enthusiasm. “Do you understand the significance of this, Brant?” he questioned, eyes brimming. “It means that one day soon, my own body might adapt and assimilate to Ellen’s DNA transformations.” He blinked wide. “Brant. I will age in the natural progression of time, as was meant. I can finally grow and mat
ure to manhood, and with a little luck, get gray hair and wrinkles, just like you!” he teased, pointing to Brant’s own flecks of salt-and-pepper subtleties. Then the boy steadied, and his eyes revealed a distant optimism, even a yearning. “It means I can die one day as an old man,” he whispered almost unknowingly. “You cannot understand what that means.” His voiced broke off.

  An awkward silence settled in. The longing expression on Jacob’s face was humbling, and the perception of it all touched Brant deeply.

  “You’re right,” Brant finally managed. “I can’t imagine it, Jacob. But I am so happy for you. And I pray it will come to pass someday. I really do.” He patted his friend gently on the shoulder. “And hey. If anyone can pull it off, Ellen can,” he added confidently.

  “Yes,” replied Jacob, blinking himself back from the reverie. He smiled, then started right up again into chatter mode, detailing the highlights of Ellen’s research.

  But now, as Brant listened, responding with smiles, nods and other attentive emotions, he tried to picture Jacob as a grown man. Strangely, it just didn’t seem possible. Admittedly, the boy’s astonishing revelation had come with a mixture of bitter-sweet. The truth was that Brant had always envisioned his small friend as immortal, and somehow . . . well, indestructible. After all that they had been through, it was easy to believe. Jacob an adult? Jacob an old man? But how? The boy icon was a magical mixture of prodigious genius and Peter Pan.

  Brant remained in his thoughts until quite suddenly he realized that his friend’s jabbering had ceased. And when Jacob spoke again, his tone was dignified and proud: “But you know, Brant. Of all which we have accomplished since going into hiding, nothing can compare to our HOPE. She was our zenith-pride.”

  Brant caught the gravity behind those intelligent eyes. “But she is still waiting to fulfill her purpose, Jacob. Don’t lose faith! HOPE is there! She eagerly awaits her time,” he countered, gesturing up at the sparkling stars above.

  Jacob’s head drew down and he expelled a weighted breath. “Brant. Her time is now. There must be a successful second attempt.”

  Brant felt his stomach tighten and his brow furrowed. His deep-set eyes narrowed around wrinkled edges, and he spoke without hesitation. “What do you mean?”

  “As you must have assumed,” the boy expounded, “we have continued in the tracking and monitoring of all global technology, particularly that of weaponry. We, after all, hold a vested responsibility for the most vile of it.” His demeanor exposed a distant, tormenting plague. “It appears that our negotiated armistice has failed. Those within this government, and others, have abnegated their accountability to humankind. They have chosen corruption, greed and dominion, as we knew they would. Things are changing quickly now. If the world is to survive the nuclear onslaught which approaches, HOPE must be reactivated, and soon. This time there will be no politics, no compromises, treaties or arrangements. She will be awakened; she will succeed. She must.”

  “But Jacob,” choked Brant. “How? Sandcastle is gone, all but a memory.”

  “Gone?” The boy’s thick brows rose inquisitively. “Oh no, dear friend.” He shook his head and smiled adamantly. “Those we loved so dearly are lost, this is true. Martyrs to the cause of HOPE. But the essence of Sandcastle, her secrets and purpose, was preserved. Do not forget what survived. Thanks to you, all that Sandcastle was, will be again.”

  “I don’t understand?” spoke Brant, feeling a throb growing deep inside his gut. Was it apprehension, or was it fear? Fear of venturing into dangerous days long passed. “Jacob. I know I took an oath. And by my life or death, I will see it through. But I am an older man. I don’t have the strength I once had . . . and Teresa? She can’t stand with me again. It is too much to ask of her.”

  The teen’s expression filled with a gentle ease, and he shook his head the way he always did just before trying to make a subtle point. “Of course not, my unsettled friend. We would never ask what we once did. We have spent these many years in preparation for this second intervention. HOPE stands ready, make no mistake. This task, although equally important, is one we know you can safely provide.”

  Brant lifted a humbled head, and nodded. “Whatever the Four ask, Jacob. Mine is the testament bound with their own. Forgive me . . . I almost forgot.”

  The boy reached up and gently touched his old friend’s frost-burnt face. “I thought you might need some encouraging,” he added with an wily grin. “I brought you something . . . to help you remember. In fact, I was just reading from it myself while waiting for you to arrive. It is an excerpt. An entry written many years ago,” he continued. And with a firm nod, he pulled a tattered book from a concealed pocket.

  Brant gasped and stammered back. “The Five’s journal! From the sealed case of the archives!” he cried out in stunned surprise.

  “Yes. The very same.”

  “But Jacob! The risk! I—”

  “The task merits the risk,” Jacob instructed solemnly. He held out the book. “Take it, Brant. It is time to be placed in your care.”

  “No! No, I can’t!”

  “Please, my friend. We wish it to pass to you now. One day it will be all that remains of us; of who we were and of what transpired because we lived. It will come as a reckoning, a historical chronicle into the understanding of the technological advancements hastily brought upon our world.”

  Brant stared, swallowed, then stared again. “No,” he shook his head. “I’m . . . I’m afraid of it, Jake.”

  “Afraid? It is but a written record?”

  “I know,” Brant replied, turning away. “But I fear the accountability. Its pages contain pure knowledge.”

  “Yes. Yes they do.” Jacob replied, then puzzled. “You would fear knowledge?”

  “No, my friend. I fear those who might use such knowledge greedily.”

  “Ah,” Jacob nodded, as if just catching Brant’s distress. “Then I suggest you keep it safe.” He smiled and held out the book once more.

  “Very well,” Brant expelled a beaten breath, and extended a trembling hand.

  The boy placed the faded volume in his hands. And for a second time, Brant felt the weight of this adulated object—one beyond the value of all the wealth on earth. He clasped firmly around its thick exterior skin. “I will guard it as long as I live.”

  Jacob eased. “I know you will.”

  A moment of silence edged in as Jacob seemed to pause in contemplation. He gazed pleasantly around him, his confident eyes flashing with determination. “I have forgotten how cold it gets out here in the winter months; and how beautiful the stars are on these frigid nights.” He craned his head upward, as if to identify some spot in the celestial map. “The HOPE satellites are sleeping now, stealth and silent. Awakening them will be the easy part.” Then his eyes came downward, their gaze landing solidly upon Brant. “But remember this, my friend. HOPE can save humankind, and set them on a path to peace, as was meant. But she can also destroy and enslave them. There are those who still seek her for the latter, for dominion and power. You know of whom I speak.”

  Brant’s jaw went taut, and his eyes narrowed fatefully. “The one who betrayed us. Betrayed her.”

  “Yes. He, and others.”

  “They still seek HOPE after all these years?”

  “Nations,” the boy hung on the word, “seek HOPE, Brant.”

  Brant didn’t reply. His voice wouldn’t come with his throat so tight.

  “The case, with all its vital contents, was presumed lost along with Sandcastle,” Jacob continued. “No one knows it survived. We have waited all these years as confirmation of that. It is safe in our care. Only the journal, because Gracie wished it, was meant to come to you.”

  Brant went to speak but gulped so loudly in the middle of his word that he sounded like a sick toad.

  Jacob laughed and the tension of the moment was drowned out by the jovial exchange between them.

  “So what’s the next step, Jake?”

  Jacob didn’t answe
r right away. He pondered a moment, then replied with surprising directness. “You’ll find new entries within the encrypted sections of the journal.”

  Brant nodded. “Very good, then.” He turned and opened a keyed storage compartment on his ATV. He shuffled aside a pack and blanket.

  “Wait Brant,” put in Jacob, resting hand on the man’s shoulder. “Before you conceal the journal, may I make a request?”

  “Anything, Jake.”

  “Before you return, I was hoping you might read a bit from the journal.”

  “Now? Right here?”

  “It is important to me,” Jacob explained. “Open the book with care, my friend. The cover has seen many years, and its leaves are frail and weary.”

  “Yet they bear so much,” Brant whispered.

  “Yes,” the boy smiled wistfully. “On page 522 you will find an entry. It was made long ago by a much younger Brant Stephens. I wish you to read again, as I have just done, and solidify all that once was. Let the inscribed words rebuild what time has clouded within your mind and soul,” he instructed firmly, “that you may never again question the events of your past. There was a place called Sandcastle, and within its walls were people who loved and were loved; and because of these, someday, when children read of a dark time in their history—a time when all the earth teetered on the edge of annihilation—they will learn of an unexplained phenomenon which forced the hand of peace, and brought hope back from oblivion.” Then he took Brant’s hand in his two. “Good bye, my friend.” And he gave the chilled hand a warm squeeze.

  Brant watched as the boy stepped up toward the Sandray’s entrance. But as he did, something stirred in the background of the lighted archway, and Brant’s eyes instantly drew to it.