by James Bow
Fiona smiled. “Yes.”
Peter let out the breath he was holding. “Where am I?” he whispered.
“Home. Look.” She helped him back to his feet.
Peter opened his eyes, then closed them immediately as the world swam around him. Fiona held him steady until he was ready to look again.
He stood knee deep in water a few feet from shore.
The breeze blew at his back, warm as a hair dryer. A line of cliffs rose around them, topped by trees of green, red, and gold. A line of flowerpot islands — small columns of stone — stretched out into the bay.
As his gaze reached the sky, he frowned. There were no clouds. No sun or stars, either. The dome above was a smooth aquamarine. “That can’t be right,” he muttered. The cliffs were no different from those around Clarksbury. Even the water tasted the same, and yet … where was he?
And how did he get here?
Fiona pressed his back, gently. “Can you walk?”
He swallowed. “Yeah.” They splashed ashore. Peter stood dripping. Fiona looked dry. They stood a moment, staring at each other. Fiona smiled at him. Her hair fluttered in the breeze. The waves slapped the shore. Finally, Peter broke the silence. “So … where do we go now?”
“I told you,” said Fiona, kindly. “Home.”
“How do we get there?”
“We follow that girl.” Fiona pointed. Peter looked. Behind him, on the top of one of a boulder that stood at the water’s edge, sat a young girl, no more than nine. She had brown curls, wore green robes, and sat facing the bay, knees hugged to her chest.
“Ariel!” Fiona called, and the girl perked up. She looked at them and, at the sight of Fiona, squealed and scrambled down the face of the rock. She ran into Fiona’s arms. “Fionarra! You’re back!”
Fiona embraced her. “Ariel.”
Peter frowned at her. “Fionarra?”
She smiled ruefully. “You may call me Fiona.”
Ariel squirmed free of Fiona’s embrace and turned to Peter. She stopped when she looked up at him. She swallowed. “Is this … him?”
“Yes, Ariel, this is Peter.”
Peter shifted under Ariel’s gaze of awe. The stones clicked beneath his feet. “Er … hi!”
Ariel squeaked and ducked behind Fiona. Peter blushed.
Fiona stepped aside and pushed Ariel into the open.
“Don’t be shy. You’ve so wanted to meet Peter.”
Peter swallowed hard. “Hi,” he said again.
“Hello,” said the girl.
The waves lapped the beach. Peter and Ariel stared at each other, unsure what to say. He’d never seen her before, he was sure, but there was something familiar about that round face, the brown hair, and the wide brown eyes.
Then Fiona pushed them forward. “Come, you two. The village awaits.”
Peter felt his stomach drop. “Village?”
“And your family,” said Fiona.
Family. The word knotted his stomach. This place was at once familiar and not familiar. The shape of the bay, Ariel. His future filled him with hope and dread. It pressed at him like the water and song. He kept himself from taking Fiona’s hand, and followed her.
As they walked, Ariel forgot her shyness. She bounded ahead and back, chattering. Her curls bobbed as she bombarded him with questions.
“Did you live in a house back where you were?” asked Ariel. “With electricity?”
“Um … yeah.” Peter gave Fiona a look, but she just smiled.
“And cars? Did you have a car?”
“Uh … yes.”
“Were you lonely?”
Peter blinked at her and glanced at Fiona.
Ariel went squealing after some sandpipers and Peter couldn’t help but grin. “Is she your sister?”
Fiona shook her head, but she didn’t meet his gaze.
They followed the beach to where the cliffs bowed low. As they started to ascend, Peter stopped and turned back.
“Wait a minute ...”
The shape of the bay, the path they were on, were almost like what he remembered of the shoreline near Clarksbury. Almost …
As he stared back at the bay, he could see the escarpment stretching out into the water, but on his left when it should be on his right. The shape of the bay was mirror-image to what he was used to.
“It’s … backwards.”
Fiona pulled at his sleeve. “Your people are waiting.”
The knot returned to Peter’s stomach, but he followed her. The continuing clash between déjà vu and the strangeness of the world didn’t help. The first trees he saw were Earth trees (apples, maples, and aspen), but in all the seasons of the year (seeds, flowers, and fruit). Some leaves were turning red and gold, and other leaves were just coming out.
Someone had nailed a bucket to a maple and was collecting sap.
Then they turned onto the shelf that stretched back from the top of the escarpment, and Peter saw the village.
Ariel pointed ahead of them. “That’s where I live!”
The pathway led to a central park, bounded by houses on all sides. The park was a large patch of grass with a copse of trees at one side, and a small amphitheatre of stones in the middle, like a dry wading pool. Familiarity welled up in Peter’s stomach and lodged as a lump in his throat.
The surrounding homes were tall and thin, raggedtopped as if with gables, made of smooth stone the colour of brick. Behind the houses, a line of cliffs rose up like distant skyscrapers.
And people. Women passed with long hair fluttering behind them; men sat in doorways and talked. Their clothes were odd — green or blue tunics with hose — but the familiarity remained. Their friendly, neighbourhood chatter reached out to him across years.
It was all Peter could do to not run into the third house down the street, calling for his mom. Instead, he stood at the entrance to the park, until the sirens called to them.
“Fionarra!” people shouted. “Welcome back!”
Ariel waved and Fiona smiled. She touched Peter’s back and gently, but firmly, pushed him forward towards the third house down the street. His, after all. His home.
Conversations stopped when Peter and Fiona passed by, then started again as whispers.
“It’s him, isn’t it?”
Peter suddenly felt the eyes of the whole village on him, from every person outside and from every window. Ariel led him by the hand, across a gravel road and over a stone walk and a patch of green stones like a lawn, towards the steps leading to a small porch. “Home!” she said. The front door was open for them. Peter hesitated, but felt the eyes all on his back. He swallowed once, then stepped inside.
“The Lost Child, come home!” said Fiona, at his back.
In a tall, narrow foyer, he stood on floorboards, amongst walls that were a smooth, beige stone. Ariel darted into the hallway with a shriek of laughter, her bare feet slapping. Peter listened to the sound like an echo.
“Take off your coat,” said Fiona, stepping back.
Peter took off his windbreaker and, without thinking, tossed it at the wall. It caught neatly on a hook and hung by its collar. Peter stood a moment, arm outstretched in the act of throwing, staring at his jacket.
Then he heard Ariel’s voice echoing from the kitchen. “Everybody! Fionarra’s home and she’s brought the Lost One with her!”
There was a burst of talk and chairs scraping back.
Peter took a backwards step towards the door.
Fiona touched his shoulder. “Peter? What’s wrong?”
Peter struggled to keep his breath. “Fiona, I’m not ready.”
Fiona frowned. “What are you —”
“I-I can’t deal with this … it’s too much.” He pushed back against Fiona’s gently restraining arm. What if he didn’t know his family? What if he didn’t like them? What if they didn’t like him? What if he wasn’t really home? “I-I’m not ready.”
Fiona’s hand moved from his shoulder to his temple. “Peter, please come.”
His doubts vanished. He followed down the hall and into the kitchen. The walls and floors felt uneven, though they looked level. He was reminded of a sea cave furnished at yard sales. There was a church pew along one wall. A hat stand with a missing arm. They passed a room where Peter could see a cupboard with blue paint peeling. The television and his toys would be inside that. A basket of magazines and a folded quilt. Or … not.
Suddenly there was a crowd of people, Ariel bobbing among them. It was as if she’d created them while he’d been lost inside the memory of his parents’ TV cupboard. Suddenly he was the centre of attention. People embraced, poked, and prodded until he felt like a plush toy.
“So,” said a tall woman standing apart from the crowd. She had Fiona’s hair and slim build, but there were crow’s feet under her eyes, and wrinkles over the line of her jaw. “This is young Peter, come back to us?”
“Yes, Mother,” said Fiona, pushing him forward proudly. “On the other side, he was known as Peter McAllister.”
Fiona’s mother put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Then that name you shall retain, unless you choose otherwise. I am Eleanna. Welcome back to our world.”
Peter mouth was dry. “Thank you,” he stammered. “It’s … er … good to be here.”
“Come to the kitchen. You must be hungry after your long journey. Please, eat.”
They led him into a room with a hearth in the corner. There was a basin cut into a stone shelf. A big butcher’s block stood like an altar at the middle of the room. The air smelled like a feast and there was food everywhere.
Eleanna pressed a small, round, reddish-brown cake into Peter’s hands before he had a chance to refuse. It was warm and smelled of fish. He took a bite, more to avoid offence than out of hunger. More food was pressed into his hands.
You shouldn’t eat the food of the dead, said some stray part of his memory.
“It is good to have you come back to us, Peter McAllister,” said a tall woman with waist-length black hair. “It has been too long since we have had a Homecoming.” “Homecoming?” Peter repeated.
“How was your journey?”
“What is it like on the other side?”
The chatter began to fly.
“Do they still light their homes with electricity, or have they found something else?”
“Why do they make their boats so noisy?”
“Were you lonely?”
Peter felt as if the attention was pressing on him. He thought he might drown. He grabbed at the altar for help.
A tall man with a red beard leaned close. “How was your journey?” Peter could feel the man’s voice in his chest. He was huge.
“I-I-I don’t remember.” He felt short of breath. More plates were pressed close.
The tall man frowned at Fiona. “How came you to find him, Fionarra?”
She stared back coolly. “Though hard work and perseverance, Merius.”
Merius picked up a trident that had been set by the kitchen door, and left the room.
Still the chatter continued. And with it, other questions bombarded Peter’s mind. Who are all these people? What’s missing? Who’s missing? Where’s Rosemary?
Sweat trickled down Peter’s brow. He swayed, dizzy.
Fiona stepped through the crowd. Her hand clamped on Peter’s shoulder, and his thoughts vanished. “Please,” she said to the others, “Peter has had a long journey. We should give him time to rest.” She took Peter by the arm. The kitchen was much quieter, suddenly, as if half the people had vanished. “Come, Peter. Let’s find you a room.”
“Wait!” Peter shook her off. “Where are they? Where are my parents?”
A silence fell upon the kitchen. It filled Peter’s heart with lead.
“Come on,” he said. “You said I’d find my family here, so where are they? Where are my parents?”
Eleanna shifted uncomfortably. “Peter, I’m sorry —”
The ground slipped from Peter’s feet. “No!”
He was running by the time he got to the kitchen door.
“Peter!” Fiona cried.
He darted into the hallway, hearing people call his name. He ran for … where? But he knew he had to find someplace where he could be alone. He’d been alone for six years, and then he wasn’t, and then he was again. The family he never knew was already gone.
He dashed for the front door, skidding to a halt as it opened before another visitor. He ducked into a room and hid in a corner.
He stood in the hollow behind the door as people milled about in the hallway. Some went out the front door, calling his name. Others returned to the kitchen, speaking in hushed tones. Finally, everyone was gone.
“Peter?”
Except for Ariel, who seemed exceptionally good at hide and seek.
She stood in front of him, eyes wide with curiosity.
“Why did you run away?”
He took a deep breath to answer, then stopped.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Fionarra says you are tired.”
He sighed. “Yes. No. Coming here … it’s a shock, a big shock. And then ...”
“Then, what?”
“I … I’ve been alone for so long. I came to find my family.”
“But you have a family, now! The village is a family.”
“A village isn’t a family,” snapped Peter. “Don’t you get it? My parents … my parents died. I didn’t have anybody at home. And now I come here, and you tell me my parents died here again? I mean, what are the odds?
It’s like a curse or something. What happened to them?”
Ariel shifted uncomfortably. “They just … died.”
He knelt in front of her. “You knew them? How did they die?”
She bit her lip. “It was their time.”
“What do you —” He stopped when he saw a tear brim and trickle down her cheek. “What … are you crying?”
“Mom and Dad!” Ariel said, and she hugged him, sobbing on his shoulder.
“Wha—” Peter mouthed. Then he pried Ariel’s arms off of him and held her by her shoulders. She cleared her nose with a sniff. “Were they your parents, too?”
She nodded.
He blinked. “You’re my sister?”
She sucked her lip, then nodded.
“You’re my sister?”
She nodded again.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I … I couldn’t.”
Peter had to sit down, now. There were no chairs, so he made do with the floor.
“You’re my sister,” he repeated. “Oh my god.”
“Peter?”
“What do I do now? I-I-I didn’t even know I had a sister!”
“Just be my brother,” she said. “Be with me. I have nobody to be with.”
“Ariel ....” Peter shifted the unfamiliar name over his tongue. “I can’t just … I can’t —”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t!”
Ariel stared at him. Her eyes glistened. “Don’t you want a sister, Peter?”
He stared in horror at her tears. “I … come here.” He drew her into a tight hug. She was warm and soft — not sea-glass smooth like Fiona, just little-kid soft. Human. Real. His sister. “I’m sorry. I just … there are so many changes. I was scared.”
“You must have been so lonely,” Ariel whispered into his shoulder.
“You have no idea.” He squeezed her. It was the happiest moment of his life. And he was crying.
A part of his mind spoke up, whispering “where’s Rosemary?” into his thoughts. It went ignored. He held Ariel close.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SOMETHING RICH AND STRANGE
Rosemary kept running long after the splashing pursuit faded behind her. It was only when she stumbled, barking her shins on the stones, that her body took over and told her to rest.
She lay gasping for breath. If she had wanted any proof she wasn’t in Clarksbury anymore, she had it. Unless Bruce
Nuclear had had an accident, Georgian Bay was not populated by flying salamander piranhas.
As her heart slowed, her forearm started throbbing. The dead piranha was still hanging there, teeth buried deep under her skin. Rosemary worked her fingers into the creature’s mouth and forced the jaws apart with a wet snap. Blood trickled down her wrist and off her fingers in rivulets. Now she had time to think about it, it hurt. A lot.
Cupping water in her left hand, she washed the blood off her other arm. She pulled off her scarf and wrapped it around the wound, using her teeth to cinch it tight. She flexed her fingers, and gasped at the bolt of pain.
Every profanity she knew went through her mind, and she resolved to learn more. Slumping against a boulder, she caught the rest of her breath.
Another shipwreck in the fog; the gunnels of a steamship poked above the waves. Wooden furniture of the sort Rosemary hadn’t seen outside of an antique shop lay scattered about. There was no sign of any people.
“This is a graveyard,” she muttered.
She swallowed. Then she pushed on, wondering what to do next.
“The flying piranhas change nothing,” she said to the air. “I have to find Peter, and I won’t leave until I do.”
No, the flying piranhas change everything. I’m not alone on this world, and the creatures that are here want to eat me.
“I just need to avoid the water.”
I was hoping to get across that water. The only boats I’ve found are wrecked. What do I do? Grab some planks and nails and build myself a raft?
“Something will come up. Just keep moving.”
The stones clattered beneath her, a sound of slow rockslides. The breakers rumbled at the edge of hearing. As she pressed forward, the familiar sounds washed over her. Stones beneath her feet. Waves breaking on the shore. If it were just a little warmer, it would have been just like the time when she and Peter …
No. Stop. Focus. Forward.
A wave rolled in and splashed her feet. She burst out laughing.
Ahead of her, Peter stumbled backwards, and squeezed the water from his pant leg. “Hey!” he shouted. “I’ve got to walk home in these pants!”
“They’ll dry, silly!” she said. She pushed past him and ran for the water’s edge, barefoot. She ducked back as a wave rolled in, soaking her calves up to her knees. She let out a shriek. “Cold!”