The Sphere

by Martha Faë

  It’s incredible that all this happened just because of a party. I remember Axel saying that nothing was going to happen because I had sneaked out, because I hadn’t told my parents where I was going. A free pass, he called it. I guess everything happening to me now is some kind of curse—a settling of scores. It wasn’t really my first time sneaking out. I’m surprised Axel didn’t remember the time before...

  Loch Lomond is one of the most famous lakes in Scotland, but I’d never been there. I remember how bright Axel’s eyes were when he suggested it to me, his hand reaching for mine as we stood outside the door of the painting studio after my class. I leaned against the blue wooden doorframe as he gazed at me, waiting for my answer. It would only be two days, just the weekend. It was my first bald-faced lie—well, really it was the only lie I ever let myself tell in my life. I told my parents that I was going on a field trip with school, and they didn’t even bother to check. They even took me to the train station... Laura and Marion were there with backpacks full of dirty clothes, putting on a little show for me. They hugged my parents goodbye and we walked together to the platform where Axel was waiting.

  “Somewhere in the world we all have somebody waiting to love us the way we’ve always wanted to be loved,” Marion whispered in my ear as a goodbye. “You’ve already found yours.” She winked at me and walked off before I could say a single word.

  Laura waved goodbye wildly from the platform, as if we were leaving on a journey to the ends of the earth. The train trip was pretty easy. It wasn’t long, and I could look out the window and pretend to be absorbed in the landscape, even though deep down all I was doing was trying to quiet the fear churning inside me. Fear, joy, excitement—I couldn’t tell what the jumble of feelings suffocating me was made up of. At that time in my life I was totally incapable of figuring out what I was feeling. The bus ride was a little more complicated. It wouldn’t stop raining, so I couldn’t see outside, and Axel talked the whole way. For me his words were nothing but distant sounds mingling with all my internal noise.

  We camped in a night black as coal.

  And then dawn came, with one of the loveliest memories of my life. We had pitched the tent in front of the lake, a mirror of calm water that sparkled with the first rays of morning light. Axel scooted over and put his arms around me, wrapping me up in the sleeping bag. It was one of those moments when we reached a balance together that was nearly perfect. I needed nothing else. I could have died at peace.

  The sun rose until it was high overhead, and then something magical happened. We saw a cloud of leaves moving strangely near us, and we got up and crept over to it.

  “They’re butterflies,” whispered Axel, “Brimstone butterflies.”

  I looked closer. There must have been a hundred butterflies right there in front of us. Their delicate wings were easy to mistake for the leaves of a tree.

  “Their veins look like the veins of a leaf, where the sap flows,” I said.

  “Yes... Look,” said Axel, stretching one finger out toward the butterflies. It only took a few seconds for one of them to land on it.

  “It’s hugging your finger with its teensy feet!”

  I was amazed. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. Axel brought the butterfly over to my hand and I held out my finger. The butterfly walked trustingly over to my finger from his. Soon more and more butterflies landed on me, until they were everywhere: in my hair, on my shoulders, covering my arms.

  “Why aren’t they afraid of me?” I asked.

  “You’re the butterfly princess,” Axel joked. “I guess they don’t have time to be afraid. Their lives are fleeting.”

  Remembering those words makes me shiver. My breathing is getting faster and I can feel myself getting weaker and weaker. How much time do I have left, exactly? I’d like to know what will happen if I can’t get out of here. Will I stay in the Sphere forever? Something tells me I will.

  Suddenly I think I hear something.

  “There’s nothing here.”

  “No one asked you to come with us, Holmes.”

  It’s Morgan’s voice! It’s them!

  “There’s nothing,” Sherlock says firmly.

  “We don’t know that,” argues Morgan. “We haven’t even started looking yet.”

  “There’s nothing—period.”

  I hear a muffled shout from Beatrice.

  “Stop, just stop already!” yells Sherlock. “Stop drawing the quill of the Creator on your chest. Who brought this sanctimonious prig along anyway? I can’t take another moment of her.”

  “You brought me,” Beatrice says angrily, “and I’m not stopping. In the Sphere there is no expression more sacrilegious or more of an ill omen than... than what you just said.”

  “Period?” Sherlock is using a jeering tone that I’ve never heard from him before. “Period, period...”

  He sings out the phrase like a little child. I don’t understand what’s going on.

  “Enough!” shouts Morgan.

  I pound on the stone above me but all it does is hurt my hands. It doesn’t make any sound at all. Sherlock and Beatrice go on arguing while Morgan insists that they have to look for me. I move my hands as much as I can in the tight space, and accidentally discover that when I scratch the stone with my nails it lets out a groan.

  “What was that?” asks Beatrice fearfully.

  I scratch carefully up and down the length of the tomb. The stone lets out such a cacophony of moans and cries that I can’t believe they can’t find me.

  “That,” Beatrice says, her voice trembling. “That’s what I heard a minute ago.”

  The gulls begin to screech madly. Maybe the crying of the stone is upsetting them.

  “That could be... could be...” Morgan is concentrating, I can hear it in her voice. “I’ve got it!” she cries excitedly. “It must be stone of eternal rest. They must have used it to make these stones. It’s stone of eternal rest, I’m sure of it. I love it!”

  Morgan, please don’t get carried away right now. Get me out of here!

  “I’d heard of it before, but I’d never seen it... That is, I’d never heard it. Some say it’s only a legend, but it isn’t, it’s clear that...”

  “Get to the point, Morgan,” says Sherlock.

  I keep scratching, and the cries of the stone mingle with the shrieks of the seagulls. The noise is excruciating. I don’t know how they can stand it outside.

  “According to legend, in olden times there were these people...” Morgan goes on. “Look, you don’t have to cover your ears.”

  “Yes we do,” shouts Beatrice, “this noise is unbearable!”

  “All right, I’ll be quick,” yells Morgan. “The Tragicomics, they were a people of antiquity. For them the great beyond was a hilarious world; according their roles people died of laughter. Suddenly one day you started laughing and you couldn’t stop—until you died. But for those left behind, it wasn’t funny at all. They stayed in a horrifying world. Apparently that civilization was wiped out by internal fighting, because they all wanted the role of the dead person and nobody wanted the role of the living. Anyway, all the fighting aside, one of the great inventions of the Tragicomics was stone of eternal rest, which they used in their tombs to symbolize the contrast between the joy of the great beyond and the pain of the here and now. Don’t look at me like that, Beatrice. It might be tricky to understand, but they believed in two worlds. According to the research, stone of eternal rest is porous, with the unusual characteristic of having two faces: one lets sound through and the other doesn’t. But the most interesting thing of all is its tactile properties.”

  “Cut to the chase, Morgan!” Sherlock yells.

  “Fine—you two have so little scientific curiosity! Inside the tombs the stone laughed when it was touched; that way if the dead moved just a little they would hear joyful laughter. On the outside, though, the stone wept and moaned bitterly to accompany the feelings of those who hadn’t had the good fortune to die... In this case, it seems
like the tomb had to be scratched. Evidently whoever used the stone on one of these tombs didn’t know, and put it on backwards.”

  “So it could be any of these tombs?” shouts Sherlock. “There are at least eighty.”

  “Yes,” answers Morgan. “We have to touch them all to see which one laughs.”

  I stop scratching at once, it’s the only way I can help. A long while passes, and then finally I hear laughter coming from somewhere nearby.

  “Thank you, blessed Creator!” exclaims Beatrice. “It’s this one.”

  “There must be someone inside,” says Morgan. “Help me move the stone.”

  My companions push the stone until it finally falls to one side, kicking up a huge cloud of dust. I push myself up to sitting.

  “Dear Eurydice!” Sherlock exclaims, leaning close to me with a worried look. “Precious lady, you look positively wasted away! I cannot imagine the anguish you must have felt. You have suffered, have you not?”

  “Yeah, I have,” I answer.

  Sherlock gathers me into his arms and lifts me out of the tomb.

  “What’s with him?” I ask Morgan, totally bewildered. “Before I heard him complaining about having to look for me!”

  “He’s lost his role,” whispers Morgan. “He goes from being in a foul mood to kidding around. He says he’s Sherlock in love. And get this: you’re his fair damsel.”

  Sherlock straightens up like he’s just gotten an electric shock. He offers me his arm with a serious expression.

  “See?” Morgan whispers in my ear.

  “Morgan was right, dear William. Eurydice was here,” says Beatrice.

  “So I see,” Sherlock answers solemnly. “Now, if you don’t mind, allow me to accompany my lady.”

  “Accompany me where?” I ask sharply.

  “Wherever you like. Your wish is my command.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be accompanied, got it? Not anywhere.”

  Morgan and Beatrice look at me, surprised.

  “Thank you for searching for me,” I say. “By the way, it was Beatrice who broke the Sphere’s membrane.”

  My revelation starts a heated argument, thick with accusations. I walk briskly down the hill, despite my growing exhaustion, ignoring the shouts from behind me.

  16

  I know my time is running out. I can feel myself getting weaker and weaker. I can’t stop thinking that the boatman, Charon, might be able to help me get out of the Sphere, even though the Count said it was useless to try and leave by the river. I feel sorry for him, and for all the Sphereans. I would help them if I could, I would restore order before I left, but I just don’t have the time.

  I walk along, deep in thought, until I somehow end up at what used to be my summer house. I spent barely a week there with my family, and then...

  It’s there! It’s back!

  I run as fast as my weakened legs will let me. My heart is bursting out of my chest; my anticipation and joy mix together, reddening my cheeks, giving me a little strength back.

  My skin prickles from my head to my toes as soon as I walk in the door. Everything is just as it was the last time I saw it. There are two towels lying in the entryway; my mother’s white hat is on top of the credenza. On the kitchen table I find the book and the newspaper that my parents were reading the morning I fought with the twins. I hear something crunch underneath my feet—the iPod! But where’s my family? I look for them in the yard, then hurry upstairs, out of breath, calling out:

  “Mercutio! Mom! Benvolio! Dad! Where are you?”

  The house is empty, but all their things are here. It’s getting late. The sky is covered with thick rainclouds, so it doesn’t seem likely that they would be at the beach. Actually it doesn’t seem very likely for them to be at all, unless I’ve somehow found my way back to my world without even realizing it.

  I walk weakly along, my only thought reaching East Sands. Raindrops begin to fall on my head. The rain is light but steady, and it makes no sound at all. In just a few minutes the rain picks up until it’s so heavy I can hardly see. I wipe my face with my sleeve. I’ve finally reached the top of the hill at East Sands. The beach is completely empty, except for a small group of people sheltering from the rain under some sort of blanket. I shout myself hoarse calling out the names of my family. The group runs toward the end of the beach where I am, and I see that they’re dressed in clothes from the ‘50s. They go up to the street and disappear in a black Buick with rounded contours.

  I realize that if I were in St Andrews right now the grass would be giving off its wild, strong smell. The total lack of any odor is an affront, a slap that reminds me of how little time I have left.

  “I fought to live in spite of everything,” Axel said when I accused him of leaving his father alone in Edinburgh.

  I feel Axel’s hand caressing my face. A love beyond death—just what I’d always wanted. I think of the invisible thread the Count told me about. Axel is my anchor, the only thing that stops me at times like these from drifting away and being lost forever.

  Fight, Dissie.

  It’s as if I’m hearing his voice.

  New strength bubbles through my veins. I’ve got to find the way back. It doesn’t matter what the Count said—I’ll find the River of Ink even if I can’t go through his garden. Then something occurs to me, and I’m suddenly filled with hope. What if the river that goes through the Count’s garden is the same as the stream that runs near my summer house?

  I turn around and go back, wishing on the stars above that my house hasn’t disappeared, that the stone bridge, at least, is still there. By the time I get there I’m completely soaked. Everything is where it belongs. I look down. The river is flowing in sinuous, echoing waves, nothing like how it looked on the night of the accident. The pencil I was carrying in my pocket drops into the water and a circle ripples around it, growing larger and larger. It’s only then that I realize I’ve lost my notebook. A pit opens up in my stomach. Then I understand something with total certainty: it isn’t objects that keep us linked to the people we love; it’s something intangible, something you can feel even when you can’t see it.

  I feel strong and determined. I have to follow the river. I’ll find Charon no matter what Dracula says. With this sense of conviction I start walking, following the current. In the distance I see an impassable barrier—from here it looks like the river flows beneath a group of houses. I don’t want to change streets; I’m afraid if I change course now I won’t be able to find the stream again. The wind has picked up and the rain is falling horizontally, but my footsteps are as determined as ever. As I come closer to the houses, the outlines of the buildings start to blur, like when water spills on an ink drawing. The gray of the walls trickles across the landscape and disappears, like a thick canvas is absorbing it. When I reach the point where I should have run into the obstacle, I can walk right through.

  The Sphere is a malleable world, made out of a special kind of clay. Suddenly I think of the way that creature I heard from the tomb was shouting curses, and how they echoed all around. I could hear it so clearly it was just as if I had been watching. The words went back into the mouth of whatever it was that had uttered them. This place is made of something magical—I hope I can get back home without having to give up the Sphere.

  I don’t see too many obstacles ahead, and every time one appears, it dissolves and vanishes before my eyes. The rain pricks the cushion of water in the stream, which turns into a wider river up ahead, though it still doesn’t flow terribly quickly. I doubt that it gets deep enough anywhere to support the weight of a boat and its passengers.

  Finally I see a white smudge in among the trees. Charon’s boat, as small as a nutshell. How could anyone travel in that? The boatman is a tiny, serene person. He might be a thousand years old—it’s impossible to guess his age. He has white hair that falls in waves and nearly covers his whole body. His hands, resting in his lap, are holding the stem of a large leaf to shield him from the rain.

&
nbsp; “Who goes there?” he asks.

  I say nothing, and try to control my breathing. I don’t want to be discovered.

  “Who goes there?”

  My plan is to sneak up so carefully that Charon doesn’t realize he has company until I’m already on the boat—then I’ll figure out what to do next. Maybe I can convince him with my story. There has to be a heart inside that scrawny little form. Charon’s eyes move beneath his closed eyelids. Dark rings surround the blind wells of his eyes. He has a melancholy air; he gives off such a sense of solitude that I can’t look at his face without feeling moved. I watch him, captivated, glad that his blindness lets me look at him without being seen. Even greater than the boatman’s melancholy is his aura of kindness. An overpowering feeling of fondness comes over me, and I stretch my hand out to stroke his wrinkled face. Charon jumps back, and I regret it right away. So much for my plan to take the boat by surprise.

  “What are you?” Charon asks.

  Why didn’t he say who?

  “Answer—do you not know how to speak?”

  “I’m Eurydice,” I say softly.

  “What do you want, Eurydice?”

  It’s probably going to be easier than I thought. What if I just make my request? He’s realized right away that I don’t belong to the Sphere. What if I open up my heart to this blind old man? Maybe he’ll understand, and take me back home.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I’m paralyzed; I don’t know where to start.

  “Why did you touch me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  It’s true—it was instinctive.

  “What do you seek here, Eurydice?”

  “To go back home.”

  “Why did you leave home?”

  “It was an accident...”

  “I am sorry for your accident, but there is nothing I can do,” Charon says. His tone of voice is flat, and I can’t guess at his thoughts. “Find some other way.”