Unfurl (The Ripple Trilogy)

by Cidney Swanson

  Immediately, I sank back into the chair by the window. “Sir Walter, Mick wants to pick something up at the store. Would you mind going and translating for her? I was hoping to catch up on my reading here.” I waved my copy of Chanson de Roland.

  Our grey–haired friend smiled at me. “But of course. I should be glad of the fresh air, having spent the entire morning apart from my flesh. Mademoiselle?” He opened the door, gallantly indicating with a raised arm that she precede him.

  She shot me a sad glance and sighed. Then she left with Sir Walter.

  I returned to staring out the window, thinking about Sam.

  Mickie re–opened the door and stuck her head in. “You’d better not be sitting there like that when I get back.” The door slammed shut.

  Sometime later, my stomach growled at me, a rendition of feed me now. It had probably been a couple hours since lunch. Hard to say, though, since I didn’t have a cell on me anymore. “Too dangerous, too easy to trace,” according to Sir Walter.

  The door of our Parisian apartment flew open. Mickie laughed at something Sir Walter had said. I loved how he could put her in a better mood. Well, when she wasn’t arguing with him.

  I grabbed Chanson de Roland and pretended to read.

  “I knew it!” shouted my sister. “Don’t bother with the pretending. You’ve been staring out the window the past two hours, haven’t you?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “Well, those days are over, Mister.”

  Her boots clomped across the shiny wood floor. She pulled something blue out of a bag and thumped it in front of me, grinning.

  “Another book?” I asked.

  “No, idiot–boy. It’s blank.” She crossed her arms as if in triumph.

  “You bought us a blank book?”

  She shook her head and sighed. “Brain–damaged. That’s the only explanation. I bought you a blank book so you can write down all your depressing thoughts instead of thinking the same thing over and over.” She mussed my hair and reached into her bag, pulling out a stupid–looking pen that was maybe supposed to be a quill. “Look! I found you an authentic feather pen!” She smiled, clearly delighted with herself.

  I handed the pen back to her. “It’s just a ball–point pen glued to a feather, Mick.”

  Her face fell. “I thought you’d like it. It’s historical.”

  A tsunami of guilt washed over me. “It’s … amazing. The whole idea is … brilliant, Mick. Really.”

  A tiny smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “You’ll use it?”

  “Of course I will,” I promised. “There’s a fine tradition of chameleons keeping journals. I should have thought of it myself.”

  She frowned. “Oh. Yuck. I didn’t think of Helmann and his journals.”

  The tsunami struck again, with double force. “Hey, I was joking. You’re the best sister ever. This is exactly what I need to stop staring at the sky all day.” Which was a total lie. What I needed was Sam.

  Something in my guts knotted at the thought of her name. I ignored it. Shoved it down to my toes. “I’ll use it every day. Promise.”

  Idiot, said a voice inside.

  But my sister smiled and hugged me, and the waters of guilt receded.

  Sir Walter had busied himself perusing Chanson de Roland. He turned a page, the expression on his face one of intense interest.

  “So what’s on the menu today?” asked Mickie.

  “Hummus, I think. And perhaps falafel,” said Sir Walter, tapping the cover of Chanson de Roland. “I’m feeling inspired by this tale of valorous Arabs.”

  “I didn’t mean literally,” said Mick. “I just meant, like, what are we going to do today to make Helmann’s life more difficult than it was yesterday?”

  Sir Walter did his little thing of ignoring an immediate question in favor of moving ahead with his own agenda. “Do you know, if not for Monsieur Roland, we would all perhaps dine daily upon such delicacies of the Middle East.”

  Mick covered her eyes with one hand and murmured, “Here–we–go–again–with–the–history.”

  “Will,” said Sir Walter. “I believe you need exercise.”

  Mick dropped her hand from her eyes and flicked a glance my way. “Badly.”

  “We shall set forth in search of dinner: a dinner in honor of the Mohammedans who fought the noble chevalier Roland,” said Sir Walter.

  “I think I’ll just nap on the couch ‘til you get back,” said Mickie.

  I winked at her—she wasn’t up for a walk with me and Sir Walter discussing the finer points of a battle fought nine centuries ago.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  We stepped out and down a set of stairs. Outside, the weather threatened rain, but couldn’t quite work itself up to it. Instead, it felt like the sky was spitting on us.

  “We shall need to leave the elegance of Paris’ eighth arrondissement to find hummus worth eating,” said Sir Walter. Our French friend had set us up in some really sweet digs.

  “So where do you get good hummus?” I asked, heading automatically for the Métro.

  “We journey to the banlieues today. To Clichy–sous–Bois which is not reachable by Métro or RER train.” Sir Walter held out an arm to stop me from taking the stairs to the subway. “And considering we have promised your sister an evening meal, I believe we should travel more swiftly than would be possible by city transportation.”

  Sir Walter veered us into an alley that led into a windowless courtyard. He extended a hand so we could keep track of each other while we rippled. “To be honest, young Will, I seek more than just hummus. And it lies within the troubled ville we visit today.”

  As we prepared to ripple, I eyed Sir Walter out of the corner of my peripheral vision.

  “Will?” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You are standing in a pose that puts me in mind of one who prepares for a race.”

  I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks. I’d been doing this little tally with me and Sir Walter. Who could ripple fastest. He always won.

  “Yeah, okay. Maybe I’m racing you,” I said.

  “Are you indeed? And to what end?”

  I tapped my shoe along a crack in the cement. “Something’s been bugging me. Ever since a couple weeks ago when you dodged Helga’s bullet. You know, in the cave? And I didn’t.” I had the scar to prove her bullet had been faster than me. “So I’ve been trying to speed up. I mean, I was always way faster than Sam, but you make me look like I’m standing still.”

  “I see,” said my bearded friend.

  “I should have been able to grab her when those dudes showed up at the Well of Juno with guns. But I was freaked that a speeding bullet would beat me. Which it did. And it bugs the crap out of me.”

  Sir Walter nodded solemnly.

  “And I noticed you sent your son Chrétien to protect Sam, so I’m guessing he’s like some speed–demon, too, or you would have let me go, right?”

  “Your sister would not have consented to your leaving,” interrupted Sir Walter. “Nor would you have hurt her by leaving without her consent.”

  “Hmmph.” I knew he was right, and it totally irked me that I cared so much about Mick. Right then, I missed Sam so much it hurt to breathe. “You didn’t answer my question. Is speed the reason you sent Chrétien and not me?”

  “Of course not,” said Sir Walter. “You are foolish to frustrate yourself with these comparisons.”

  I dropped my eyes and my voice. “I should have saved her. I should have been able to and I couldn’t.”

  Sir Walter pulled his hand from mine and placed it instead upon my shoulder. “My dear young man, you are not the only one who failed to carry Sam to safety at that moment. Hear me when I say this: I judged it too close to call, whether or not I could reach her—and safety—prior to one of us being shot. My dear Will, I chose to stand my ground just as you did. Do not doubt your choice.

  “In truth, Will, you are very nearly as fast as either Chrétien or myself. And perhaps, if y
ou apply yourself, you can match our ability in changing form swiftly.”

  He gave me two pointers on getting away fast: don’t hold any tension in your body and imagine you’re an arrow in flight. The arrow thing just messed me up worse. But the suggestion to relax was useful. I imagined tension as something pouring out of my body, and twice, I beat Sir Walter.

  “And now, my swift young friend,” said Sir Walter, “I believe your sister awaits her dinner.”

  My stomach gurgled like a broken garbage–disposal. “She’s not alone,” I said as we grasped arms and rippled.

  I beat him that time.

  Sir Walter pretty much knew Paris like I knew the layout of Las Abs High. Locker over here, track that way, Mr. Polwen’s six–period biology over there. So the old guy just zoomed through town with me in tow getting us to Clichy–sous–Bois. I won’t lie, it wasn’t as pretty as the part of town he kept an apartment in. Maybe it used to look better. Or maybe not. I mean, the buildings appeared pretty modern, but they looked so old somehow. Run down. There were a handful of restaurants, small hole–in–the–walls like you’d see anywhere in Paris, but featuring cuisines like Turque or d’Afrique. I saw some graffiti written in flowing lines not from the alphabet I knew.

  What do you see? asked Sir Walter from inside my head.

  I wrote back on an imagined yellow note–pad. Teeny restaurants. Like the Latin Quarter. And a bunch of freaking tall buildings.

  One of those tall buildings is today my concern, he said.

  I’d tried the talking–in–your–head thing, but I couldn’t get it. Sir Walter never heard a single thing I said, so I’d given up and gone back to writing my thoughts using a yellow note–pad and pencil, like I’d done with Sam.

  Okay, I wrote. Which one?

  Sir Walter hummed under his breath (yeah, I could hear that in my head, too) and began moving ahead and to our right. We approached what looked like a crop of tall buildings, all smooshed in close to one another. The one Sir Walter wanted sat in the middle. It looked totally abandoned; the doors all sealed shut—some with wrought–iron gates to drive the point home.

  Invisibly, we slipped inside.

  Let us rise to the première étage, said Sir Walter—the first floor, which in France is on the second floor for some weird reason. Like no one in France noticed they already had a floor one.

  Sir Walter made us practice—well, he made me practice—walking up through the air to get to the second floor. He didn’t need any practice as he’d been doing this for centuries. Sam and I had only just learned it was possible. To be honest, it kind of freaked me out, looking down and seeing all that air beneath my feet. But I held off writing him about it. He’d already admitted he had a thing with heights, so it might have been a little cruel to carry on a conversation about how my stomach twisted all funny when I looked down. We wriggled our way up through the ceiling like we were made of vapor.

  What does your sense of smell tell you? asked Sir Walter.

  Maybe he had me confused with Sam. She could smell anything she passed through. Nothing. I wrote back. Chalk that up as one more thing I’d have to work on.

  I catch the odors of abandon, said my friend. The building has remained empty for some time, but the decay has not yet completed. Believe me, to lack the ability to detect scent: it can be a mercy.

  I could believe that easy enough. Some of the places Mick and I lived right after Mom died totally reeked from leftover trash.

  We cruised through each of the rooms on this level. Moving slowly, with our free hands extended, we zig–zagged along each floor, passing through the walls dividing the levels into apartment or office–size rooms. It was a bit like being in the world’s longest queue to ride an attraction at Disneyland. Only without the ride at the end.

  I didn’t know what we were looking for, exactly, and I’m not clear Sir Walter did either. I just felt glad Geneses had picked the smallest, shortest building on the block, ‘cause this was pretty much the most boring thing I’d done in a really boring week.

  There’s nothing here, I wrote as we looped back and forth along the third floor.

  Nothing yet, agreed Sir Walter.

  Unless you count moldy carpets, I wrote. Maybe he’s developing some super–germ to take over the world.

  Sir Walter didn’t reply. Man, I was going out of my mind with boredom. After a tour of the fourth and final floor, he spoke again.

  Perhaps we have arrived too early. This building is among the most recent of my cousin’s numerous acquisitions. We should have begun our investigations with a building he has controlled for a longer period of time, said Sir Walter.

  I can hardly wait, I wrote back.

  Truly? said Sir Walter. Myself, I find this most tedious.

  I guess sarcasm didn’t translate so well on the written page.

  He spoke again. It is time to come solid and find some of the remarkable food which we promised to your sister.

  After drifting back down through the floors, we exited and found a location blocked from view on all sides to ripple solid. Hunger ripped through my stomach as soon as my body solidified. A few streets over, Sir Walter bought five orders of hummus, pita bread, and falafel. Before leaving, he did one of his little bows except with his hand on his forehead saying, “Salaam,” to the owner instead of “Au Revoir.”

  I begged a couple of bites off him before we rippled to travel back to the apartment. When we arrived at our apartment building, we passed through the front door and came solid in front of Mick. She didn’t even startle. She never does, she’s so used to me rippling around the house all the time. I can’t imagine what I’d have to do to spook my big sister, which is kind of a sad waste of the ability to rematerialize, if you ask me.

  “Smells good,” she said, looking up from typing on a tablet computer.

  Mick had been keeping up on various forums and chat sites covering news of the central valley in California. Sir Walter had given Mick the job when she demanded something useful to do.

  “Wait ‘til you taste it,” I said, unfolding the top of the largest bag.

  “This is French?” she asked, grabbing a falafel.

  Apparently she hadn’t been paying attention to what Sir Walter said about food of the noble Mohammedans.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” replied Sir Walter. He explained how, following the second World War, and again after Algerian independence, many North Africans had relocated to France where their children and grandchildren still struggled for recognition as full citizens.

  After he finished, I asked if we could talk about the building.

  “What building?” asked my sister.

  Sir Walter frowned, which made his eyebrows bush into a serious uni–brow. “You are aware that I desired to use the first black book, the one Pfeffer stole, to convince certain personages that Helmann is not to be trusted?”

  We nodded. He’d been real quiet about his activities the last ten days.

  “I am afraid I did not succeed in that effort,” he said. “Geneses Corporation has been, in the last several years, quietly acquiring real estate properties across Europe.”

  Sir Walter then rattled off a list of locations across France, Spain, Italy and North Africa. “In each of these places, Geneses has purchased property. They are, all of them, located within areas inhabited primarily by a population Jewish, Muslim, or Indian in composition.”

  “Uh–oh,” whispered Mick.

  I felt a sick knot in my stomach. “Knowing Helmann, he’s not buying up these buildings to hold bake sales for the locals.”

  “Sales of baked goods?” Sir Walter looked confused.

  “A charitable activity,” explained Mick. “As in, we all know Helmann feels anything but charitable towards the people groups you just mentioned.”

  “Precisement,” said Sir Walter. “I had hoped to persuade officials in the government of France to look with a critical eye at these purchases, to perhaps raise an inquiry. I allowed certain offici
als to look inside a copy of the black book, so as to demonstrate that the origins, and therefore the aims, of Geneses deserved a closer look.”

  Mickie rolled her eyes. “I could have told you that would crash and burn.” She shook her head. “No one’s going to object to Geneses buying buildings based on what Helmann did seventy years ago.” She sighed. “You guys are the history buffs. Think for a minute about Carnegie, Rockefeller, Margaret Sanger: they all supported the Eugenics movement. Would you expect the government to shut down their present day organizations for what they did in the last century? No one cares anymore.”

  “Except you,” I said.

  My sister gave me a sad half–smile.

  Sir Walter nodded thoughtfully. “I should have consulted you, Mademoiselle. Your observation that ‘no one cares’ might then saved me a great deal of wasted effort.”

  My sister’s smile grew a little bigger. She used to look just like that when Pfeffer praised her for a really good insight.

  I turned to Sir Walter. “So obviously you’re worried about this real estate buying spree. What do you think he’s up to?”

  “I know not.”

  “Did you snoop around inside?” asked Mickie.

  Sir Walter dabbed his lips with a small paper napkin from the food bags.

  “The building was empty,” I said, popping a tenth, and sadly the last, falafel into my mouth. “There’s no telling what he wants it for.”

  “Ugh, please, swallow before you speak!” said my sister. “It’s like you were raised in the wild by animals.”

  “You raithed me,” I said, winking at her, my mouth still full.

  Sir Walter finished his after–meal tidying. “I believe it is time for us to pay an investigational visit to one of Helmann’s European headquarters. Rome is quite lovely this time of year.”

  Excerpted from the personal diary of Girard L’Inferne.

  Circa 1987

  I have, with much labor and consideration, devised an education which I believe will forestall or even eliminate the undesirable behaviors I now observe among the very best of my first children.