What I find stuns me. A safe. Behind a painting. It’s so cliché that I’m shocked I hadn’t thought to check for it before. After a quick peek into the living room, I put the painting on the floor and turn my attention to the safe. It’s a combination lock. Probably three digits.
I decide to stick with cliché and try my father’s birthday. No good. My mother’s doesn’t work either. Mine comes next and I’m slightly disappointed that it doesn’t work. But I’m probably the one, aside from thieves, he wants to keep out of the safe, so that wouldn’t make sense. I remember that my father is no good with remembering numbers. Despite being brilliant, he has trouble with phone numbers, street addresses and counting. So he’s always writing things down. I look around the room. Where would he keep the number? It wouldn’t be labeled, combination, but it also would be in a place where he couldn’t confuse the number for something else.
The painting. The artist’s signature was accompanied by a date. I kneel, looking at the bottom right corner. The signature is in a dull red, but the date—7-21-38—is a slightly brighter shade. They were put on at two different times! More than that, there is no way this painting was done in 1938. It’s far too Bob Ross.
I spin the dial, entering the numbers and then turn the handle. The lock clunks and I let go. The safe swings open on its own. Inside are several notebooks, folders, a small stack of money and a small felt pouch. I flip through the notebooks. They’re field notes for his photo books. A few pages have love notes from my mom on them and I suspect this is the real reason he’s kept them. There are three folders, each labeled for a member of the family. They contain birth certificates, social security cards and other legal documents. I notice I have no United States birth certificate, though there are other documents proving my citizenship. There goes my chances of being president, I think.
So far, it appears my parents really do have no secrets hidden in the house. I flip through the wad of hundred dollar bills, counting over one thousand dollars. All that’s left is the felt pouch, which looks like it probably holds jewelry. I take it out and reach inside. The first object I find feels like a photo. I pull it out.
My parents are in the picture. Dad is standing behind mom, who looks exhausted. But she’s smiling. Aimee is with her, by her side. And Dr. Clark is on the other side, next to my father. He’s not really smiling at all. In fact, he doesn’t look well. I turn the photo over and find a note.
To remember the extraordinary birth of your most unusual son. 9/2/1974 - Merrill
The word unusual churns a sick feeling in my stomach. But my curiosity over what heavy object still remains in the pouch distracts me. I turn the pouch over and let the contents slide onto the desk. It’s a rock.
A simple stone. Granite, by the looks of it.
Then it occurs to me that this must be a piece of Antarctica. Possibly collected the day I was born.
I pick it up and feel a surge of emotion. Thoughts and feelings race through my mind faster than I can comprehend. I feel strong one moment, lost the next. Afraid and angry. Resentful and full of wrath. But never happy. Never content. I am alone.
The experience is intense, and staggers me, but it lasts only a few seconds. As the feelings fade, a loud clap sounds out behind me.
I spin around with a shout and hurl the stone.
As soon as it leaves my hand, I return to my senses and realize what’s about to happen. A window, which was also part way open like the one I had closed, shatters with a cacophony that only broken glass can make. The stone is stopped by the screen and lands atop a pile of glass. I cringe as the shards fall away, covering the window sill and floor.
Footsteps hit the floor above. The sound has roused my parents.
I quickly refill the safe, putting everything back in place. I put the photo back in the pouch and then reach for the stone. I pause before picking it up, wondering if I’m going to be overcome by emotion again. With all this broken glass and one of my parents on the way, that would be a very bad thing. But I see no choice, outside of getting caught, and pick up the stone.
Nothing happens.
I slide the stone in the pouch, cinch it shut and place it at the back of the safe before closing the safe door, spinning the lock and hanging the painting back in place. I hear my parent’s door close. A second later the third step squeaks.
I dash into the living room and pick up the remote.
The fifth step squeaks and is followed by my father’s voice. “Solomon? What was that noise?”
Back in the sunroom I place the remote inside the broken window and step back. My father’s voice comes from the living room. “Solomon, what happened?”
He can see the glass and broken window.
He enters the sun room, glancing around. The painting holds his attention for just a brief moment, but then he’s looking at the remote in the window. His annoyance is growing. “What—happened?”
“I threw the remote.”
“I can see that.”
“I thought there was a burglar.”
The look in his eyes says several things to me. He thinks I’m nuts. He thinks I’m not ready to go to Antarctica. He thinks I’m lying. Of course, I am lying, but only partially.
“The shade slapped behind me. Look.” I open the first window I’d closed and draw the shade. A moment later, the shade is pushed in by the wind and then sucked back out. The slap is loud and I see my father blink in surprise. “See?”
My father looks from the drawn shade to the broken window. He still doesn’t look happy, but he’s calming down. “Next time you think someone’s in the house, you come get me.”
I nod.
“And you can pay for the window out of your allowance.”
I’ve already spent the money from my allowance on books, so I’ll be paying for the window with my birthday money. I think about the wad of hundred dollar bills in the safe, but decide it’s in my best interest to keep that knowledge to myself.
“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s clean you up.”
He turns and walks into the living room.
Clean me up? I look down and find blood on my hand. The cut isn’t bad, but I didn’t even feel it happen. My thoughts return to the stone and the way it made me feel—what it made me do. And for a moment, I’m not sure I want to go back to Antarctica after all. But then the craving to revisit my home returns and I know nothing will keep me away.
3
The weeks pass in a blur of anticipation. Life is a routine of eating, sleeping and studying, though I doubt I retain anything aside from the object of my fascination. I reread all my books on Antarctica, paying special attention to those written by Dr. Clark. I review a history of the continent and mark the beginnings and ends of all major expeditions in colored lines on my new, larger, map.
But I leave the map behind, which is fine with me because inside of twenty-four hours I will have set foot on the continent of my birth.
My leg shakes as I sit alone in the back seat of my father’s pea soup colored sedan. I’m surrounded by luggage. If the car were to crash, I’m sure I wouldn’t budge. But only ten minutes from home, the close confines are making me feel claustrophobic. I stuff as much of the luggage as I can behind my parents’ seats. The view out the window is unimpressive—mostly trees lining the highway—but I feel better.
When my father switches on the right turn signal, I forget all about my discomfort in the back seat. I stretch my neck up, looking out the front windshield. Exit five. Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I wonder if one of them has to pee, but I see no restaurants or gas stations. And we’ve only been on the road for thirty minutes. This should have been a straight shot to Logan airport in Boston.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
My dad turns back. He’s smiling. “Just a quick detour.”
I look at my watch. There’s still plenty of time. But my curiosity is piqued. “To where?”
“You’ll see,” says mom, but she’s got a jovial tone in her voice. Once again
, they know something I don’t and find it humorous. My stomach churns for a moment, but I distract myself with thoughts of home. I want to enjoy every moment of this trip. Instead of watching the road, I poke at the fabric hanging down from the car’s ceiling. Just as I’m starting to wonder what kind of weak glue the manufacturer used, the car stops.
I look up. A large wrought iron gate is opening up before us. That’s when I notice we’re at the top of a very tall hill. The car pulls forward. The driveway is long and lined by grass that’s still green, despite the frigid late fall weather. The house is a brick colonial, clearly old—perhaps early 1700s—but impeccably maintained.
“Who lives here?” I whisper under my breath. The question was rhetorical and directed at myself, but my father hears. He puts the car in park and turns around with an arm up on the back of his seat. The smile on his face tells me that this detour is for me. His next words confirm it.
“Merrill Clark lives here. His family is joining us.”
Mom and Dad exit the car as a man steps out of the front door. I can’t see his face because Mom is already hugging him. Dad shakes his hand next. I’m in the front seat now, shaking with excitement and fear. For other New England kids, this would be like meeting Larry Bird or Wade Boggs. I’m going to be spending the next few weeks with my hero. And I’m desperate to make a good impression.
Should I quote him? Should I tell him my theories on ancient Antarctican civilizations? Should I ask him to sign my copy of Antarktos?
I decide, push the car door open and step out. Before I know what’s happened, I fall forward, reach out and land on the paved driveway, which feels harder in the bitter chill. I land with a slap.
The pain is sharp, rising from my hands, traveling up my arms and descending to my gut. The blow has sucked away my breath. But I hold back my tears. I don’t gasp for air. I don’t even look at my parents. If they’re laughing, I’ll cry for sure. So I focus on figuring out what happened. A quick look back answers that question. My shoelace is wedged in the car door. I yank at it, but instead of coming free, it snaps in half. I fall back, hitting my head.
I feel a growl rising in my throat. I’ve never been more embarrassed. I want to go home.
“You okay?”
The voice doesn’t belong to either of my parents and certainly not to Dr. Clark. I turn my head toward the person standing above me. A girl. Her skin is a deep tan, but her hair, tied back in a tight bun, is as blond as mine. She smiles down at me and for a moment, I hold my breath. She’s stunning. She’s a girl. And she’s smiling at me. This is a first.
She reaches down and takes my hand. I’m too flabbergasted to realize she’s pulling me to my feet, so she ends up doing most of the work. She’s strong. Stronger than me, that’s for sure.
Once I’m standing again, some sense returns. I quickly look to my parents and Dr. Clark. They’re still talking, oblivious to what just happened.
“Don’t worry,” the girl says, “no one saw you.”
I turn back to the girl, seeing her for who she is. The dark skin. The blond hair. And her eyes. “Mirabelle Clark,” I say.
“Solomon Vincent,” she says. “But I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to say our own names, not each other's.”
When she starts shaking my hand, I realize she hadn’t let go. My hand begins to sweat so I break away from the handshake, feigning an itch on my head. I can tell by her smile that she sees through my ruse. To her credit, and my relief, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she heads toward our parents and motions me to follow.
“C’mon,” she says. “Introduce me to your dad.”
My dad? I think. What’s so great about—? Then, I see the camera around her neck. My father is a photographer for National Geographic. Many of his photos from their Clark Station years are in Antarktos. If Mirabelle wants to be a photographer, then my dad is probably her hero as much as her father is mine.
Knowing this is a great relief. For a moment I worried that I would be constantly paired with Mirabelle throughout the trip, unable to pursue my interests because our parents were trying to play Antarctican matchmakers. But as I watch her walk away, I feel my face flush. Not only is she pretty, but she spoke to me with a kindness I hadn’t yet experienced from a girl my age.
In fact, she’s got me so distracted that when I’m introduced to Dr. Clark, I totally botch the quote, making myself look like a buffoon. As they pack the cars, I’m told there are chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen counter if I want one. I don’t, but I want to be out of sight so much that if they had said there were chocolate covered locusts in the kitchen, I would have accepted the offer just the same. I suppose I’m like an ostrich, hiding my head in the sand. I sometimes wonder if this habit will make me a pushover as an adult, too, but I’ve seen my parents ignore enough problems around the house to know that even grownups sometimes have trouble facing life’s challenges. And I’m only thirteen. So I’ll put my head inside a cookie jar or metaphorical sand and not feel bad about it.
Like the outside of the house, the inside is old, but well maintained. The hardwood, which is everywhere—floors, mantles, railing, stairs—shines with a polish that looks new, but I suspect is just cared for. Even with the polish, I don’t feel like I can’t touch anything. Justin’s mom has a room in their house that we can’t even walk through. A living room in which no one lives. This is a great inconvenience, because the living room leads to the den, where the TV is, and instead of walking straight through, we have to walk around the entire first floor.
This house doesn’t feel untouchable. This home is lived in. This home is loved.
Straight through the hallway at the center of the house, on the kitchen counter, I see the cookies. I still don’t want one, but if someone follows me in, I don’t want to look like a klutz, a doofus and a liar.
On my way to the kitchen, almost every floor-board I step on creaks. Ninjas would hate this house, I think before picking up one of the coaster-sized cookies. I take a reluctant bite. The brown sugar melts in my mouth, followed by a still warm burst of semi-sweet goodness. I change my mind about the cookie and pick up a second.
“Don’t eat too many,” a woman says, spinning me around on my heels.
Her skin is two shades darker than Mirabelle’s but her smile seems even brighter. I recognize her immediately. My father took a stunning photo of her once, sitting on a glacier wrapped in a blanket, having a picnic. Only, that’s not why I recognize her. “Hello, Mrs. Clark. How are you?”
She stops, puts a hand to her ample hip and says, “Well, aren’t you the polite one.”
I’m not sure what to say, but I’m not nearly as nervous around Mrs. Clark as I am around Merrill, or their daughter. I continue with a compliment. “These are really good.”
“You know, as much as I know everyone loves these cookies, you’re the first person to compliment them.”
This strikes me as odd, given how good they are. She takes out a plastic bag, loads it with three more cookies, takes the second out of my hand, adds it to the bag and hands it to me. She gives me a wink that lets me know we’re in cahoots. I nod and stuff the cookies into my cargo pants pocket.
“Thank you, Mrs. Clark.”
“Enough with the Mrs. stuff. Call me Aimee.”
I’ve never once in my life been invited to call an adult by their first name. I heard once that an art teacher at my former high school allowed the students to call her by her first name. But someone told her she couldn’t and she quit. I remember thinking she was silly for quitting, but having now experienced the sense of pride over using an adult’s first name, I understand. It’s a gift. An acknowledgement of not being superior simply for being older.
“I like how you spell your name.” Then I try it on for size. “Aimee.” But I drag the E sound out.
She laughs. “I have my mother to thank for the spelling. I like it now, but kids made fun of me a lot for it when I was your age.”
I think about the kids in my school, i
magine what they’d come up with, and nod. They'd probably still make fun of her name. They certainly made fun of mine. Solomon. That alone could be bad enough. But my middle name—Ull—what were my parents thinking?
Granted, I appreciate the significance; Ull was the son of the Norse god, Thor. He was the god of winter, which is how I ended up with the name. Being born in a place of perpetual winter, I suppose it makes sense. Ull was also the god of death, the chase, combat, archery, hunting and trapping. I’ll never be good at any of those things, but at least my light complexion and ultra-blond hair fit the Viking look. Still, being named for a Norse god does not do wonders for a person who’s already socially blacklisted.
She sits on a bar stool and starts on a cookie. I perch myself in the stool across from her like we’re old chums.
“So how nervous are you?” she asks.
“Nervous?”
“About going home.”
I feel like she has somehow torn me open and looked at my soul. To everyone else I’ve appeared nothing but excited. In truth, I’m fearful of what I’ll find in Antarctica. I can’t fully explain it, but I think it has to do with my high expectations. It’s like when you go to a movie everyone has said is amazing, but it’s only so-so, and you end up hating it because of your raised expectations. I’m afraid that will happen in Antarctica, because I expect my homecoming to be magical. Even I know that’s stupid. Any real magic done in the past was simply science ahead of its time used on naïve people. Antarctica will not be magical, but I wish to my core that it will be. Of course, my rock throwing incident also has me worried that I’ll become a raging psychopath the moment I set foot on the continent.
“A lot,” I admit. “Part of me wants to spend a lifetime there, learning about the place, searching for its history.”
“For your history.”
I feel a wash of embarrassment. “I know anything found on Antarctica isn’t really my history, but—”
The Last Hunter - Descent (Book 1 of the Antarktos Saga) Page 3