Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

  As Brant pondered on these and many other questions, all of which had been spawned from the events of his unusual day, a sudden wave of panic rippled through him. Where had he put Teresa’s phone number? She had handed it to him on a small piece of paper through the car window, just before he left?

  Brant sat immediately up and slid from his cot. “My pants pocket,” he mumbled. That’s where he remembered shoving it.

  He fumbled for his battery-powered light. He felt his keys, wallet, a stack of empty cups , but no light. He moaned, thought, then opted to shamble through the darkness rather than waiting until morning. He felt for the stack of dirty clothes building up like a large ant hill in the corner of the tent—it wasn’t hard to find. He soon found the dusty pair of pants and commenced a rummaging through the pockets. The first thing he felt was something unexpected, and nearly forgotten: Sam’s strange rock. Brant pulled it out of the pocket and set it down on the table. He had wanted to examine the stone in more detail anyway, and had only given it a superficial glance before dropping it in his pants pocket earlier that day. Brant hurriedly moved to the other pocket and shoved in his hand. A rush of relief burst through him as his fingers gasped the small, folded piece of paper. He pulled it out and eyed it in the shadows.

  A sudden flash of lightning clapped close by, momentary illuminating the paper’s face. Yes, he confirmed by the flash, it was definitely Teresa’s number. He sighed in relief. Now he could try and get some sleep. Another flash followed and then, as predicted, the rain suddenly began to fall—in sheets. The top of Brant’s tent quickly came alive with a pounding roar. Soon, water was cascading down from off the top of the tent in small streams.

  Brant hurried back to his cot, felt for his wallet and carefully placed the slip of paper in between two bills. He slid back into his sleeping bag and laid there for a time just listening to the pounding rain. He loved it when it rained hard in the desert. It was a rare performance, indeed. The wet sagebrush gave off the most enticing scent, and the driving rain battered the soft red sandstone, cutting it away in a sandblasting frenzy. Soon, the parched land would be transformed into a flowing soup the color of a rusty blood. The nearby slit canyons, gullies and ravines would fill beyond capacity, releasing a hammerhead of sand-saturated water at whatever lay downstream: many a desert creature would drown and be washed away this night.

  Another lightning bolt suddenly hit nearby. It shook the tent and caused Brant to jump. “I don’t like that part of the rain,” he mumbled. “That was close!” He eased back down on his cot. But before he closed his eyes, he became aware that something wasn’t quite right. The blinding light from the strike had come and gone in milliseconds, yet there continued to be shadows dancing all around him, and shadows meant light! Brant slowly turned his head toward the table.

  Every hair on his body suddenly stood on end. He froze so absolutely that he wondered how his lungs could still pull in air. He blinked once, twice, three times . . . yes, it was still there.

  Brant forced himself upright. Was this another illusion? What was happening to him out in this desert? But no. This was not an illusion—not some chimera formed of swirling dust and wind. This was a clear and defined object.

  There in front of him, Sam’s smooth, round rock—the very one he had just pulled from his pocket—was now hovering in midair, nearly a foot above the table’s surface, its center pulsing with a bluish illumination as it spun effortlessly about its axis.

  It took several long moments, but Brant somehow found his legs. He stood, but didn’t dare approach the stone right away. Instead, he opted wisely, to validate what his senses were telling him . . . from a distance. As he glared, dumbfounded and heart racing, he noticed that the intensity of the stone’s illumination was fading. And, as if in some synchronous attachment, so was its ability to remain hovering, as now the pulsating stone had descended nearly to the table’s surface.

  A loud clank suddenly echoed in the darkness as the stone struck the table.

  Brant jumped. He could no longer see the stone, but he could hear it. It spun chillingly in the darkness on the table, like a top, before rolling to silence, as though drained of all energy.

  Now, amid the sound of falling rain, Brant Stephens had to question his sanity. He took a long, deep breath, swallowed, and forced his shaking legs to move. But it was a short step.

  Another electrical strike hit close by, exploding in the darkness. Brant winced first from the intense light shooting in though openings, seems and cracks; then he lurched at the deafening clash of thunder which immediately followed. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, he once again found himself gazing thunderstruck—literally—at a hovering, luminous stone spinning above the table about its axis as though a tiny planet.

  Brant sat back down on his cot. This time, however, instead of being overcome with doubt, uncertainty and fear, he found himself curiously calm, with a perceptive grin creased across his face.

  “What are you up to in your castle, Gracie Reitman,” he muttered, then turned on the generator, the lights, and stood to get his recording equipment.

  Chapter 41:

  Jacob eyed the long-range display. “Yup. It’s official. We are going to have an eighty-eight percent probability of lightning strikes and, more than likely some good hard rain. If we were still using the collection grids, this storm would be a fortuitous stroke of luck.”

  “I’m glad we’re not,” Eli put in. “The collectors were fickle and always made me a bit nervous. Besides, since the completion and delivery of the satellites, we’ve barely tapped the reactor’s resources.”

  “True,” recalled Jacob. “But I always loved watching the process; the magnificence and power in each discharge . . . so much energy, and all of it was free.”

  “The capacitance storage system weren’t free. It took us nearly a year to get the containers balanced right. We must have blown up fifty of them.”

  “Fifty-six, actually,” corrected Jacob. “But what a boom, huh?”

  Eli chuckled. “Yeah. That was kind of cool.” He glanced at his watch. “Whoa. It’s 1:46 A.M. We better get going, Jake,” he advised, tapping a few more buttons on the panel. “We don’t want to be late.”

  Jacob quickly made a final sweep of the displays. All of the data looked good. “Okay. The external systems are on level three. All sensors, cameras and defense systems are aligned accordingly. I’ve also tasked an addition sentry detachment near Hub Central, just to put Gracie’s mind at ease. We are effectively, a contained bubble.”

  “Excellent. How about inside the perimeter?”

  Jacob mused for a moment. “I don’t see the need to augment any additional security measures on the grounds. Gracie and the girls sometimes take an informal stroll through the courtyard and around the solarium after her late night meetings. Do you have concerns?”

  “No,” Eli settled. “You’re right. We should be fine. Let’s go then.”

  They headed a short distance down the large, well-lit hallway, then made a dogleg turn and into one of the many transportation hubs located throughout the complex. There, a courier pod sat ready, its curvy oval door open and ready for admittance.

  “The solarium is going to be spectacular tonight,” Jacob said anxiously. “Gracie has been especially attentive to Ellen’s iridescent class of flora this summer.”

  “Attentive?” Eli snorted. “She broods over those plants like a mother hen!”

  Jacob laughed. “Well, she’ll certainly enjoy watching the effects of her hard work tonight. The lightning should cause quite a show.”

  “Ah,” said Eli. “So that’s why she wants to meet in the solarium—she must have kept an eye on the weather forecast. Well good enough. Perhaps there’s a reason to be encouraged about this meeting after all.”

  Jacob smiled. “Perhaps.”

  —

  Unlike the twin stone which Sam had given Brant, his rock was safely tucked away in a keep-sake drawer, keeping all of t
he storm’s energizing light away. For now, Sam’s unique round treasure would remain dormant, and asleep. Yet, at that very moment, something did awaken the boy, with nearly as much anxiety.

  Sam sat quickly up, feeling a sudden sensation of detachment, a chill of unfamiliarity, and his adrenaline began to release its anxious chemical into the boy’s blood. But soon, as his nightlight cast a pleasant warmth around the room, Sam realized that he was safe, and that he must have just had a bad dream. He breathed deep, relaxed and felt his heart rate slow. He’d be back to sleep in no time. But then, just as he settled-in to a comfortable position, a distant wash of light filled him room, and he instantly knew what had awakened him. “Lightning,” he whispered. “There must be a storm coming.” Sam mentally counted off the seconds until the boom found his ears: the storm was still miles away.

  Sam didn’t mind the lightning, at least from a distance. He loved to watch it stretch and branch across the sky, filling the darkness with thousands of brilliant fingers. What he didn’t like was the loud crash it made when it was too close!

  Curiosity finally rolled him back onto his side where he could see the large glass doors leading out to the balcony. The blinds were open and he could just catch the tops of the small trees and shrubbery dancing gracefully in a friendly breeze. Then, just as he was watching, another bolt careened across the sky. It was a fantastic, vast display which expanded and lit the entire west skyline!

  Wow! he imbued, his eyes wide and now quite void of sleep. Sam’s balcony faced west. What a perfect place to view the storm, and especially the lightning! he considered, his anticipation rising with each approaching flash. It took only moments for the enthusiasm to coax him from the warmth and sanctuary of his comfortable bed. He slid out, stretched his arms, rubbed his eyes then walked briskly toward the balcony entrance. He unlatched the heavy, double-glass doors and quietly stepped out. The fragrant, cool air splashed him gently in the face. It was perfect! As bracing and fresh as a spring shower, and ripe with the scent of rain!

  Sam pulled up a chair and positioned it right up next to the front balusters. He sat back and put his feet up. This is going to be great! And it was! In no time the sky was in full performance. With each new explosion of electrical energy, Sam made an ooh! and an aah! He was completely embroiled in his own private show when something else, even better than the lightning display, caught his eye like a mirror in sunlight.

  It was a moth! But not just any ordinary obnoxious nighttime moth. No, no. This one was the largest, most delicate, wonderful creature Sam had ever seen! It fluttered up from below like a lonely feather on a wisp of updraft, then glided on giant, silky-white wings before touching down on a section of banister just feet from where he sat. There it rested, as if in some tantalizing regard to the boy, slowly opening and closing its extraordinary wings.

  Sam had never seen such an incredible insect in his entire life! Its wings had to expand at least five inches form tip-to-tip. The moth’s body was long thick and covered in a kind of soft cilia which moved like fine hair in the breeze. Sam became so excited he could hardly breathe. His butterfly net—although just poorly repaired with safety pins—might just hold together long enough to catch this amazing specimen—at least he hoped it would. But the net was just inside his room, and if he moved, the moth might take flight. It was a darn dilemma!

  Sam was in this miserable attitude of self-negotiation when another blinding flash exploded across the sky. This one was nearly overhead, and close. Very, very close. Every surface around him momentarily became ablaze in white flame.

  For a fleeting instant, Sam was blind, that was expected. But the loud boom that followed nearly ripped the boy right out of his skin and shook him to the bone! He nearly leaped from his chair. He gulped, assessed the event, then realized he was fine and settled himself down while his eyes refocused. He just knew that his fantastic winged quarry would be gone, frightened away by the loud clap of thunder. But it was not! As he turned and refocused on the shadowed objects surrounding him, he suddenly gasped in astonishment and froze, his heart pounding adrenaline through his body like a fire hose! There, resting happily on the banister, was his moth—or at least what appeared to be his moth prior to the lightning strike. Appeared to be, because there was one profound change! Sam’s nocturnal guest was now aglow in some kind of burning radiance, an intense blue shimmer of light! It was the most beautiful thing the boy had ever seen! Sam just stood there in awe, still unsure of what his eyes were telling him. The magnificent insect sat pulsing its wings up and down in a gentle cadence, revealing an intricate web of tiny arteries pumping a strange, glowing liquid throughout its delicate extensions. Then, in that instant, Sam suddenly realized: he had to have that moth! He just had to! No one would believe him otherwise. He eased back with the stealth of a cat before the pounce, his eyes locked so intently on the winged-prize that he had to reach behind himself to traverse the furniture in order maneuver back inside his room. He had just reached for the handle of his door, feeling quite satisfied of his cunning withdrawal, when the unthinkable happened: the moth took flight.

  “No! No! No!” he stammered, and plunged toward it. But the radiant winged glider had already caught the breeze and was drifting, like an angel, downward. Sam leaned hard over his banister, watching as his treasure floated down, down and lit on a flowering bush which lined the walkway in the yard below. His stomach ached with defeat, and he felt the hated lump forming in his throat. He could see the moth now, clearly in the darkness, like a beacon on a black sea, flapping its wings in the same slow, rhythmic beat . . . and he wondered: could he still catch his prize?

  Now the boy’s mind began to run amuck with scenarios. But he had to think fast. He knew the rules. There was no way to get outside on the grounds without the alarms sounding. Gracie had made things very clear that first day they had arrived. To exit the house at night, was a breach of one of her cardinal rules, she had called it. One of a very few which would merit his, and his sister’s, immediate departure from Sandcastle, and back into the custody of the state’s DCFS. That was a risk he simply could not take, even for such a gem as this.

  Sam fell back into his chair and felt like he had been kicked in the gut. He continued his visual lock on the moth below, but found that it was becoming more difficult to see. It seemed that the amazing illumination was fading away. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to see the insect at all.

  For several tormenting minutes he watched it, and as each passed, the winged treasure became more and more indistinct. Then, in one sad blink, Sam lost it among the other dark shadows; his glowing prize was gone forever. He felt sick, mostly because he knew no one would ever believe him. He had loved bugs his entire life. He had read about them, studied them, and craved catching them.

  Sam knew that there were other insects that glowed in the darkness, mostly a type of beetle called, fireflies, or lightning bugs. But these were ordinary, common nocturnal insects, and paled in every way to his winged splendor.

  “It was probably the first of its kind. And I could have been its discoverer,” he mumbled sadly through frowning lips.

  He took one more long scan of the yard below. There was nothing. Just shadowy shades and splotchy stripes of illumination from the outside lighting. He turned glumly to head back into his room, his enthusiasm for the storm, the lightning . . . everything, now fizzled. As he turned the handle of his door, more lightning suddenly danced across the sky. This one, like the last, was nearly overhead, but remained high above in the clouds, dissipating its energy in millions of tiny strings of light rather than one enormous bolt.

  As Sam pulled open the door, he looked into the glass. He could see, not only a rather ridiculous reflection of himself standing in pajamas, but also the storm spitting and sputtering its energy from the approach west. He opened his door all the way now, the angle of the glass sweeping a very different reflected area just behind him. Something bright suddenly leaped out at him. It was the moth!

  Sam wheeled i
n an instant, his heart jumping with renewed hope. Sure enough! There was his winged temptress, fully aglow and fluttering delicately just off his balcony! He rushed to the banister to watch it. The moth seemed to know it had an audience and was on display. It performed with precision, dancing on the air, teasing its young fan as it swirled, dipped and then floated away, again. The winged acrobat spun effortlessly down and once again, landed on a nearby bush.

  Sam sighed a miserable, “hmm.” He might as well go back inside. There was simply no way he was ever going to catch that sly critter. He took a final last gaze at what he knew would be nothing more than an incredible memory by morning—he would never be able to recount this tale with anyone. Without proof, it would simply be fuel for a good laugh and a mocking response.

  For the second time, Sam’s head went drearily down as he headed inside—dejected, depressed and very disappointed. As he shuffled, he ran his hand along the smooth marble surface of his banister. All of a sudden, his finger rammed—rather painfully—against something attached. He jerked his hand back and stopped to eye what it was. Ah yes! he remembered. The fire escape . . . or at least the switch to extend it. It took only seconds for his mind to conceive, connive and convince. Sam’s finger had jammed against the cover for an electrical switch. A switch which drove a small motor. A motor capable of lowering an emergency exit ladder, folded up and concealed in the underbelly of the balcony. It was only to be used as a fire escape. Every balcony attached to the estate had one, including his sister’s. Gracie had shown each of them their corresponding switch and how to use it. She had said, you’ll never need to use this ladder, I’m sure. But in the unlikely event of a fire, and you are unable to exit through the hallway, this will get you safely down from your rooms.