Smith's Monthly #17

by Smith, Dean Wesley

  Everything is becoming the color of a road surface, bland and without contrast.

  I love contrast in things. A day without contrast just isn’t a good day for me. Today is not a good day. It needs to rain to change that. The wet of the rain needs to contrast with the dry of the ash. That would make it a good day.

  I stare at the television again. The man who did the nightly news had looked alarmed when he had come on and said to stay tuned for further emergency messages, but that had been a half hour ago.

  I figure it was lucky, at least so far, that the power hadn’t gone out. If it does, I am prepared, with candles and matches and everything, even though it is still sort of light outside.

  Actually, it is just a little after two in the afternoon, but the cloud of ash falling from the sky has turned the day into dusk.

  I stop and put my face against the window like a kid staring into a candy store. Outside the ash is halfway up the post on my slightly-tipped mail box that sits just off the edge of my driveway.

  I have been meaning to straighten the post because I hate to leave a message to the world that I thought the mail was a crooked thing. Actually, I have no opinion of the mail system in this country. I have just never got around to fixing the mailbox post.

  Getting around to things often is my worst problem, or at least that was what my mother used to say.

  The one girlfriend I had had since I got out of school had said the same thing. It seemed I didn’t get around to her often enough either. I would have, if she hadn’t slammed the door in my face and left.

  I stare out the window again as I pace. The ash looks light and fluffy and fun to walk through. It might be. At one point I thought about going outside to test the theory, but then the emergency folks warned over the television that everyone should stay inside because the ash might be poisonous.

  That warning had made me look at the gray stuff completely differently, shifting my perspective from fun and light to gray and dangerous. Amazing how a simple warning can change perspectives of a person like that.

  Poison gray snow is falling from the sky. That is worse than yellow snow I figure. Yellow or gray, either way I am going to do what the man on the news channel had said to do, and stay inside.

  The power flickers.

  I hold my breath as if holding my breath will help the power stay on.

  Maybe it did, because the power stabilizes again, leaving the television still showing gray, and the window still showing gray.

  I go back to hoping and wishing and thinking about rain, which is better than thinking about the power going out.

  Before my phone had stopped working, I had talked to my old buddy Mike about the ash coming our way. That had been just after the volcano blew this morning, and the first warnings about a heavy ash fall to the west of the volcano were being sent out.

  That was also before the big gray cloud rolled in from the east. It had been a sunny day. Perfect car-washing weather. And the man on the radio had said as I was waking up that there was no chance of rain for the next few days.

  Mike had said that rain would eventually wet down the ash and turn it into mud, and that we were all going to be stuck in our houses until the next rain.

  After seeing the ash reach halfway up the mail box post, I am starting to believe him, even though I hadn’t when he said it.

  Now I hope for rain, and wait for the man on the television to come back on to tell me what to do.

  And I pace.

  Pacing is something to do. I take turns staring at the gray television and the gray world outside the window, and pacing between the two.

  But pacing doesn’t seem like enough. There has to be something I can do.

  Then the thought comes to me: Maybe I can bring rain.

  I dig through a pile of books behind my reading chair and find an old Native American rituals book. Actually, the title is Indian Rituals and their Practice. The book had been published at least fifty years before the turn of the last century. I still make myself think of the book as the Native American rituals book, and never look at the real title.

  In chapter six the author talks about the different types of rain dances. I stare at the old black and white pictures. I could look the part of a Native American. I could get a few feathers left over from an old Halloween turkey decoration I had in the attic, then stick the feathers in the headband I use for jogging.

  I think about the idea for a moment. I could also use some lipstick left behind by my old girlfriend as ceremonial paint on my forehead. She had used it for ceremonial occasions on her lips, so I figure it would work fine.

  I could be a real rain dancer.

  Then I realize I don’t know the steps. I had never been a good dancer, and more often than not girls in school had laughed at my attempts. It is bad enough having high school girls laugh at you. Having the rain laugh would be another matter. Much worse I am sure.

  And there is no Rain Dancing school that I can attend to learn in enough time to make a difference.

  I put the book behind my reading chair and go back to pacing and watching the different versions of the same show. Gray world through the window, gray television on the air.

  On the television nothing happens, outside the window the ash has now reached the top of the mailbox.

  Suddenly the television blares out an alarm, reminding me that I had kept the sound up earlier when I had gone into the bathroom, just in case it had come back. If I had been in the bathroom and that alarm sounded, I would have heard it just fine. Standing beside the television, it gives me a very sharp surprise.

  And not a rain surprise.

  I turn the sound down to normal levels just as a man’s face replaces the sign that reads “Emergency Broadcast System.”

  I pay the man close attention because he does not look happy. In fact he looks very upset, and in all my years of watching men with perfect suits and hair repeat news stories to me, I have never seen one look upset. Even his tie is crooked and looked upset.

  “The National Guard, State, and Federal agencies have advised that everyone remain inside. The ash cloud is still growing, and there is no sure idea when it will pass.”

  I do not like the sounds of those words, but I keep listening and he keeps talking.

  “Testing on the ash has been inconclusive as to its dangers. Medical agencies at this time do not know the extent of the content of the ash and warn that you do not breathe in any of the ash, or let it touch your skin.”

  I turn the sound down some as he starts into how far the road closures were extending, how far the ash cloud might drift, and so on. It seems clear to me that all my hoping and wishing and thoughts of doing a rain dance have done no good. The ash is continuing to fall, and no one really knows anything more.

  The television goes back to the sign and then back to gray after a few minutes. I pull my maroon reading chair around so that it faces the window so I can watch the gray, lack of contrast show going on outside.

  The falling flakes of ash seem hypnotic.

  THREE

  At some point, those flakes must have put me to sleep, because when I wake up I have another surprise waiting for me. My window is completely covered in ash. And little bits of it are seeping in around the edges of the single pane window where normally only a draft and a few drops of water appear.

  That surprises me.

  That is the second time in two days I have woken up from a nap and been surprised.

  Plus the fact that the power is still on surprises me.

  Sort of a bonus surprise.

  I have no upstairs in my small, one-bedroom house with a lean-to on the side for a garage. So I can not run up and see how deep the ash has gotten while I napped. But the clock on the wall says I have been asleep for two hours. Clearly ash falling is a very peaceful thing.

  Around me the house creaks slightly, as if a wind is blowing outside. After two house creaks the alarm sounds softly on the television, startling me just like it had done be
fore my nap when it was turned up loud.

  After a few moments the man with the crooked tie comes back on. Only this time the tie is gone and his eyes look red. Clearly he needs a nap like I had just gotten.

  He goes through the same speech he gave the last time I had listened. The ash continues, and is spreading. And from all aerial shots that they could get, which look very beautiful on television, the volcano continues to spew out ash at an ever increasing rate.

  I stare at the beautiful blue sky around the volcano above the ash. It is a very sharp contrast to the gray outside my window.

  I pay even more attention as the tie-less man gets to reports of the depth of the ash in certain places around the metropolitan area. With some of these numbers he cannot look at the camera, but instead just reads calmly.

  He is like a doctor telling a patient he is about to die. When he gets to my area of town, and says that the depth of the ash has reached forty feet and is continuing to build up, I know I am the patient.

  I have been buried alive while I napped.

  And my little house is my coffin.

  Now that is a surprise I had never dreamed I would wake up to find.

  Again the house creaks and adds in a groan. The man without a tie on the television says he will return in fifteen minutes. Before the alarm signaling the end of his little talk can end, the power goes off.

  It seems that for the near future I will not be able to check on the progress of the man and his tie.

  I sit in the dark for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the lack of light, then move slowly to find the candles on my small kitchen table. The first match seems extra bright, and after a moment and three matches I have five candles burning, giving the house a warm feel, and a sulfur smell.

  I look around deciding that I have to think about my house differently than a coffin. I have to think of it as a safe, warm cave.

  Only my cave has a limited supply of oxygen and might collapse under the weight of the ash.

  I stop the thought and make myself think of the house, lit by the orange glow of the flickering candles, as my cave.

  I get settled on one of my two kitchen chairs, repeating the word “cave” over and over. I am in the fifth or sixth repetition when there is a huge crash and the area around me fills with swirling ash.

  Thinking quickly, I lean forward over the table and shelter one candle and a box of matches as best I can.

  Somehow I manage to keep the candle burning as the ash swirls like a gray river filling up a space.

  The heat from the candle burns my neck a little, but I ignore that. And I try to ignore the bone-dry feel of the ash and the smell of rotting eggs that fills every sense I have.

  I take slow, shallow breaths through my nose, trying not to let too much of the stuff into my lungs.

  Slowly, so slowly, the stuff settles and I grow used to the smell.

  I look up, using the one candle to see how the ash now coats everything I own with a layer of gray that makes all my things look faded.

  The other candles have gone out, but moving slowly, so as to not swirl up too much more ash, I get two of them lit, giving me enough light to see the living room.

  My big front window is smashed inward from the pressure of all that ash against it. My living room is full of ash, and the televisions are buried.

  Around me the house creaks again, but nothing else happens. Maybe the window breaking open has relieved some pressure, but I didn’t know how that might work. It is just the best positive thought I can come up with at the moment.

  FOUR

  I look around, staring at all the odd differences a thin layer of ash can make with things. My mirror still reflects, but it also scatters the light. The table is covered, but not much of the area under the table, leaving the faded green tile as a contrast.

  Every corner in the place seems rounded by the ash, every edge dulled.

  I slowly open my fridge, get out a red apple and a bottle of water, then take my three candles and crawl under my kitchen table. Now the next time something breaks and lets in more ash, I will be protected. The table is like a second home, giving me another roof over my head.

  Suddenly, as if someone had stuck a feather down my throat, I cough. I manage to cough into the kitchen and away from the candles.

  They stay lit.

  Dust swirls with the cough.

  The house creaks.

  I lay down on the floor, on my back, trying not to cough again while staring at the underside of the kitchen table. It is a sight I had never expected to see. I would think that no one would ever expect to see the unfinished underside of a table by candle light. But still it has a beauty all its own as the flames give the surface odd shadows.

  I focus on the shadows for a moment trying not to cough.

  Then, while staring at the underside of the kitchen table, I think about washing my Rambler.

  I can remember the feel of how much I had wanted rain today, how much I was angry at the rain the day before.

  Now I have changed again. I don’t want it to rain. Rain now will make the ash even heavier, and more than likely crush my poor little house.

  For the third time in just two days, my feelings about rain have changed. Part of me is glad that I had never tripped on religion and prayed for rain, because I might have been successful.

  And it was lucky I can’t dance.

  I laugh at the idea that my not being able to dance might save my life.

  I yawn, while at the same time trying to not breathe in any of the dry ash still floating in the air.

  I have no idea why I am so sleepy. Maybe there is a sleep drug in the ash. Maybe, after all this was over, they would shovel up the ash and put it in bottles and sell it to the rest of the world for a sleep-aid.

  It would work well. I am getting very tired.

  I yawn again, and then close my eyes.

  Maybe, just maybe, a little nap might help.

  Maybe the ash is doing me a favor, allowing me to sleep so that when I wake up there will be yet another surprise.

  Maybe by then the power will be back on, and a wind will have come up and blown all the ash away, and then I can again hope for rain to help clean up the yard.

  Surprises after naps are always interesting. I just have to think they are going to be good.

  As I drift off into my nap, I yawn again and think about how much fun it will be to again wash my Rambler.

  Belle returns to her old hometown, looking for clues as to what happened to her great-great-grandmother a hundred years in the past.

  Zane, on a secret mission into the past, never expects to meet the woman of his dreams.

  A complex time travel novel that explores alternate realities, a future no one wants to face, and sets the Thunder Mountain universe going into the future.

  WARM SPRINGS

  A Thunder Mountain Novel

  For Kris

  PART ONE

  The Institute

  CHAPTER ONE

  June 9th, 2020

  Boise, Idaho

  ISABELLE “BELLE” RUSSELL felt stunned by the sheer beauty of Warm Springs Avenue in Boise, Idaho. The massive old oak and cottonwood trees formed a dark green ceiling over the wide boulevard, letting the sun through in only streaks of brilliance.

  On the right side of the road when leaving the downtown area, majestic stone and white-painted Victorian mansions sat back away from the road behind high hedges and wrought-iron gates. The rows of mansions with their high peaks overlooked the Boise River below and the Boise Valley and desert to the east.

  The morning air was crisp, but held a promise of getting much warmer as the day went on. Boise was built on the edge of the high desert, sprawled along a river between the desert and towering mountains. Modern homes had crawled up the ridgelines of the foothills above the city like strings of lights draped over dark brown shapes.

  Last night, all those lights had been something to see as she drove in her rented car from the airport into
downtown Boise. But during the day, the brown of the foothills leading to pine trees much higher up the slopes was the dominant feature over the town.

  From where she stood on the wide concrete sidewalk on Warm Springs Avenue, she could see neither the mountains behind her or much beyond glimpses of the huge mansions in front of her through the walls and hedges.

  Down the avenue a half-mile closer to town was her family’s old home, also a large mansion on the river’s side of the avenue. She had stopped and stared at it for a time from her car, trying to get a peek of anything through the high hedge and fence. Maybe later she would go back there and talk to the owners.

  She had dressed in layers for the morning. She had on jeans, her running shoes, a light white blouse with a sports bra under it, and for the chill this morning, she had pulled on a green Stanford sweatshirt. She was glad she had.

  She had been born and raised in Phoenix, so anything that seemed the slightest bit cold sent chills through her. At the age of thirty-one, she had never gotten over that, even after being away from Phoenix except for visits for over a decade.

  She had flown in last night from San Francisco, rented a car, and found her wonderful upscale hotel in the center of the city, just blocks from the lit-up capitol building that looked like a smaller duplicate of the one in Washington, DC.

  At night, the capitol building’s polished stones shone under the lights and the small park in front of it where a statue of a man standing on a pedestal gave the entire area a feeling of importance.

  She had fallen into bed thirty minutes after arriving, tired from the last days of teaching for the spring semester at Stanford, and then the flight to Boise. But now, this morning, she felt much more refreshed and ready to enjoy herself, and with luck do some special research in a brand new place.

  But most of all, she wanted to find out just what the Historical Studies Institute wanted of her. They said they had an offer and were willing to pay all expenses for her to come and listen to the offer.