Shadowline Drift: A Metaphysical Thriller

by Alexes Razevich

  “You’d better figure it out, or you’ll be here a long time thinking about it.”

  Mawgis pressed his lips together, not much different from the way Pilar did when she was thinking. He gave a small smile and turned his hands palms up.

  “It was just a bit of fun, Jake. Nothing for you to be angry about. A bit of amusement, telling you I didn’t know. Of course I know. I did it, didn’t I? I made you grow. I thought you would take my offer to make you seem tall, leave you in my debt, as it were. Even if I weren’t here to see it, I would know that you owed me. It would have made me happy.”

  Jake felt the trace slipping away, moving faster now as his anger rose, his tenuous hold breaking. He needed to control it. Needed it to come if he called. He relaxed his head and shoulders, closed his eyes, and stilled his mind. It was funny, the connection he had made with the shadowline—as if they were in sympathy. Had learned each other’s rhythms. He opened his eyes.

  “Which is it, Mawgis? Perception or reality?”

  Mawgis shifted from foot to foot. “Bring the shadowline back and I’ll prove the truth for you.”

  He was getting good at this, Jake thought, feeling the line close now, just outside the clearing. He felt the way the air changed as the line held its position, then slowly, slowly floated again toward him. He caught the trace at the tail of his eye as it moved inside the trees.

  “Prove it how?”

  The older man licked his lips. “Open it, Jake. Open it and I’ll show you.”

  Fool me once, Jake thought, but really, what was the alternative? Connection or not, how many times could he let the shadowline go before he couldn’t bring it back? And then what? Then Mawgis would be here forever. Mawgis, trapped and bored, and thinking up ways to amuse himself that were worse than loosing benesha on the world.

  If opening the shadowline was a matter of will, then he had to want it, and want it badly. And he did. Wanted Mawgis gone. Wanted to get out of this place of too much green and not enough light and too many things he didn’t understand—and to bring the world the cure. Wanted to be Tall Jake when this was all over. Wanted to see what was really there, if anything, with Pilar.

  “Good, Jake,” Mawgis whispered. “You’re doing good. Just a little more.”

  He shifted his view and saw Mawgis—the older man’s fists clenched at his sides, his eyes closed—willing alongside him—brothers now, with different motivations but one goal.

  The air felt thick, like a blanket constricting him. Jake opened his mouth to breathe. The low thrum grew to a high-pitched whistle that seemed to fill up the world, and Jake wanted more than anything to cover his ears, but he didn’t, couldn’t—afraid he’d spook the shadowline. Mawgis muttered under his breath, harsh-sounding words in an unknown language. Jake could feel the line receding. His pulse sped. Stopping his growth had been an accident. What had made either of them think he could open the shadowline on purpose?

  Closer. Blood rushing to his face, burning beneath his skin. Ears ringing.

  Come closer.

  He felt the shadowline inch back, saw it from the tail of his eye—silver and blue, gleaming in the dim gray light in the clearing.

  Closer. Closer.

  Saw Mawgis’s frown draw to a straight line.

  Here. I need you here. Now. Open.

  The upward curve of the lips. The older man taking a slow, tentative step forward.

  Stay, Jake willed the shadowline. Stay and open. Let this bastard go home.

  Mawgis took another step, moving out of Jake’s vision. Jake could see the line glittering at the edge of his peripheral view, drifting slowly, growing darker, wider. The wind rose, scattering leaves, dirt, and small stones around his legs. The call and song of birds, the chattering of monkeys, the buzz of insects—all gone. The high-pitched wail grew loud, louder, a stabbing, sharp pain in his ears.

  “Almost, Jake,” Mawgis shouted over the wail. The older man anxiously rubbed his hands on his thighs. “Just a little more now.”

  Deep breath in. Jake tried to shake off the fatigue clutching at him and the giddiness it’d brought.

  “Now’s the time, Mawgis. Answer the question. Show me the proof.”

  A new sound in the wail, raw and guttural, from where Mawgis stood. Jake wanted to look, started to turn his head, but stopped, afraid any movement would send the shadowline off again. The urge to grab Mawgis by the throat and shake the truth from him was nearly overwhelming.

  He caught sight of a long green snake wound around a fern with thick, fleshy leaves. The fern shook and danced, but the snake held on, a thin green surfer on a great green wave. He focused his eyes on the snake and set his mind on opening the shadowline, still not sure how to do that. He wanted the cure to be real. He wanted Mawgis gone. All of it impossible if the shadowline didn’t open.

  Lightning from a cloudless sky hit a nearby tree—smell of burning wood. Real lightning? Or something bleeding through from Mawgis’s world?

  A gasping, strangled sound from where Mawgis stood. Jake gritted his teeth to keep from looking. Was the other man caught in the shadowline? Had it suddenly shut? The wail in the air grew so loud that Jake could hardly bear it.

  Open. Open.

  He huddled in on himself, arms pressed to his sides, eyes slitted against the sound. Maybe it was all a lie. Something Naheyo had said came back to him—that she wanted Jake gone before he “kicked over the anthill.” Before the ants came flooding out. Naheyo had kept him drugged and asleep so this moment wouldn’t happen—so he wouldn’t help Mawgis. Because maybe Mawgis didn’t want to go home. He wanted his kind to come through. “We are gods to your kind,” Mawgis had said. Jake’s shoulders trembled, fear rushing through him. Was he helping to bring an invasion?

  He clenched his fists and stared at the snake in the fern. The acrid smell of ozone drove out the smoke scent in the air. Hold the shadowline or let it go? Truth or lies. A choice to make.

  “Jake,” Mawgis called, his voice as sharp as flint.

  In the bright crack of Mawgis’s word, Jake felt something fill him. It should have gone the other way. The tone should have made him angry, made him let the shadowline go. Instead he felt peaceful. Weightless, and perfectly grounded. Poured full of sure knowledge—knowledge that at that moment, whatever he believed would be true. Whatever he chose would happen. The shadowline, open as a lover’s heart. Mawgis gone. Him as tall as a mountain. Whatever he wanted. Felt it in his own heart, the golden moment when everything was right—he was invincible, and could do anything.

  Leaves, dirt, and small twigs whirled—a dust devil spinning crazily through the clearing, knocking bits and pieces hard against his legs and arms. A new smell in the air—sweetly putrid, decaying. An acrid, chemical taste in his mouth. The whine grew high pitched, louder, covering all the sound in the world. Jake felt a trickle of blood, warm and wet below his ear. He could go deaf, but no—that wasn’t possible, because he was a giant and the smell and taste and sound were small, and the blood was small, and nothing, nothing could stop him.

  The laugh started low in his belly, a chuckle growing, sliding up though his chest into his throat. He threw back his head and let the laughter escape, run free into the shrill whine and the rotten air. Not the way he’d laughed with Pilar, in relief. He laughed now from joy. From power. Because he owned the world and Mawgis was a tiny ant he could crush anytime, and the shadowline was his to command. He laughed, hands crossed over his stomach, leaning forward, and when he thought maybe he sounded insane, he didn’t mind, and kept laughing, washing the acrid taste from his mouth. Laughter stilling the wild shriek in the air, bringing quiet. Settling the dust devils that had thrown dirt in his eyes, making them burn. Calming the flying debris in the clearing. He laughed and laughed, and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, wiping away the grit. Felt the water there, and knew he was sobbing.

  A lone bird chirped in a tree. Harsh, staccato chirps. He would have liked a lilting song. The bird fell silent.

  He
pulled himself up, spine straight, and pushed the hair out of his face, smeared away the tears. Dazed, he listened, waiting for the bird to call again, and looked around the clearing.

  Mawgis was gone.

  The bird called again, and was answered by another.

  Mawgis was gone. And the wail. The smell. The acrid taste of the air. He looked up, and through the small opening in the canopy, saw a clear, blue sky.

  He stood alone in the clearing, listening to the returning noise of birds and the whir of insects. Normal. His muscles burned. His breath came shallow. He shifted his view to the tree that had been struck—split down the center, blackened almost to the edges. He stumbled back to the stump where he and Mawgis had sat and collapsed onto its hard surface, hands between his knees, eyes staring down at dirt and leaves, at shifting shadows—seeing nothing.

  He pulled his head up and looked around. The paper in his pocket was real when he stood and pulled it out, holding his breath as he unfolded it. There were words—not words that made sense, but they were there. He exhaled and carefully folded the paper back into a little square and stowed it away again. His skin felt prickly. If not for the lightning-struck tree, he might not believe what had happened here. What he’d done.

  He’d been smart this time and had broken several branches at the spot where they’d come into the clearing. He’d broken branches and torn leaves all the way along their route, determined that Mawgis wasn’t going to leave him alone and lost this time.

  Slowly he walked around the clearing until he found the spot where they’d entered—where the snake had ridden the fern, he realized. The snake was gone. He picked his way carefully, watching for the torn leaves and broken branches that marked the route back to the compound. To the world outside the forest. To a telephone, and a warning.

  He came to a large tree with thick roots spreading over the trail. He stepped over them easily, and thought that proved he wasn’t small again. With Mawgis gone, Jake thought the illusion would vanish. The broken branches and torn leaves weren’t high above his head now; they were waist-level. The same height they’d been on the mad run with Mawgis. He was taller. The man he was meant to be.

  Unless the illusion persisted awhile, only to vanish in the morning, or the moment someone saw him. The moment he saw Pilar.

  The arm of a tall fern slapped his face. He pushed it aside.

  Maybe the truth was whatever Jake made it.

  Maybe the truth was that there was no truth—that he’d wake up in his bed in San Francisco, in his apartment with the footstool in the bathroom and the grabber in the kitchen.

  The trail disappeared. He moved on, broken branch to torn leaf—his own little Hansel and Gretel breadcrumb road—until he realized it had been a while since he’d seen either. His pulse raced in his ears. He and Mawgis had zigzagged through the forest, traveling vaguely west, then north, then south, circling around trees, sudden water holes, and impassable undergrowth. Even if he could see the sun, blocked from his view now by a thousand trees, he couldn’t guess in what direction the compound lay.

  Thirty paces in any direction, he decided. Thirty out, looking for a marker, thirty back to his starting point, and then thirty in another direction. There were only so many directions he could try, only so many openings in the lush greenery.

  On the third try, he found a broken branch. A bit elevated to be the one he’d broken, chest-high rather than at his waist, but he was sure it was the right one. He must have reached up without realizing it during the run. Jake kept moving, and found another branch. He touched the broken branch as he passed it, bringing his hand up beside his ear.

  His steps slowed. A torn leaf, maybe ten steps from the last branch, was shoulder-high. The next branch, cracked and hanging loose, was in line with his jaw. The compound was near. Had he reached up, grabbing at high branches and leaves as he’d knocked along, pulled by Mawgis through the woods? He didn’t remember it that way, but he didn’t remember reaching out waist-high each time, either.

  He could hear the women singing now, their voices carrying on the breeze. He could pick out Naheyo’s voice, lower than her speaking tone. His feet stopped moving. What would they see when he stepped onto the cane field—the Jake they’d become used to or the small man who’d first stumbled out of the forest? What would Pilar see?

  He walked the last steps to the edge of the clearing and stopped again, standing half-hidden by a group of feathery-leafed ferns, his skin hot with nerves. Naheyo and the Helpers sat in a circle, chanting. Pilar held a camera. She turned and caught sight of him. Her mouth dropped open. The camera thudded in the dirt.

  Sixteen

  In the Manaus airport, everyone seemed to have a mobile phone in hand. A pay phone was hard to find. When Jake did find a bank of them, they offered no privacy, lining the wall outside the public restrooms. He begged a coin from a stranger for the collect call to Ashne Simapole at World United. A symphony of languages floated around him, but it was likely that many of the people standing near also spoke English. He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece to keep his words as hidden from other ears as possible, and listened to the line ringing and his heart beating overtime.

  He heard what he’d expected in Ashne’s voice. His friend, and employer on this job, listened to all Jake said, asked questions, and said he’d look into it, but Jake knew his words hadn’t taken root. Things would go better in San Francisco, he hoped. Face to face was always better.

  “I’ll arrange a passport, plane ticket, and access to some cash for you,” Ashne said, his voice distant and distracted. “We’ll talk when you get here.”

  In the duty-free shop, Jake bought shampoo, a razor, a tourist T-shirt, and a pair of pants. He shaved in the men’s room, other travelers shifting around him, maneuvering luggage. There wasn’t time for a haircut, but he washed his hair as best he could in the sink, dried it beneath the hot-air hand dryer, and pulled it into a short ponytail with a hair tie. He stood a moment, taking in a sight he had never seen in a mirror set for adults—his own face, neck, shoulders, and part of his chest. He wondered if the view would ever feel ordinary to him.

  Jake was almost calm now, accepting what he saw in the mirror. Not like that moment at the edge of the cane field, fear pulsing in his blood, as he watched Pilar coming toward him, that look on her face that could have meant anything—shock, revulsion, relief. The moment she leaned against him, the top of her head resting under his chin. The rush of joy so strong he nearly lost his balance, knees buckling under the weight of liberation. The moment he knew he was Tall Jake, and wasn’t going to be anything else ever again.

  Thinking about it now, though—Tall Jake wasn’t quite right. He was Jake, who happened to be tall. He nodded to the man washing his hands at the next sink over. The man barely nodded back, paying him scant attention. Jake walked out of the men’s room and into the crush of people heading to and from the gateways.

  The seats in the lounge area were mostly empty. The flight would be boarding in ten minutes. People had already formed a queue—casually dressed men and women. A gaggle of tired-looking teenagers, their identical blue backpacks in a pile at their feet. Two priests in black. A young couple, the woman rocking a baby while the man folded up a stroller. Ashne had secured a first class seat for him. He waited for the call to board ahead of those in line.

  How had he grown? That question pricked at him. It moved through his mind not like a leaf in a vortex, going round and round, but like a mountain goat, leaping from point to point, never settling on one spot—popping up repeatedly, even after he’d promised himself to let it go, to stop thinking about it.

  Maybe he had done it himself—strength of will, like Mawgis had said—overriding whatever height had been programmed into his DNA. Stopped it when he was five and started it again now, just by wanting. Maybe it was a disease that had stunted his growth, the story in his mind about his fear of outgrowing his mother’s lap just a coincidence in time. A disease that had been cured by some factor i
n the forest—something he ate, or an unknown property in one of the salves or unguents Naheyo had slathered on him.

  Hell, maybe it was benesha. He’d started growing after the first benesha trip, the visit to Delacort. A substance that allowed users to psychically travel, increased protein values in meat, and poisoned humans on a set time scale could likely do other things too. Had benesha kicked in hormones long dormant in his body? If benesha was the cause, had Mawgis known it would have that effect?

  The first class passengers were called to board. Jake stood just as the woman at the podium called his name, asking him to step to the counter.

  “This has come for you from the American consulate,” she said, and smiled as she handed him a passport, no differently than she had smiled at any of the other passengers. “You can board now.”

  He thanked her, and in his mind thanked Ashne, and walked up the Jetway, promising himself yet again that he’d stop asking the same unanswerable questions. The flight was long. He needed to spend those hours thinking about what to say to Ashne when they met—how to convince his friend to give up the prime achievement of his life.

  The flight attendants stood by the plane’s opened door, thanking the passengers, wishing them a good day as people deplaned. Jake nodded as he passed them—his hands empty of luggage or even an overnight bag, his breath pressed up tight against his chest—and walked down the Jetway and into the terminal. He scanned the crowd, looking for Ashne’s familiar brown face, and the stance he habitually took when waiting—feet apart, hands behind his back.

  Jake spotted him and saw that his friend was looking down, the way an adult does, waiting for a child to deplane. His feet slowed. This moment had to come—the moment when someone from his old life would be confronted by his changed body. Jake raised his hand and waved, but Ashne’s gaze didn’t reach high enough to catch it. Jake slipped up and stood next to him, Ashne still peering at the deplaning passengers.