by J. C. Geiger
“Why else?”
He laughed. “Good, good. Go on and talk to them. They’re easy. Don’t let his handshake fool you.”
The older pair looked like they’d tumbled off a Harley-Davidson a few years ago and never got back on. The woman, full of energy. Leaning on one foot, then the next. A shock of bright purple hair. Her necklace of small shells clacked together as she moved. The man had light brown skin and a body structure like how a snowman might look if you built him out of boulders. His face looked like it should hold a chest-length beard and was somehow more terrifying without one.
Griff twined his way through the crowd, then was shaking the stone man’s hand. He gripped Griff’s bones like a sleeve of crackers. Crunch.
“I’m the Mole,” he said. The voice!
No recording. No preserving.
“Wow,” Griff said. “So nice to meet you.”
Like meeting a celebrity. Or a terrifying Greek god.
“What did you have in those receivers?” the Mole asked. “Copper coil?”
When the Mole talked, his face opened like a straight hinge. A rock puppet.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hey there, Thunderbird,” the woman said. “Marilyn.” Older than his mother, but she drawled her words and slung her hips like a surly teenager. Every wrinkle looked as if it had landed by mistake.
“That wardrobe! Thought you might be here to shut this place down,” Marilyn said.
“I don’t even know what this place is,” Griff said.
She laughed, touched his arm.
“First thing,” she said, “we ought to get you to Mirror, Mirror. Get you outfitted, get you to Simon. I assume y’all are going to stick around.”
“I’m—”
Marilyn’s Mirror, Mirror comment landed like a spark in a pile of dry leaves, the whole room crackling with it—
Mirror, Mirror! Mirror, Mirror!
“Can I touch you?” someone asked in his ear.
“Uh,” Griff said. “Sure.”
Stitch had him by the hand. A small and powerful engine and something lovely about it, being dragged with firm affection toward—who knows?
Mirror, Mirror.
The crew was packing up, downing drinks, pouring new ones. Malachi, with the UFO earring, found Neapolitan a cozy place to be under a worktable—all climate-controlled to keep equipment safe—and Stitch pulled him with her vortex energy through a purple tapestry into a small dark space.
“You the adventurous type?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
They were standing very close. He could smell maté and liquor on her breath.
Her right hand reached toward him, then grabbed a latch. She pushed a portion of the tower wall swinging out into the night. A cool breeze tickled his cheeks. Moonlight. Griff was laughing. The whole desert, spread out in front of him.
A small steel catwalk, a railing he gripped tightly—go on. Griff stepped outside. He could see for miles. Mountains looked stemmy and cratered as coral. Below, people moved in productive clusters—tents, sun sails, glittering paths, an anomalous grove of distant trees and yet—where was the stage?
“Where does the Band play?” Griff asked.
“The shows?” Stitch asked. She pointed to a cluster of peaks. “Through there. Pocket canyon. Oh no. Oh no.”
“What?” he asked.
Her face went slack and solemn. So fast, it sent goose bumps bolting up his arms.
“I shouldn’t have told you. I’m not supposed to tell.”
He knew what would happen before it happened, and it was already too late. Stitch leapt from the edge of the catwalk and screamed the whole way down.
FIFTY-EIGHT
A FIRE POLE. THE PREPPERS WOULD’VE LOVED IT.
The whole crew watched from the sand, hooting and clapping.
“His face!”
Did he really think Stitch would kill herself? He knew only one thing—he was going down this fire pole.
“Griff! Griff! Griff! Griff!”
He grabbed the cool steel and leapt. A giddy, stomach-dropping feeling and he touched down feather-light. They shook his shoulders, slapped his back, and there was Charity, smiling.
“Was that as fun as it looked?” she asked.
“Better,” Griff said, rubbing his hands together. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so light.”
“You’ve never been so light,” Charity said. “I was so worried about you.”
She hugged him. Good, long squeeze.
“Is this happening?” Griff asked.
“It appears so,” she said.
“I’m—” he began.
“I know,” she said.
The group walked from the base of the tower to the top of a wooden ladder.
“We get to go down into The Paths,” Thomas said, clapping his hands. He said “The Paths” with capital letters, as if he’d already learned so much. His breath smelled like rubbing alcohol and Kool-Aid.
One by one, they descended into the Paths. A dozen rungs down, the air in the canyons felt different. Cooler. The smell of sawed wood and burnt sage. The effect was incredible. Like parachuting into the heart of a city. Booths and tents clung to tall dirt walls like wild mushrooms cleave to a log. Benches and tents. Caves and squirrelly little dens.
“Ooooh,” Thomas said, pointing. “Sneaky coves.”
“Your lips are blue,” Griff said.
“I drank the Truth Juice,” he said.
Moments later, Thomas was holding hands with a girl with long, braided green hair. Thomas looked at Griff, then down at his handholding situation, as if he was carrying a suitcase of large, unmarked bills.
Already holding hands? How did this happen?
Someone sidled up next to Griff.
“Can I hold your hand?” Moondog asked.
Moondog held Griff’s hand. Strange. He wore a blue bracelet, like Malachi’s black one. Moondog looked to be about their age, but small. All of him seemed like it could fold up and fit in a tiny suitcase. Griff took a deep breath. Charity was arm in arm with the tall girl with braids, Alea.
“Look,” Moondog said.
A brilliant peach made of blown glass—one bite missing. It rested precariously on a wooden crate. Art, everywhere. Slabs of driftwood with mosaicked spawning salmon. Handmade water spigots. Crooked benches looked worn and knotted in the right places, slanting and tucking into each space just so. To Griff’s left, a path carved wide switchbacks back up to the plateau. A ramp for cars?
Who’d built this place?
Ahead, wild decorations hung across the steep canyon walls, a makeshift roof of ribbons, flags—or clothing. Underwear clipped and knotted to look like birds, shirt cuffs holding hands, skirts and dresses pinned as if twirling. As they walked, disembodied clothing slowly consumed the sky. A carnival of potential identities.
Hats heaped on crooked tables. Clothes spilled from whisky barrels. Wooden boxes of jewelry. A wire racks of masks. Smiling tigers and expressionless mimes. Hook-nosed vultures. The group broke apart, tried on new faces.
Ahead, the path dead-ended in a wall of sky-high purple curtains.
“Time to change,” Stitch said. She whipped off her shirt. Bra! Griff spun around. What was happening? Now they were pilling things into his arms—
Oh, here—you’d look smashing, this is just your color—
Somehow, almost immediately, Thomas was wearing a pink cowboy hat and mirrored sunglasses. Sleeveless white shirt, leather chaps.
“Ride ’em, cowboy!”
Thomas whooped and rode an invisible horse, swatted it with his hand. People loved him. Charity went next, vanishing through a fold in the elevated curtains that must’ve been the changing room. Did Griff imagine it—all of them glancing in that direction, the trailing off of side conversations as suspense mounted? Were they all waiting to see her, too?
Moments later, she exited to whistles, wild applause.
Like when he’d first seen her on stage—dazzl
ing. Brand-new again. The dress was blue and white and lacy like she’d slipped through a hole in the sky and come out wearing a piece of it. He wanted to tell her how good she looked. Wanted to hold her—
“That’s my girl,” Stitch said. Then she grabbed Griff by the wrist. “Your turn, handsome. Watch your step!”
Behind the curtains, a small wooden stage. Griff stepped up, grabbed for an opening. He followed the folds until he was nestled into the fabric. Straight ahead, a full-length mirror. Leo stared back at him.
“I know you found it first,” Griff said. “What do you want? Should I leave?”
Leo shook his head. He looked worried.
“What?” Griff asked.
A pained, familiar expression. The last look Leo had ever given him. Again, Griff saw the wave pounce. Saw the emptied ledge and churning water and tasted the spray and could not breathe. He shoved through the curtains, couldn’t escape, dropped his clothing, tripped down the wooden stage onto the grit and—hey, you okay—they were pulling him up but something else was happening.
A set of headlights, gliding toward them down the Paths.
Light washed their faces. Doors opened.
“All right, boys,” said the familiar voice. “Get in the car.”
FIFTY-NINE
THE CAR WAS A JEEP—THE MOLEMOBILE.
Charity was already inside.
“Hey,” she said. She scooted next to Griff in her heavenly dress. She looked unbelievably happy. Like she’d peeled off a whole hard layer he’d never even known was there. She leaned her head against his shoulder. Solid. Still her.
“Do you know where we’re going?” Griff asked.
He suddenly didn’t care.
“To see Simon,” Charity said. “I guess he decides if we can stay.”
“Stay?” he said. The Band hadn’t even played yet. What did they have to do?
“Where’s Thomas?” the Mole asked from the driver’s seat.
“Gettin’ froggy,” Marilyn said.
The Mole flashed his brights.
“Oh gosh,” Charity said.
Griff had never known Thomas to kiss anyone—yet there he was. Tucked into a pillowed little enclosure made up to look like a frog’s mouth, doing some serious, face-tilted, advanced-level tongue business.
“C’mon, lover!” Marilyn screamed. She reached over and honked.
Thomas tumbled out of the cove and wobbled into the jeep. He straightened his cowboy hat. Put his sunglasses in his front pocket.
“What was that about?” Griff said.
“I don’t know exactly,” Thomas said, settling in beside them. “But I’ll tell you this. I, for one, am loving the desert.”
The jeep inched through the narrow corridor, advancing toward the curtained wall. To the right of the central mirror, Rumblefish and Malachi pulled a rope, lifting the curtain. Beyond the fabric, another network of vast alleys and avenues. Charity pointed to the right. A statue of a white rabbit, holding a stopwatch.
The Mole accelerated, bumping them farther into the Paths.
“Make-out coves,” Thomas said matter-of-factly. “I mean—that person just asked me to make out. And then we were making out in a proper cove. I mean—”
Charity laughed.
“Why not more make-out coves? For the benefit of civilization, why are we not making out at all times?”
“Kissing is more than a hobby,” Charity said.
“It’s my hobby now,” Thomas said. “Seventeen years of nothing. A wasteland of missed opportunities! Out here, you just have to ask the question.”
Thomas looked at her closely.
“Charity,” Thomas said.
“Not a chance,” Charity said. “I’ve barely forgiven you. And kissing is not a hobby for me.”
But what if Charity changed her mind out here in the breezy desert? Clade City had an entire physical and psychological infrastructure and enforcement system designed to keep teenage bodies apart. Expectations, reputations, prying eyes, doors that were meant to remain open, parking restrictions, curfews, but here—you were one yes away from anything. Griff suspected from the the way he’d winced at Moondog’s platonic handhold, he was not yet worldly enough for casual desert polyamory.
“You have a stunning voice,” Marilyn told Charity. “You know that?”
“Oh, thank you,” Charity said.
“You should hear her perform,” Griff said.
“Tomorrow, my son,” Marilyn said. “Girl can find her light.”
“Is that when the Band plays?” Griff asked.
“You know I’m a sound guy,” Thomas cut in.
“Sound guy!” the Mole boomed. “You seasoned?”
“Seasoned and salty as fuck,” Thomas said.
“No wonder you were getting lucky,” Marilyn said. “Forget the musicians. They play for themselves. You want a guy who gets paid to read the signals and respond. Nab a sound guy for a lover and you’ll never go back.”
They laughed and the jeep tilted upward, a ramp leading out from the Paths and up to the plateau. Straight ahead stood the second tower.
“Who is Simon?” Griff asked.
“The first builder,” the Mole said.
An older tower. Planks and driftwood. A hermit’s cabin on knobby stilts. To the left, a long boat rope stretched up to a golden bell. They climbed out.
“Just be honest with him,” Marilyn said.
She walked to the rope and shook it.
Dingdadingdingding
Thomas and the Mole were debating:
“—what I’m saying is, that level of amplification with a stone backdrop—”
“Good instinct,” the Mole said, “but have you considered—”
A trapdoor swung open from the bottom of the tower.
WHUMP
“Goodbye, then,” Marilyn said. She spread her arms in a hug. Her shells pushed into his chest.
“You’re leaving?” Griff asked.
“You’ll see us soon,” the Mole said. “Probably.”
They climbed into the car. Waved and called bye-bye like they’d dropped their kids off at school. Dust plumed up from their wheels. Taillights receded. Griff walked to the ladder.
The rungs were splintered and uneven. He tested them with half weight, the way you check branches on a rotten tree. He climbed toward the golden square of light. Reaching the top, he poked his head through a neatly trimmed hole in plush carpeting. Inside, a familiar smell. Like his grandparents’ home.
Could this be real?
He rose into the lofted cabin. The space was stunning. A cobbled-together gallery in the desert. Small glass cases. Shadow boxes. Fabric-draped lumps of furniture. The walls, adorned with hung art. A painting of snowy footprints on a windswept peak. A snowcapped range, jagged against dark clouds. Crampons.
Art depicting mountains. And whales.
The exploded diagram of a blue whale’s bone structure. A painting of a great rising tail—two flukes split by a neat notch. A ship in a bottle. A small case of knives. On the farthest wall, rows of iridescent what—jewels?
When Griff stepped forward, a figure emerged.
He seemed to shake himself loose from the surroundings. Plaid skirt, not quite a kilt, girded by a leather tool belt. Frilly pirate shirt and a plaid scarf. Reddish moustache like a swatch of rough fabric with neatly pointed ends, and eyebrows that leapt up in a constant state of surprise.
Beautiful eyes. Wide and clear and bright as a child’s. An accented voice—though it was unclear from where.
“Simon,” he said. “And you must be Griffin. Welcome home.”
SIXTY
SIMON SHOOK THEIR HANDS AND KISSED CHARITY’S, THEN SAID:
“Oh, my. Sorry. May I?”
He grabbed Griff’s hand, kissed it. Thomas’s.
“Always working,” he said. “Always improving. You kids keep me young. Never expected so many kids. Shouldn’t be a surprise, I suppose. Sit down, will you? Would you like some tea or something?”
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The cabin’s furniture was largely shapeless, backless lumps. Everything layered over with cloth and tapestry so you couldn’t tell precisely what you were sitting on, or what posture might make it tip. Griff contented himself on a purple hump in the shape of a toadstool. Simon brought him tea that smelled like anise and something else—grass after it rains.
“You’re one day early,” Simon said. “How did you discover us?”
“The radio,” Griff said.
“Oh. Wonderful. Wonderful!” He set the teacup down. “Quite an effort, the radio. Of course, people disagreed about the broadcast. Thought we’d be overrun. But it’s just right, isn’t it? The right people find their way.”
Griff nodded. Silence. Simon watched them, and Griff’s eyes were again drawn to the glinting glass case on the far wall—
“Go on,” Simon said. “Have a look.”
They stood and crossed the carpet. It wasn’t jewels. The case held butterflies. Pinned wings. Some shone with the pearly glow of a mollusk’s nacre. Others looked velvet, like the rumpled nap of rose petals. Simon remained seated.
“I used to see the wings,” Simon said. “Now I only see the bodies. Little reminder.”
Shriveled bodies between. Black, pinhead, staring eyes.
“Reminder for what?” Thomas asked.
“No recording,” he said. “No preserving.”
Charity exhaled. Her face clenched.
“Why not?” Thomas asked, turning from the case. “Why keep it so secret?”
“Pardon my language but—you must understand, being young, what would happen. We’d be Facefucked. Instafucked. Permafucked. Like the rest of everything. Like floods! Like locusts! There’d be nothing left. And here you came without phones for us to take away. Maybe a first. Please, indulge an old man with a story.”
They did. Simon echoed certain parts, energetic refrains—
Song fishing! You broadcast us! Police! False alarm!
“Can you imagine?” Simon said. “Learning it was just a false alarm. They must’ve been so relieved.”
Griff looked down, recalling the Walk of Shame.
“They’ll be mad,” Griff said.
“Think they’ll come looking?” Simon said.