Mr. and Mrs. Dimond chuckled. They seemed to actually enjoy the snack. Courtney did too. She was so hungry she’d eat anything, but that was Courtney. Mark simply stared out the window, lost in thought.
“Drink your tea before it gets cold,” Mrs. Dimond said to him.
Mark grabbed his teacup, took a gulp, then quickly tossed the cup back down onto the saucer with a loud clatter, knocking his spoon onto the floor.
“Whoa, easy there, partner,” Dodger warned.
To everyone else it seemed that Mark was being clumsy. To everyone else but Courtney, that is. She stared at her friend uneasily.
“You okay?” she asked with trepidation.
“Yeah, sure,” Mark answered quickly. He avoided making eye contact with her to try not to give away the fact that he wasn’t even close to okay. He kept his right hand buried in his pocket. He didn’t want anybody to notice that something was missing.
“All right, folks. Here’s the plan,” Dodger announced while clapping the crumbs off his hands. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out three black and red paper folders. “We’ve got three berths in cabin class for the voyage back, day after tomorrow. It ain’t a cheap haul, let me tell you, but since DADO is payin’ for it-”
“Don’t say that,” Mark snapped.
Everyone shot a look at Mark. They weren’t used to him being so opinionated. About anything.
“Sorry, chum,” Dodger apologized. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Mark looked at his shoes. Courtney looked at Mark, frowning.
“We sail at noon, so we should get an early start to the docks,” Dodger continued. “So if you want to do any sightseeing, tomorrow’s the day.”
Nobody said a word.
“Though I guess nobody’s really in the mood for that,” Dodger added.
The awkward silence continued.
“This is what you wanted, right?” Dodger asked, confused. “I mean, did I mess up or something?”
“You did fine,” Courtney offered. “I think we’re all just a little bit tired. Thanks for getting the tickets.”
“Things’ll look better once we get home,” Dodger offered hopefully. “You know, back to familiar surroundings.”
“I’m not exactly sure what home is anymore,” Mark said softly.
Mrs. Dimond looked to her son, pained. He had grown a lifetime in the past four years.
Dodger stood, trying to break the gloom. “There’s a little restaurant next door that looks good for dinner. Okay if I make reservations?”
“Good idea,” Mr. Dimond replied.
Dodger nodded. He didn’t know what else to say, so he ducked out. Courtney and the Dimonds kept looking to Mark, waiting for him to say something. Finally Mark took a breath and looked back at them.
“He’s right,” Mark exclaimed. “Things’ll look better once we get back. Let’s not sit around feeling sorry for ourselves. I’m hungry, and not for one of those dry little turd balls.”
Everyone laughed, in spite of the heavy atmosphere. An hour later they all sat in the Wild Boar restaurant next to the hotel, feasting on shepherd’s pie, haddock cakes, and roast beef. Though it was actually on the menu, nobody took a chance on ordering the wild boar. They talked about England…about what they’d seen and what they might catch a glimpse of the next day. They talked about the Queen Mary and what they looked forward to on the voyage back to New York. They even talked about the weather. The weather! To anybody who may have been eavesdropping they sounded exactly like a normal, everyday family from America on holiday. Truth was, there was nothing normal about them, other than the fact that for a few hours they tried to pretend like everything was okay. It was pretty clear that nobody wanted to talk about anything that had to do with Forge, KEM, or Saint Dane. It was like a short holiday. Very short. By ten o’clock everyone was in his or her room, sound asleep.
Everyone but Mark. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to Dodger’s grinding snore. For hours. At times it got so loud he was surprised the windows didn’t rattle. It wasn’t the snoring that kept him awake though. Mark couldn’t stop thinking about his meeting with Nevva. He had convinced himself that she told him the truth. She only wanted the ring so that Bobby would be truly isolated, with no contact from the rest of Halla. Did he believe her? Surely she must have known that there were other rings floating around. Or had she made deals for those as well?
Mark twisted his head to look over at the next bed. “Dodger?” he whispered.
Dodger’s answer was an even deeper snore. The guy was long gone. Mark had only known him for a short time, but liked the feisty acolyte. And why not? If Gunny trusted him, he had to be a great guy. He definitely proved useful in getting them around on First Earth. He was going to be a huge asset once they got back to New York and had to figure out what their next move would be. Dodger was definitely a friend.
Dodger also possessed the key to knowing if Mark had made the mistake of a lifetime. Sitting on the night table between the two beds was a lamp, a phone, a roll of British pound notes…and Dodger’s Traveler ring. It was right there, a few feet from his head. Mark sat up slowly. The old bedsprings let out a groaning creak. He froze and took another look at Dodger. Would this wake him? Dodger rolled over and mumbled something in his sleep that sounded to Mark like, “Fur bell gone girl.” Mark didn’t think it required a response. He took a breath and stood up quickly. The bed creaked. Dodger didn’t. Mark swept Dodger’s ring off the table and hurried for the door. With the stealth of a cat burglar trying to break out of a house, he left the room and closed the door without disturbing the dreams of his new friend.
A grandfather clock at the end of the corridor chimed twice. Two in the morning. Normal people were asleep. Mark crept down the carpeted stairs to the small sitting room where they all had shared tea. The place was empty. The only sound came from several different clocks that echoed multiple ticks and tocks throughout the small hotel. A single table lamp was lit. There was enough light to see, if not to read. Mark desperately hoped that soon there would be a lot more light filling the room.
He placed the ring down reverently on the thick rug, knelt down, and leaned over so that his nose wasn’t more than a foot away from the ring.
“Ibara,” Mark whispered.
The ring didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t grow.
“Ibara,” Mark said again, this time in a normal voice.
The response was the same, which is to say, there was no response. The ring lay dormant.
“Ibara!” Mark called, this time in a voice very near a shout.
It didn’t matter. The ring wasn’t listening.
Somebody else was.
“Mark! What the hell?” came a voice from the doorway. Mark spun quickly, landing on his butt. Standing in the doorway was Courtney.
“It doesn’t w-work,” Mark stuttered nervously. ‘The ring doesn’t work.”
Courtney hurried into the room. She wore the white dress-shirt that she’d bought in New York, and nothing else. It worked perfectly as a nightgown. “What doesn’t work?” she yawned.
“The Traveler ring. It’s dead.”
“Are you trying to send something?” Courtney asked.
“No.”
“Maybe that’s why,” she said hopefully. “It might only work when there’s something to send.”
“How would the ring know if I had something to send or not?” Mark countered.
“How should I know?” Courtney said in a harsh whisper. “I don’t know how it does anything!”
“I’m telling you, it doesn’t work.”
Courtney looked at the ring on the rug, cleared her throat and called out, “Ibara!” Nothing happened. “Zadaa!” Courtney called.
Instantly the ring twitched and began to grow. Mark and Courtney shot each other looks. Flashing light spewed from the growing circle. Courtney sprinted back toward the door of the sitting room and swung it shut to avoid disturbing anyone in the hotel. She hu
rried back to Mark and sat down to watch the ring grow to Frisbee size, opening up the narrow passageway between territories. Sparkling light flashed through the room. The jumble of musical notes grew louder, coming to First Earth to retrieve whatever message was being sent. But there was no message. It was a false alarm. Nothing would be dropped into the opening.
The ring stayed open for what seemed like a few seconds longer than usual, waiting for its cargo. It then snapped shut quickly, as if piqued that its efforts were for naught. The music subsided. The light died. Mark and Courtney were alone once again, with only the steady ticktock of ancient clocks for company. The two stared at the innocent-looking ring lying on the carpet for several seconds. “Your ring works, Mark,” Courtney declared. “It’s not my ring.”
Courtney gave him a curious look. Mark jumped to his feet and paced nervously.
“You’ve been squirrelly all night,” Courtney scolded. “Something’s going on and you’re not sharing.”
Mark shared. He told Courtney what had happened. He told her that Nevva was on First Earth and about how she wanted his ring or she’d go back to Second Earth to make sure his parents got on the doomed airliner. He told her everything.
When he was finished, Courtney shrugged. “I saw you didn’t have your ring on. I thought you took it off because you were angry at Bobby for having quit.”
“I wish,” Mark said wistfully.
“Yeah, me too.”
“What could I do, Courtney?” Mark cried. “I couldn’t sacrifice my parents! I figured if she wanted to cut Bobby off by taking my ring, so what? There are other rings. But now…” He let that thought trail.
Courtney picked up Dodger’s ring and stared at it closely, as if it would reveal something.
“Now none of the rings connect to Ibara,” Courtney said, finishing his thought. “It can’t be because the flume is buried. Bobby sent us a journal after the explosion. Something must have happened since he sent that last journal. Question is, what?”
Mark gave a heavy sigh. “I’m afraid that’s not the only question.”
Courtney looked at him. She saw the tears in his eyes. His voice quivered. “If Bobby was already cut off, why did Nevva really want my ring?”
FIRST EARTH
(CONTINUED)
The young boy was dying.
Nobody doubted that. Not the nurses. Not the doctors. Not any of the other young patients in the clinic who were kept safely away, in case the disease that was burning inside him could spread its deadly reach. The only issue left in doubt was when the curtain would fall on his young life. Nurses took care to wear masks when they wiped his forehead with cool, damp cloths to try to keep the fever down. Or at least to make him a little more comfortable. He was delirious. When he opened his eyes, the nurses saw that he focused on nothing. His eyes had the watery, vacant look they knew all too well. It pained them to know he was suffering. They liked the boy.
He was only seven years old, give or take a few weeks. His exact birthday could only be guessed at, since he was found as an infant on the doorstep of a foundling hospital in the town of Redhill, outside London. It could have been worse. He could have been abandoned somewhere in the city.
He was given the name Alexander, after the conquering Greek general, in the hopes he would battle the odds and survive to create a sound life for himself. Though always smaller than his peers and often sickly, it looked as if he would do exactly that. Alexander was fearless. Better, he was smart. While the other boys dominated him physically, Alexander was able to talk his way out of most situations. He never threw a punch in anger, nor was one thrown at him. Ever. While boys fought around him and bloody noses were as common as pollen on the breeze, Alexander was never touched. He never insulted, nor was bothered by insults hurled his way. Boys much older than he would seek his guidance. The masters and mistresses who cared for the orphans were amazed at Alexander’s wisdom and self-confidence. They had high hopes for their young conquering hero.
Until the fall of 1937, when he became sick. The diagnosis wasn’t certain. It started as a simple cold, but rather than run its course, it ran roughshod over the frail Alexander. The doctors at the hospital’s clinic feared it was pneumonia. Or worse, influenza. They remembered the influenza epidemic of 1918. It was a global disaster that killed somewhere between twenty and forty million people. Twenty years later there was still no vaccination against the dread disease. The doctors at the foundling hospital feared for Alexander’s life, but the fear of what might happen should his illness spread was worse. They kept the young boy comfortable, but isolated. Their ability to battle his illness was limited. They knew that Alexander’s body would have to heal itself.
Alexander’s body was losing.
His fever rarely dropped below a hundred. He lost weight. The nurses would clutch their arms around their waists when they heard his horrible coughing, as if each hack were just as painful to them as to the poor, sick boy. Everyone agreed that if he had been physically strong to begin with, he might have had a chance to beat the illness. But Alexander was a waif. He looked sickly even when his health was perfect.
After three weeks of decline, the best they could hope for was that the end would come quickly and painlessly. They didn’t want to see their favorite young charge suffer any longer.
It was past midnight that November. Alexander lay in his hospital bed, surrounded by a white sheet that had been erected as a screen to keep any questionable airborne particles from finding their way to other, healthier lungs. This was being overly cautious. The rest of the children had been moved out and made to double up in the ward next door. Alexander was alone. He was frightened. He wanted one of the nurses to come and sit with him, but he never asked. He hoped they would have come on their own. They didn’t. He knew why. They were afraid of what he had inside.
Alexander was also angry. He didn’t understand why the doctors couldn’t help him. He hated that the nurses left him alone. It didn’t make sense to him that with all their knowledge and complicated talk and fascinating, shiny instruments, they couldn’t do something as simple as fix what was wrong with him. He wanted them to be smarter. He desperately needed them to be smarter. They weren’t.
He managed to push one of the drapes aside so that he got a view through the window up near the ceiling. Through the glass he saw stars. He wanted to be outside. He wanted to take a deep breath of fresh, cold air. The thought alone made him cough. The coughing hurt. He wanted the hurt to stop. He didn’t care how. Not anymore. He was tired of fighting.
He saw a shadow flash quickly past the window. It got his attention, if only because it was something different to think about. He wondered what it might have been. A bird? A tree branch? A passing airplane? The angel of death? He kept looking, hoping to see it again. It was something to do. The shadow didn’t return and Alexander gave up waiting. He wanted to sleep. His chest hurt. He knew his fever was spiking again because he had the shivers. He tensed to fight it, which made his muscles ache all the more.
He called out, “Hello?” which made him cough again. The pain tore through his chest and stomach. He stopped calling. He wasn’t so sure he wanted help anyway. Whenever his fever spiked, the nurses dunked him in a cold tub of water. He never understood why, if his body temperature was so high, he felt cold. Being dunked into cold water when you were already freezing was a nightmare. He didn’t want any more nightmares. He wanted to sleep in peace. He clutched his thin blanket around him and concentrated. He willed himself to relax and clear his mind. He didn’t want to be awake. He didn’t want to be tortured anymore. He wanted to sleep…and not wake up. Mercifully, sleep came.
When he thought back on that night, which he did many times, Alexander didn’t remember if he had any dreams. He remembered the feeling of being totally relaxed. It was such a welcome relief, it was worth remembering. He remembered not shivering anymore. He remembered not feeling pain. He had the vivid memory of thinking that he must have died. It was the only logical exp
lanation for feeling well again. It had been so long, he had almost forgotten what it was like to be pain free. He remembered feeling warmth and light on his face. Was he in heaven? He had to see. Alexander cautiously opened his eyes, expecting to see the pearly gates.
What he saw instead were the same windows of the hospital ward. The only difference was that it was morning. Bright sun shone in, warming his face. He was at peace. He felt… good. But that didn’t make sense. He actually wondered if he were still asleep and living inside a dream. There was nothing out of the ordinary happening, other than the fact that he felt so good. Alexander decided that if this was a dream, he was going to take advantage of it. He closed his eyes and took a long, slow inhale through his nose. His lungs expanded. He braced his body, ready to be racked by the horrid coughs.
They didn’t come. Alexander let his breath out and took another, this time through his mouth. He filled his lungs with air until they felt ready to burst. He blew the air out and took another so quickly it made him light-headed. It wasn’t the dizziness that came from fever, either. It was the result of too much oxygen being sent through a system that wasn’t used to getting much at all.
Alexander laughed. He couldn’t help himself. It was the best dream he’d ever had. Either that, or he’d died and gone to heaven. He didn’t care which. All that mattered was that his head and his lungs were clear.
“Alexander?” came the concerned call of a nurse. “Alexander lad, why’re you laughing like that?”
The nurse poked her head in tentatively through the curtain, as if not wanting to expose the rest of her body to the germ-infested enclosure. She had a thick white mask over her mouth and nose. Her eyes went wide with wonder when she looked upon Alexander, who lifted his head off the pillow to greet her.
“Morning, mum,” he called cheerily. “Might there be some toast about for brekkie? I’m famished.”
The nurse’s eyes grew even wider. She drifted through the curtains, her eyes trained on Alexander. She approached the bed, hesitated, then lifted her hand to touch his forehead. She instantly pulled her hand back, as if Alexander were electrified.
Raven Rise tpa-9 Page 4