Force

by A.R. Rivera

  Three Days and Counting

  Day 3: This place sucks, Eli. So do you and your Boom Packs.

  I’ve rationed what little food I had, but the days are so damn long. I’ll need to find an alternate source. Today. I’ve come across patches of berries here and there but protein is what I need to keep going.

  I put the stones in their pouch. They don’t seem to absorb much energy just resting in the sun and I noticed that there are no animals or birds around when they’re out. It might just be coincidence, but then again, the cows in Ivanhoe ran from them.

  Resting on the bank of the stream that’s grown to a wide river, I notice the sun, how it feels like it’s burning my skin. Strange. Not that a white boy like me could get sunburned, but that it’s the first time in three days that I’ve felt the heat. The air feels nearly the same as yesterday, the only difference today is that for the first time since I got here, I’ve put away the Threestone.

  Fascinating. The word makes me think of Doctor Spock, which makes think of Eli.

  Testing this latest theory, I pop the stones from their rubber storage and set them beside me. Water birds a few dozen feet from shore suddenly freeze and then take flight. Tiny blue beetles scamper away through the carpet of grass where I set them and there is no doubt it is the presence of the stones that drives them off.

  After a moment, I feel a difference. The air’s a bit colder as if I’ve moved from open sun to shade.

  In my notebook, I write:

  Animals, birds, and bugs don’t like them. Flames draw towards them. I think they absorb UV rays because I’ve been in the open sun for days and haven’t gotten burned.

  Curious now, I dig out a mesh bag that holds my inflatable pillow, dump it out onto the ground, and then set the red and black stones inside the bag. Pulling the drawstring nice and tight, I leave the white rock on the ground and lift the bag. The white stone lifts from the grass only a second behind the red and black. I swing the bag from side to side and watch the white stone follow in delayed dance.

  “Amazing,” I say and am shocked by the sound of my voice. It’s the first one I’ve heard in days.

  I carry the bag to the riverbank and plunk it down in about two feet of water. The white stone follows as if it’s inside with its counter-pieces. I draw the wet bag up and sway it back and forth, leading the rock parade in a figure eight. The three stones remain in lock-step.

  Back on the bright green grass, it’s time to test the limits. Holding the white rock in my hand, I toss the mesh bag holding the red and black rocks a few yards away. The bag doesn’t fall. It floats. And there’s a definite pulling sensation in the palm of my hand, where the white rock is. It’s soft at first, but then my arm jerks out. I hold fast but the pulling gets stronger, extending my arm as the mesh bag with the other two stones holds place, waiting for its partner. I open my hand and watch the white stone zip away. Once united, the three stones gently sink to the ground.

  Cool.

  Around nine, I went through a phase where I wanted to be a magician. There was this juggling trick I practiced over and over, but never could get right. I was supposed to toss the three balls and make them disappear one at a time.

  “Here we go.” I start tossing the stones in the air. True to form, they move slow and in unison, making the juggling act an immediate success. I toss them farther into the air, faster, higher.

  “Now that I’ve got that down,” I start kicking my legs and break into a song about how awesome I am as a professional juggler and part-time gigolo.

  Each stone cools my hand, so smooth and graceful. Each toss goes a little higher, a litter farther. The rocks could probably do this bit on their own.

  “I call manager!” It’s a silly thing, dancing, talking to inanimate objects, but days of constant boredom will do that to a person. “I’ll be taking 15 percent off the top, in addition to my 33 percent cut for being the face of this road-show.”

  My foot catches on a tree root cloaked in a patch of grass. Momentum knocks me on my ass and I start to laugh.

  Until I hear the plunk.

  The white stone is in my hand. But the red and black...

  I feel the pull and tighten my grip, clutching the rock firm between both hands. The sheer force of the Threestone needing to unite pulls me onto my knees. Unrelenting in its quest, the white stone drags me down the riverbank. My jeans scrape through the mud. Edging towards the water, fighting to stay on land, I stare down into the wide crystal stream and see the sandy bottom but not the rocks.

  The waters’ cold and refreshing but I don’t want to dive-in head first. Just as I’m taking in a final breath, ready to give into the iron will of the stones, a spray erupts from the surface of the river. A fountain showering my face with mist that flashes me with fresh panic. It reminds me that I have no idea what age I’m in, and that huge sea monster thing ate Daemon.

  But the spray isn’t nearly as big and I’m not in open water.

  As the mist fades, the two other stones are there, hanging, risen from the depths of wherever the river tried to take them.

  Right in front of me, magically hovering, their synchronized gaze boring into me like mismatched eyes. It makes me think there’s nothing more important or worthwhile than spending every minute I can learning about the capabilities of these wondrous rocks. I peer into each one, the blood red, perfect white and tempting black, wanting to unlock every secret.

  Opening hands, the red and black take their place beside the white, safe once again inside my grasp, I fall back onto the riverbank, swollen with relief.

  I’ve been idle too long, but the day doesn’t show it. With the stones out, secured inside the mesh bag secured to the belt of my pants, I keep trekking alongside the river, skipping regular rocks across the water. Soon, the pebbles at the water’s edge disappear, replaced by boulders and I have to veer away from the river to keep a steady pace. The water’s running fast now. I wish I had the skill to build a raft out of twigs like one of those reality show outdoorsman.

  Since the rocky beach has forced me to walk through the trees, I start picking up usable dry wood for tonight’s fire. Before long, I’m exhausted and my arms are full. I wasted too much energy messing around and now, will pay the lazy price.

  I don’t why I’m so worried about time. I’ve got nowhere to be. And I figure that since this place is so slow, not much time is passing in my world. But I’m often wrong and something inside eggs me on.

  The longer I spend tracing the shore of this water way, the more sure I feel that there is no city waiting beyond the hills to the south. Still, I need to see with my own eyes. But the distance is discouraging. I’ve never spent so much time walking. Even early settlers had horses.

  I’ve got two feet, am low on food, and carry less ambition than ever.

  My dad used to say, ‘be a doer, not just a thinker.’ The fact that I’m thinking about those words means it’s time to stop thinking about my problems and get on with solving them.

  Inside the woods, I find several young trees. I pick the tallest, thinnest one trying to grow under the shade of a cluster of giant sequoias. Survival of the fittest. It’s long, flexible, and suits my needs.

  I make camp early and set my mind to catching dinner. About fifty yards downstream there’s a group of rocks that stretch out into the water around a fallen tree; the group sits stationary in the running river. The tree probably fell over and was swept downstream until it got stuck in a shallow spot. That’s my goal.

  Leaving the stones to catch the sunlight, it’s an easy climb from one flat boulder to another while searching for the sparkle of fish to go all Castaway on. Once my stick is sharpened to a fine point, I take teetering steps out onto the large rocks, slick in the riverbed, and search. The only spear I ever threw was machine-made, with a metal arrowhead. It shot straight, though my toss was unskilled. I missed the target by a mile.

  But a guy’s got to eat.

  A swirl of seve
ral fish float past, I follow with my eyes, then slowly wade into the shallows and wait. The water’s frostier than it looks and I’m shivering before long—nearly stiff by the time another group swims past.

  My first few shots only scare the fish so I climb back onto the rocks to let the sun warm me.

  In the time it takes to dry my jeans, the fish forget about my shadow up on the rocks and start moving again. Carefully, slowly, I crawl towards the edge where a cluster of large steelhead has gathered. The fish can’t be more than five feet away. I’m not sure if that’s close enough.

  My stomach rumbles. I toss my crude weapon and all the fish scatter. All but one.

  Dinner is a huge rainbow trout that tastes like the water it came from. Juicy and delicious because the river’s so clean.

  With a full belly, I’ve nothing to do but drive myself crazy with thoughts of things I can’t change. What I would give for a deflated volleyball-friend right now.

  After the grandiose sunset, it’s time to make up for the wasted daylight.

  A fiery torch lights my path as clusters of cloud obscure an otherwise bright moon. Brilliant specks of light trickle through clouds moved by roaring wind that doesn’t touch me. Through bending trees, I plod, pushing as far as my legs will carry me. Without fear.

  The stones, with all their quiet strength, will protect me. I know this, I do, but I don’t know how. The knowledge is just there, and it’s part of me now.