Aerovoyant

by P L Tavormina

  Reuben said to the woman, “It’s not the flow. Pump shuts down ’fore the field’s half done. Happened again yesterday.”

  “Mr. de Reu, please understand. If the pressure’s too high, the system turns off. When you increase demand, everything heats up.”

  “Now hold on, Carmella. You said it’d handle high demand. We got two steads here.”

  “The system’s adjustable. You have options. You can ration—”

  “The point’s pullin’ water when we want it.” Little bits of spit flew from Reuben’s mouth as he spoke. Myrta had seen him angry plenty of times—he always let his feelings straight out. He never held them inside as Terrence did.

  Carmella continued, “. . . or you can install the larger pump—”

  Reuben seemed even more frustrated by that. He spluttered, “We ain’t puttin’ more money in. You guaranteed a working system.”

  “Or,” the woman said patiently, “You can learn the settings.”

  Her papa spoke up. “Reuben, that’s good sense. You don’t buy a tool y’can’t work. Nathan’d know how to use it if we put one in.”

  Nate looked up from the knobs on the box. “It’s sensible. Pressure dial says when you’re pullin’ too hard. There’s gauges to keep track. This is worth somethin’.”

  “Nathan, quiet now.” Terrence turned to the businessman, the one with the misshapen ear. “People’d be more inclined if you dropped your price.”

  “We’ll work something out. We want your stead to be as productive as possible. Believe me, it’s good for you and it’s good for us too.” The man interlocked his fingers and held his hands forward like that. “We depend on one another. We rely on the food you grow, and you can rely on our technology.”

  The man’s voice had a strange quality, like it hit multiple notes at the same time. Myrta risked another glance. He was giving her papa his complete attention.

  The businesswoman, Carmella, said to Reuben, “Why don’t we run the system and explain the settings as it warms up.” She adjusted a few dials, explaining the reason for each and every one. Reuben seemed annoyed by that too, but he paid attention. When everything was ready, the woman pulled a cord on the box, and a sound like a swarm of locusts blared forth.

  The baby squawked and wailed. Georgie held her close, shouting pet names at her. Terrence glared at Myrta again and stabbed a finger toward the house.

  “Should we go back?” Myrta hollered into Georgie’s ear.

  “Oh no,” Georgie shouted. “Baby Rosa doesn’t like it, but Reuben wants them to get used to the noise.”

  “I think we should go back,” Myrta yelled. “I don’t think they want us here.” As she said that, little Rudy ran up from the house. Terrence hollered again in Myrta’s direction, but she couldn’t make out the words over the noise.

  “Rudy,” Georgie cried in delight. “Such a big boy. Mama’s so proud.” She turned back to Myrta and shouted, “I don’t think we should go back.”

  Jack walked over mouthing something, but the racket muffled his words too. The man with the funny ear flashed another of his warm-eyed grins, and the little boy pelted toward him.

  Feeling she’d failed her only task, Myrta ran after the boy through a plume of acrid smoke.

  With ferocity more intense than anything she’d ever experienced, a wrenching sensation surged through her temples, and she sank to her knees, then crumpled completely, palms to her face. Warmth blossomed around her eyes, a tugging pressure, angry worms coiling. She curled up, begging the world to stop spinning.

  “What’s wrong?” Georgie cried.

  Jack reached her. “Myrie, what is it?”

  “Make it stop. My eyes!”

  They were pulling in their sockets, inward and outward at the same time, and something deep within her roared awake, feeling as natural and innate as her own monthly cycles.

  She opened her eyes, but everything tilted crazily. The man with the ear was staring at her with a fierce intensity. The air around the fuel pump shimmered like plumes of a fine blue silk, streaming outward. If she didn’t feel so horrible she might wonder about it, but instead she rolled over, moaning, and closed her eyes again.

  “We’ll take you back,” Jack shouted. “We’ll find somewhere for you to lie down.” He put an arm under her shoulders and helped her up. With Jack on one side and Georgie on the other, they made their way down to the house.

  Jack settled her in a bedroom and pulled the drapes. “Just lie still. Does it hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  He took her shoes and pulled up a blanket. “What do you need?”

  “Ice. Get ice.” She pushed on her temples and took measured breaths. “I might throw up.”

  Jack left and came back with ice and a bowl. “What’s going on?”

  She mumbled, “I get dizzy.” The room spun again. She grabbed the bowl and threw up, and Jack fetched a towel and a glass of water.

  “Go back up, Jack.” Groaning at how badly things had turned, Myrta sank into the pillows. “I’m in trouble. If you’re here, it’s worse.”

  He did, and after a long while, she slept. When she woke, the room was steady again. Dishes clattered on the other side of the home, and she went to the kitchen.

  Georgie looked up. “Oh you sweet thing, how are you? Better, I hope? The children have so much energy, they make me dizzy too. They’re napping now. It’s so peaceful when they nap. Would you like a carrot?”

  Myrta sat. “No, thank you. I feel awful. I came to help, and I made problems for everyone.”

  “Oh, heavens no. Oh stop. Carmella and the boys figured the whole thing out. It’s always like that with something new, isn’t it? All’s well that ends well. They’re still up there, buzzing like bees around all the tubes and dials. Your brother Nathan keeps talking about how much it could help your crops, but Terrence keeps saying the droughts will end sooner or later.”

  “Was he angry?”

  “Who, Terrence? Why, of course not, why would he be angry? Oh, I suppose he is quite stern and that must be something to live with, but he wasn’t angry. No, not at all.” Georgie cocked her head for a moment, seeming to think. “He did seem annoyed, now you mention it. With Melville.”

  “Who?”

  “Melville. Oh, right, you weren’t introduced. I forgot in all the excitement. Melville and Carmella are the business folk from Renico, you know, that big company that makes all the devices. Carmella told us they have a log miller! Can you imagine? Think how quickly Reuben could slice boards if it was mechanated. Anyway, where was I? Oh. Melville. He’s the one with the dimples. Terrence called him Mr. di Vaun, but Reuben just calls him Melville. Is that rude? You must’ve noticed, the one with the horrible scar around his ear. Poor man, I wonder how that happened. I wanted to ask, but that would be rude too, wouldn’t it?”

  Myrta sorted through the words. “Why was Papa annoyed with Mr. di Vaun?”

  “That’s a good question. Well, let’s see. Melville was so quiet all morning. Just standing there and smiling. Oh! I remember, it was after your dizzy spell. That’s why I forgot, because we weren’t there. Jack and I helped you down to the house, and Rudy wanted to see the irrigation machine again, and I walked the children back up, and of course they loved being with the big business people and the mechanation. And Melville was very talkative, asking all sorts of questions. Where did Terrence farm? Had he ever lived anywhere else? But Terrence, he just wanted to understand the irrigation. He finally snapped, telling Melville to mind his own business, only using stronger language if you take my meaning.”

  With a flash of guilt, Myrta thought Terrence might have been annoyed because the children had returned.

  The front door opened, and voices spilled into the kitchen. “Sure pulled water quick,” Terrence chuckled.

  “Told you. This’ll change things.” Reuben clapped Terrenc
e on the back. “So long’s it works.”

  The serious woman, Carmella, stayed close to Terrence. “We have a larger system, Mr. de Terr. It’s better for farm steads.”

  He guffawed. “Course you’d say so. Better profit for you.”

  The kitchen crowded as everyone filed in. Easing out of her chair, Myrta went to help with the meal. Georgie handed her a loaf of bread and she started slicing. Soon, she felt eyes on her. She glanced up. Melville di Vaun was watching her, and he crossed over.

  “You had a bit of a rough spot up there.” His eyes were kindly. Brown and warm.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m fine.”

  “You collapsed in the exhaust. Were you dizzy?” His voice seemed to hum its way under her scalp.

  She stepped toward Georgie, flushing. His gaze was so very intent, as though she was the only person in the room. “It’s fine.”

  The men at the table were joking about yields, and the baby began to cry from the back of the house. Then the little boy too. Georgie hurried out of the kitchen.

  “You should have that looked at.” He walked around her, coming close enough that his breath fell on her.

  Smoker. She leaned away from the smell. “It’s nothing. I’m better.” She pushed past him, heart pounding, and went to the other counter, the one nearer the table, and set to work slicing the cheese. It felt as though the man’s gaze had riveted to her right temple. She bit her lower lip and shook her head. Why was he watching her? She pushed the knife through the cheese again and imagined it severing the space between them.

  Georgie returned with the children and sent them to play in the front room. She went back to the salad.

  The man said, his voice calm, so at odds with Myrta’s pounding heart, “I’ve had my fair share of medical training. Your dizzy spell looks like something we call precipitous vertigo.”

  She wasn’t supposed to talk about it. If he had any sense at all he’d see how nervous she was.

  He tilted his head, and his eyes moved between her temples and eye sockets and back again. “And I’ll wager you had no headache at all.”

  At that, she snapped her attention completely to the man. Celeste always insisted the spells must be giving her a headache, no matter how many times she explained otherwise. This businessman understood. He hadn’t even asked first.

  He smiled. His cheeks dimpled. “I could check your eyes. Do a few exams. You don’t want precipitous vertigo to progress. We’ll take you with us when we leave.”

  What? She must have misheard, but his eyes were still warm. He stepped over to her again, and she pulled back, the knife shaking in her hand.

  “Renico’s doctors are the best on the continent.”

  Jack looked over from the table, and Myrta shot him a terrified glance. He nudged Terrence, and the two stood.

  Melville took Myrta’s wrist. His palm was moist. She jerked her arm away. He said in a low voice, “There are surgeries that can help.”

  She didn’t mishear that, and even Georgie cocked her head and stared.

  Melville said, so quietly it sounded nightmarishly like it came from inside her own head, “There’s room for you in Carmella’s aut.”

  Terrified, she pinched her eyes shut, her heart thumping harder. “Stop it,” she managed.

  Terrence bellowed, “Let her be. Jack, take Myrta, gather the team and hitch up.”

  The mood in the kitchen soured, good cheer gone like pollen on the breeze. Melville looked over to Terrence. “I meant no offense, Mr. de Terr, my words came differently than I intended. Your daughter’s health is as important to us as your stead’s. I’m sorry for hitting a bad note there. I crossed a line, but I truly didn’t mean to.”

  “Out here, di Vaun, we don’t pester others as you seem overly inclined to do.”

  “You’re right. Please forgive me. Sit. Enjoy the meal, and let’s put this misunderstanding behind us. Carmella and I would like to arrange a visit to your stead to price out the equipment.”

  Her papa’s eyes blazed. “If you’re expectin’ to do business on my stead, di Vaun, you’d ought learn some propriety. Nathan, come now. We’re leavin’.”

  Chapter Six

  “You survived the flood.”

  Deep satisfaction filled Alphonse. “I did. Where are we, Grandfather?”

  “We witness the dawn of life.”

  They stood on the seafloor. Superheated liquid spewed from a giant black chimney, and as the liquid cooled, crystals formed into lattices, growing the sea vent taller.

  “It begins with the chemistry of the vent. Be the chemistry, Grandson. Be the chimney.”

  Alphonse shrank to become a crystalline cavity inside the seafloor vent. Within him, chemicals dissolved, rushed outward, and collided with others. The kinetic energy of that mad diffusion spurred new reactions.

  Carbon atoms bonded and formed chains. Some sealed into a membrane bubble. More chains, more rings, more branched compounds—molecules folded and configured in countless ways.

  “I don’t understand,” Alphonse cried.

  “Simply experience the chaos.”

  Eons passed, and the complexity around him grew. Molecules began to interact. After another timeless stretch, one even copied itself. Now there were two inside a bubble, and in a burst, the cell split.

  “Reproduction. Life! Alphonse, it is the emergence of order.”

  * * *

  After the flood, Alphonse kept small goals. He cleaned his things and hung them to dry, straightened the dent in the water skin and re-packed his gear. His mother’s words flitted about in his thoughts. “. . . trust me. You’ll be back.”

  No. He’d survived dehydration. Flood. She was wrong.

  That evening, Alphonse turned in early. His awareness blurred toward unguarded fog, and years fell away. He was fifteen.

  * * *

  It’s simple, Alphonse. We run Luca di Vern, Delsico’s safety officer, for the seat. He’ll back the reforms Father wanted.

  As she spoke, she wrote strings of numbers on a pad. Calculations, finances, dealings.

  Mother. Luca doesn’t do the job he already has. Eduardo says things could be safer at the plant, but Luca ignores the rules he was hired to enforce. Half the workers can’t get medicine—

  Eduardo’s a salesman. He knows nothing about it.

  He’s more than a salesman.

  She summed up a column and crossed a name off a list. It’s an easy race. The industry will fund it, and Luca will win.

  * * *

  The next morning, dew coated the grass. First sun broke over the eastern forerange, and he stood and stretched. Primal satisfaction rippled through him.

  He continued south along the riverbank and found the trail and the footbridge that crossed the Turas. He was back on course toward the Prophets.

  As the days passed, he worked up slopes and along ridges, deeper into the ranges. The solitude of springtime mountainsides filled him with awakening, like the hills themselves. Some afternoons he’d do no more than sit by a stream with his fishing line, cleaning his gear amidst fields of wildflowers. Some nights, no more than lay under the stars near the warmth of a small fire and listen to the wilderness.

  Cricket. Owl.

  As he lay to rest each night, he felt the energy of his life pulse into the planet. The heat of his body sank into the vastness of Turaset. His breath was the air, every inhalation the breeze overhead, every exhalation a caress on the ground.

  I am the mountain.

  He often slept outside the tent, where against the darkening sky, silhouettes surrounded him. Above him, multitudes of stars. One night, one blazed across it all, and the towering ranges shrank. The universe held him.

  * * *

  He wandered higher. The cedars were gone, only sandsap and pine remained, the ground carpeted with their cones and the
cones full of sweet nuts. Then, even those trees grew scarce and everything was rocky with scattered lakes rimmed in lichens and thick with quiverfish.

  He was closing on Tura’s Prophets.

  One afternoon Alphonse lay on a warmed slab of granite. Mount Tura filled his view, pushing space to the side. The trail to the spires zig-zagged up, and he contemplated the top of the pinnacles where Arel was said to wander.

  What wisdom would I seek? I want the Council as it used to be, dedicated to the common good. I want Mother to want that too.

  A chill breeze blew along the peaks, and the hills purpled into evening.

  Early the next morning he traversed a rocky saddle and started up Tura’s switchbacks. By mid-day his breath came in huffing gasps, and his head was light. He arrived at the base of the spires that evening, sweaty and exhausted.

  They rose, all the more beautiful for their solid immediacy under his hands, and warmth from the suns flowed out from them, through his palms, through his cheek.

  The Prophets were sheer, straight, proud spectacles into the sky, stabbing straight into the blue. Snow draped the upper pinnacle, the heights he’d stand on tomorrow, and water trickled down the face and across the trail.

  Alphonse fell asleep that night facing the Prophets.

  * * *

  Three established routes existed on Tura’s greater pinnacle. The easiest hugged a thirty-inch split at the bottom and again at the top, broken by a four-hundred-foot run of bare face. That was his climb; it was simplest, and he’d only need rope for the middle section, which had permanent eyebolt anchors drilled in. Alphonse donned his gear.

  Lesser peaks surrounded him, covered with pockets of snow. Glistening pearls. Mountaintops were everywhere; he couldn’t turn without seeing dozens, ocean whitecaps, he was floating on them here under Mount Tura.

  “Hello!” The sound fell into quieting echoes. Grinning, Alphonse looped his rope, clipped it to his harness and started up.

  Pinches and handholds were everywhere. The climb was not technical, not at all. At twenty feet he pivoted into the fracture and jammed his right toes in front and left heel behind.