Descendant

by Jeffrey A. Levin

  “If it isn’t Solly Steinberg. I’ve missed you, Solly.” She throws her arms around him. “You’re the only two left.” She smiles at me warmly. “It’s Michael Eisenstein. To what do I owe the privilege?”

  Solly peers around, seeing only vacant chairs. “Where’s the crowd? This place used to be standing room only.”

  Ruthie takes a long breath. “You know what happened. People are scared; they don’t leave their houses anymore. Shame, isn’t it?”

  “We can leave if you want,” I offer.

  “Hey Mikey.” Solly nods as if to say it’s all right. “Listen, Ruthie, he’s a nice kid.”

  “If you say so, Solly. I’m not sure everyone in this town shares your opinions of … them.”

  Solly clears his throat. “It’s okay, Mikey; don’t worry about it.”

  “Why don’t you ask the kid why his old man can’t keep us safe anymore. Maybe he’s got an answer.”

  “Lay off, Ruthie. Benjamin Eisenstein is doing the best he can!”

  Ruthie plops two coffees in front of us. “I’ve got two kids, Solly. They stay in their house and play ET video games. One of my kids is so afraid, he won’t leave his bedroom. I don’t talk to my neighbors anymore, because their windows are shut. No one comes in here anymore, because they’re too afraid to leave their houses, and you’re telling me that Ben Eisenstein is doing the best that he can!”

  Solly gets up. “C’mon, Mikey; I know when we’re not wanted.”

  Ruthie stares out the window, looking blankly at the sky. “We’re not safe anymore. We’re all lookin’ over our shoulders. We’re all afraid. And you tell me Ben Eisenstein’s going to take care of us. Where is he now, Solly? What’s he doing? We’ve counted on Eisensteins for centuries, Solly.” Ruthie glares at me. “Who’s gonna save us? Him?”

  CHAPTER 30

  August 9, 2378

  6:39 p.m.

  Although I laugh and I act like a clown

  beneath this mask I am wearing a frown

  My tears are falling like rain from the sky

  Is it for her or myself that I cry.

  I’m a loser

  And I lost someone who’s near to me

  I’m a loser

  And I’m not what I appear to be.

  —The Beatles (ancient songwriters)

  Solly drives me back to the house, hardly saying a word. I know that Solly came to do the impossible—my father’s bidding.

  I desperately want to say something that will make the pain go away. After all, thirteen of my descendants have tried to save the world. Thirteen have fended off vile attacks for over 350 years. Thirteen descendants are rooting for me to do the same. What does everyone want from me?

  Solly gets out of his car. He walks slowly over to me. I know he’s sad. I know he thinks he’s failed. I don’t know where my dad is. Is he in Austria? Is he devising a weapon of mass destruction that will once and for all fend off the bad guys? Is he under the ocean, conducting an espionage mission with extraterrestrials? Or is he on a space station, spying on a fourth-dimensional world that no one else even knows exists?

  I know where he isn’t; he’s not here with me, is he?

  “Sorry, Michael. I guess things didn’t work out so well.”

  “Not your fault, Solly,” I say.

  “It’s a lonely road.”

  “Sorry?”

  “What your father does. There are a lot of people who don’t appreciate what he has to do to keep us safe.”

  “It’s his decision, isn’t it? I mean, our lives … the lives we choose to live … that’s our choice, isn’t it, Solly?”

  Solly shakes his head. “You’re still young enough to think that, Michael. But sometimes things just don’t work out the way you want them to. Take me, Michael. I wanted to get married, have children of my own, and live a good life.”

  “You’re a good man, Solly. I appreciate you, and I know you mean well. But … just thanks! You’re the closest thing that I have to a father, and I appreciate it. You can tell Benjamin that I’m all right, even if it’s not true. Okay Solly? I can do him at least that courtesy. I suppose he has too much on his mind to worry about me.”

  Solly grimaces. “Take care, Michael; take care.”

  I watch Solly take the lonely, dusty road back to his job. I know he’ll report to my father that everything is all right. But Solly knows better. I wonder if Solly realizes that fathers have to live up to their own responsibilities; that’s not a job that can be delegated, like a UPS man dropping a package at your front door.

  Ya know, maybe Ruthie’s right. Maybe the entire Eisenstein clan is worthless—me included. I glare at my stupid ancient dirt bike sitting in the front yard like a mechanical anachronism. Sometimes things like this—this stupid dirt bike—can define you. I’m a loser, right? Or am I?

  I walk over to my worthless dirt bike—you know, the one my dad took the time to refurbish for me. Do you see the irony? My father is working on teleportation technology, and he decides to give me the gift of this worthless piece of excrement. I laugh to myself. I do love the concept of teleportation. Just think; wouldn’t it be cool if you could skip from one place to another undetected? My eyes gaze at the stupid dirt bike. Get the drift?

  What do I do? I guess I’ll do what any red-blooded teenager would do. I start to kick the bike. I kick it and kick it until it falls, lying dormant like a washed-up pathetic prizefighter. I may as well lie right on it—right there on the dirt by the side of the driveway. It would serve me right if someone just kicked the hell out of me.

  “I’m such a loser!” I shout at the top of my lungs. I wait for a response, yet no sound comes—just the shrill sound of the wind.

  I hear a noise. “Who’s there? Who heard me?”

  “So you’re gonna give up—is that it?”

  I turn around like an ashamed nine-year-old who stuck his fingers in the cookie jar when he was told not to. Maya is there, looking at me in the same way one might stare at a pathetic old dog. I was told once that when a dog knows it’s going to die, it just walks into an isolated area, away from everyone, and just lies down and dies.

  “Is this the person I met in the cave—the boy who wanted to take on the time traveler? The boy who yearns for knowledge and is willing to take risks, even if he has to run hand in hand with his silly neighbor through a bat cave?”

  I smile, lowering my chin toward the ground. “No, I’m just the stupid boy who wears an OOPS hat and stupidly steps in bat guano.”

  Maya walks over to me, looking downward at my pathetic dirt bike. She breaks out into a terrific smile, revealing an unleashed spirit—a spirit so great that I’m forced to smile back at her whether I like it or not.

  “Your mother told me a little bit about your adventures. I’d like to hear about them.”

  “My mother hates me,” I say.

  Maya shakes her head. “You can be a foolish boy,” she says. She walks over to the dirt bike, picks it up, and places it on its rusted kickstand. “I think your mother would like you to stand up for yourself. Do you really think that destroying the one mode of transportation that you have will accomplish that?

  I shake my head in disgust. “I’m sorry, Maya. I’m a loser; that’s all there is to it.”

  Maya stares at me with the most beautiful charcoal-black eyes I’ve ever seen. “I know you think you are, but you’re not. You’re just a work in progress.” Maya’s mouth begins to curl like a fiendish serpent. “I know better,” she says softly.

  “We have to see him, you know?” Maya quips. “Bone needs our help.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Sandwiches, my gallant knight. Our chariot awaits. If you’re a noble gentleman who’s come calling, I’m your queen… your Mayan queen.”

  “No way!” I say, feeling like a first-class ass. But I kno
w when I’m licked. How can I say no?

  “Climb on!” Maya says, holding out her hand in a mock ballet pose.

  I smile sheepishly. “I like your T-shirt… ‘Through the Rabbit Hole.’ Cute!”

  Maya forces a smile. “Sometimes you need to go down the rabbit hole. Actually, ‘through’ it is a misrepresentation. That’s your problem, you know, Eisenstein; you want quick answers. Some things just demand a little elbow grease and perseverance. Got it, chief?”

  “Who am I to disagree with a Mayan queen?”

  “Do you have any helmets?” Maya inquires, scrunching her face up into little fragmented parts. Have you ever seen a baby marmoset? Enough said.

  I snicker. “Nope, we’re roughing it all the way.”

  We both peer at the pathetic dirt bike, which looks like a dead rat in the driveway. “Well, things can’t get much worse,” I say.

  “Yes they can.” Maya makes a goofy face. “How are we going to get there? All of the roads are closed because of government surveillance. You know, because of the ET that they caught at Bone Falls.

  I clear my throat. “You’re right,” I say. “But I know another way.”

  “Really?” Maya says, displaying her best glum face.

  “We’ll take the west side through the mountains.”

  “You mean the El Cajon Mountains? I don’t know… there are a lot of cult groups living out in the mountains. I keep hearing very strange things about those mountains. Some people think that’s where the ETs come to observe us.”

  “Now look who’s being the nonbeliever.”

  “Well, how can we get there? Ever since the last earthquake, all of the roads are closed. Most of the people up there have been evacuated.”

  I shake my head. “We’ll just have to take the tunnel.”

  “No way!” Maya ejaculates. “You mean the tunnel that they’re calling the rabbit hole? People go through there and they never come back.”

  “Scary,” I say sarcastically.

  We both begin laughing hysterically. “Well, I guess if Alice survived, so can we!”

  “Through the rabbit hole!” Maya repeats.

  “Life is facing challenges—isn’t that the message you’re giving me?” I exclaim as I swing my leg up and over the seat, mounting our pathetic little dirt bike.

  “How long is this tunnel?” Maya inquires.

  I rev the engine, and it runs roughly, as if it is going to die at any second. “It’s not the length of the tunnel; it’s the imagination that comes with it.”

  “Don’t drive too fast,” she says, climbing on.

  “I don’t think you’re going to have to worry,” I say as we rumble out of the driveway. I plug in the coordinates: 32° 47’ 54” N 116° 57’ 36” W.

  In case you’re interested, I’m hoping we get lost or sidetracked. Lately my brain is like a big vat of dormant, unintelligible Jell-O.

  Maya plays knock-knock on the top of my head. “What are you doing, Bozo?”

  “Making sure we get there,” I say.

  “An Eisenstein needs an SL [spot locator]. C’mon Michael, just follow the rambling yellowish dirt road.”

  We rumble on the meandering road for over thirty miles before I see a sign that says “CAUTION… entering long tunnel.” I push my hands inward, slowing the cycle. “Like that’s even possible,” I whisper under my breath. I stare at the sign that says “Mt. Woodman via Lake Potato Chip.”

  Maya plays knock-knock again. “Is our chariot out of gas?”

  I try to rev the dirt bike up again, but it just sputters like a dying turtle. Okay, so you want insult over injury? There it is—an ancient turtle walking slowly toward the bridge.

  “Last one to the bridge is a rotten egg!” I shout.

  Once we enter the archaic tunnel, there’s nothing but darkness enveloping us. Every mile, there are a few blurry yellow lights, signaling the fact that Maya and I are entering the opening to hell. I’ve seen only a few cars, and all of them are moving in the opposite direction.

  “Are you sure we’re going the right way, Eisenstein?” Maya asks in mock sarcasm. I notice that there are a number of ajar sewer lids to the side of the tunnel; it looks as if someone has been jimmying them.

  “That’s strange,” I say, wondering what evil sources could be lurking here.

  “What’s going on with the lids?” Maya asks.

  “I don’t know. This entire area has been an unkempt cesspool for a while. All kinds of vermin live out here. Sure you don’t want to turn back?”

  “No way, José!” Maya shouts. “Bone needs us!”

  We continue riding for about twenty minutes in the darkness and in silence. The trees look like tall, eerie ghosts, while the clouds look like monsters with binoculars watching us journey down the highway. I’m beginning to worry that the tunnel will never end. Even Maya says, “I don’t think this is the route to a stairway to heaven.”

  “Funny,” I say.

  We sputter on for about fifteen more dismal minutes before I say, “Damn!” From out of nowhere, I hear loud noises of people chanting and singing. Dark faces emerge with strange patterns painted on them, and their owners are carrying burning torches. All of a sudden, they are upon us, swarming around Maya and me, glaring at my prehistoric dirt bike as if it’s some sort of holy ancestral icon.

  I have the definite feeling that my bike is malfunctioning. The tires are deflating, and the clutch is definitely cowering in fear. “Who the hell are these guys?” I whisper in a low tone.

  A few of the figures kneel at the base of the dirt bike. They start chanting, “Idolatry! Idolatry! Idolatry!”

  I swallow hard. Maya’s facial expression resembles that of the ancient actress Janet Leigh as she opens her eyes in the shower scene from Psycho. The figures continue to dance and chant.

  “Don’t scream, Maya! It’s going to be all right,” I caution.

  One of the men, who appears to be in charge, waves to his people. “Silence.” The kneelers and the chanters clear a path for the revered man; he steps forward, eying us like a tarantula eyeing its prey. The stealthy man is wearing what looks something like an Indian headdress; his face is covered in odd insignia, while his rather taciturn face is adorned with a small galaxy. He walks up to us in silence. He is tall and thin, and if he has any evil intent toward us, he hasn’t shown his cards yet. My eyes feel as though they’re darting everywhere; after all, the sheer quantity of these odd people is ominous. I see more peculiar people with painted faces emerging from the sewer-like linings of the tunnel. No one is talking except for one man reciting lyrics to a poem. He keeps repeating, “We’re heaven above, we’re heaven below.”

  I glance at Maya. Her face seems to have gone through a few dozen varieties of facial expressions. I’m not sure if she’s terrified, worried, or just plain confused.

  “Who are you, and why are you here?” The man finally says. “Everyone else has left.”

  Maya moves her head forward until her cheek is rubbing mine.

  “We’re on a Mayan vision quest,” she says softly.

  “What?” I murmur.

  The man smiles. “Then you are welcome. Please,” he says, motioning for us to get off our ancient bike.

  Maya looks at me like “You’re welcome.”

  The man holds his hand out. “My name is Kasuro; this is my wife, Henzura.” The beautiful lady smiles. “It is a pleasure to meet you!”

  Maya and I shake hands with both of them.

  We hear background chanting: “Eeeooowah! Eeeooowah! Eeeooowah!” Then we hear a chime sounding magnificently.

  I look around quickly, but I see nothing. Who are these people? I think.

  “We are Emojis,” Henzura finally says. “We are transformists—creators of new realities through our art. We believe that self-expression and creativity are the paths t
o freedom and peace.” I myself am a mathematician-artist. I’ve studied the Lolladoff plates first made in Nepal. They define the spiraling circular pattern of the universe, depicting its sacred geometry.”

  We nod. “Sounds interesting,” we proclaim in unison.

  Kasuro asks a few of the Emojis to come forward. First he introduces Metamorphoser. A pretty, fragile-looking woman steps up, bowing slightly while keeping perfect eye contact. She smiles, looking like a gentle flower turning toward the sun. She then holds out her hand. “Welcome,” she says, appearing to be flirting with her translucent blue eyes.

  Out of the dusty shadows emerge Verwendein, Fortvandia, Daleum, Athru, and Omskep. “These are a few of the many people who are here in creativity, expression, and peace,” Kasuro says, holding out his hand. “It’s important that we move to the next tunnel; it will take us out of this man-made trap and into the world of our creator.”

  “I don’t know, Maya,” I whisper softly. “Where is he leading us?”

  Maya wraps her arms around me. She smiles at Kasuro. “We’ll be fine,” she says.

  With one motion, all the sewer lids open. What seems like a thousand people descend through the tunnels. Lines of poetry and lyrics from songs are being recited everywhere, followed by laughter, smiles, and joy. One man takes out his guitar, singing loudly. Rhythmic chanting emerges from the depths of the tunnel. “Eeeooowah! Eeeooowah! Eeeooowah!” they chant. Then we hear the chimes once again.

  Interesting … I wonder if the chimes are just another part of the expressionistic lifestyle of the Emoji.

  “The people are happy,” Henzura says. “See; they are dancing and reciting poetry!”

  She leads us through an endless maze of shafts. Maya’s gaze catches my own. I worry that she may be overly optimistic or naive. Where is this going? What do they want? Are they for real? These are just some of the questions reverberating in my consciousness. The deeper we descend into the catacombs, oddly, the more aromatic the smells become.

  “Battit d’ali!” Henzura proclaims. “Daleum is an aromatherapy expert. This is her creation! It has a nice vanilla scent. Tonight we will serve some soothing lime blossom tea. With madeleines crafted in the flutes of an ancient shell, mixed with an oversize nautilus.”