End Times

by Anna Schumacher

  Atop the mushroom, in the luminous circle of her hoop, Luna seemed barely human—more like an animal forced into a human body by a spell in a fairy tale, like at any moment she could sprout fur or fangs or feathers and go bounding away into the darkness. And maybe it was just Owen’s imagination, but it seemed like she was watching him, too.

  As Ariel Crow introduced the band’s encore, Owen started pushing his way through the crowd. Sweat and incense and sticky-sweet pot smoke clung to him as he pressed past bare limbs and snarls of dry hair and steamy puffs of breath mouthing the words to the Fine Feathered Family’s final song.

  He was right up front when the tune reached its frenetic finale, the audience practically apoplectic with appreciation, his eyes locked on Luna’s. And then the Fine Feathered Family was making its exit and Luna was sliding down the side of the mushroom, landing on the stage crouched like a cat and then swinging her legs over the side and onto the ground, the glowing hoop still in her hand.

  She shook off the arms that reached for her, the mouths floating close to her ear to tell her she was great, could they play with her hoop, could she teach them to do that, could she introduce them to the band? And then she was in front of him, her face mere inches from his identical eyes.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hey.” He felt the heat radiating off her body and sensed that relentless buzz roaring through her veins, the same as in his.

  “Luna?” he asked, although he already knew.

  “Of course.”

  His throat contracted like he’d eaten a mouthful of dust at the track. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Here I am.”

  The crowd rubbed up against them as he reached for his next words. “Can we go somewhere we can talk?” he asked.

  She took his hand, sinewy fingers lacing through his, her hoop glowing like a beacon leading them behind the stage, down a path that ran through a scraggly forest and out into a clearing filled with tents and camper vans. Dew sparkled on the grass, and the late spring night wrapped Owen in a bear hug, the sudden space and silence a welcome relief after the crush and jam around the concert stage.

  “This one’s me.” Luna stopped in front of a purple tent no bigger than the bed of his pickup. A dozen hula hoops, in every color of the rainbow, leaned against the side. Unzipping the opening, she shrugged into a soft moss-colored dress with a pointed hood and unfurled a faded Navajo blanket onto the ground.

  “Sit.” She crossed her legs and sank down across from him, pressing a hidden button on the inside of her hoop that shut off the LEDs, leaving them with only the moonlight and the muted thump of music in the distance. “We can talk now.”

  “You grew up on that commune,” Owen said. “Children of the Earth.”

  “I was born there. And so were you, Earth Brother.”

  The glow of her eyes was barely visible in the darkness. Owen sat back, hands in the damp, spongy grass. “How did you know that?”

  Her laugh was silver, hard. “From my dreams. I’ve seen you there.”

  The blood rushed to his skin in a sudden, molten burst. “You’ve been having them, too?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me about them,” he urged. “Are they the same as mine—with the bonfire, and the dancers, and . . .”

  “The voice,” she finished, her green eyes flashing. “Yes. It’s the same. It’s all the same.”

  “That voice.” Just mentioning it sent cold prickles down his spine. “Do you know who it is?” He leaned toward her, so close he could smell the dew of sweat and patchouli on her skin, and something pungent and earthy underneath.

  “I have some ideas.” She stretched her legs as he waited for her to say more, tilting her head to admire the curve of her feet, the shadowy caverns between her toes. But she didn’t elaborate.

  “Like . . . ?” he finally prompted.

  She fixed him with a long, sideways look. “You mean you really don’t know?”

  “No.” He hated the edge of urgency that crept into his voice, but he couldn’t help it. He had to know. “If this is about the Children of the Earth, the only thing my mom ever told me was the name. She refused to talk about it. Everything else I know, even where it was, I found by searching online—and trust me, the Wikipedia page isn’t that great.”

  Luna’s teeth flashed sharp and white as she laughed into the night. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just always been such a part of my life. I forget that the rest of you don’t know.”

  “The rest of who? Know what?”

  Luna brought her hands above her head, arching her back as she stretched. “Know how beautiful it was,” she sighed. “We loved each other, and we loved the earth. Nobody owned anything or anyone: Possessions were meaningless. And every night we built a huge bonfire and worshipped the God of the Earth.”

  “But how did it all work?” Owen pressed. “Who paid the bills?”

  They weren’t the questions he really wanted to ask—questions about why his mom refused to speak of those days, about what was fueling his dreams—but he had to start somewhere. And Luna obviously enjoyed holding her knowledge just out of his reach, like a gypsy fortune-teller deliberately keeping her crystal ball opaque. He would have to work on her slowly, tease the information out piece by piece.

  Luna waved a dismissive hand. “None of that mattered,” she said. “When you’re in tune with the earth, there’s always enough of everything. It’s only when people get greedy and start wanting more, when they start raping the planet to get it—that’s when there isn’t enough to go around. We didn’t do that. We were pure.”

  “Then why did the commune get shut down?” Owen couldn’t help asking.

  Glitter sparkled on the ends of Luna’s lashes as she lowered her eyes, hugging her knees to her chest. “People didn’t understand,” she sighed. “They were jealous of the way we lived. So they took the earth away from us.” She sat up straighter. “But we’ll get it back. That’s why you’re here now—it’s what brought you to me. You want the same things I do, Earth Brother, whether you know it or not. It’s why we’re having the same dreams.”

  Before Owen could answer, she stood, brushed the dew from her robe, and unsnapped the rainfly from her tent. “You’ve got wheels, right? If we leave now, we should be in Spokane by morning.”

  “What’s in Spokane?” Owen stared up at her, a million questions still swirling in his head.

  “Nothing.” She folded a tent pole impatiently. “But it’s on the way. We have to follow the voice in our dreams. It’s telling us to find the vein.”

  “Do you know what that means?” It was the question that had plagued him since the night of his eighteenth birthday, the one that had forced him out of Kansas and into his desperate roamings around the American West.

  Luna crouched in front of him, her eyes level with his. “I think it’s a place: somewhere sacred. Veins are where you find the blood, the source of life.”

  “But where is it?”

  Owen felt in his own veins that Luna was right: that when they reached this place, the vein, wherever it was, the madness in his dreams would cease. They were sending him somewhere, to do something. If only he knew what.

  “We’ll just know,” she said, stuffing her tent into its sack. “So are you ready to go, or what?”

  Owen nodded dumbly. Yes, his blood seemed to whisper, this is right.

  It was shortly after midnight when they crossed the Olympia town line going east, the Radical Roots festival still dancing raucously behind them, Luna riding shotgun and a clown-bright bundle of hula hoops sparkling next to Owen’s bike in the back of his truck.

  “TREY told Doug to tell me he thinks you’re cute.” Janie grinned and flipped her ponytail over her shoulder. Late spring warmth suffused the afternoon as the girls walked Bella around the Peytons’ front yard, the tiny dog nipping at
the treats stashed in Janie’s pocket.

  “Cute?”

  Daphne shot her a skeptical look. It was the last word in the world she would have used to describe herself: When she looked in the mirror, she saw only sharp angles and cautious eyes, a narrow nose and ruler-straight hair and hands that were too big for her body. Janie had gotten all the curves in the Peyton family.

  Janie smiled impishly, showing off her dimples. “It’s why he kept trying to show off at the track last night—he wanted to impress you.”

  Daphne remembered Trey’s bike fishtailing to its side in the dust. She followed Janie through a stand of scrubby pines, their needles a soft brown carpet under their feet.

  “So what do you think?” Janie nudged her. “Do you like him?”

  Daphne chewed the inside of her cheek. “He’s—nice,” she said finally. Trey had, after all, offered her a soda when everyone else was drinking beer, and had jumped in front of her to re-secure the bungee cords on his cooler.

  “Yay!” Janie’s cheeks glowed. “So how’d you feel about a double date? You, me, Doug, and Trey?”

  “I don’t know . . .” Daphne trailed off, not sure how to tell Janie no. She’d never been on a date before, and the thought of having Doug along on her first made her queasy. The sleeves of her hoodie hid the imprints he’d left on her wrists, but she still felt sick whenever she thought about his chapped lips too close to hers and his boozy breath in her face.

  “Oh?” Janie’s eyes dripped with curiosity. “Why?”

  Daphne looked off toward the wispy clouds forming a halo around Elk Mountain in the distance, willing them to give her an answer. “I just—don’t really think I’m ready,” she said finally, feeling lame. It wasn’t that she’d never noticed guys; she’d had hints of something soft and fleeting before, brushing past the silent skateboarder from her Spanish class in the hallway or spying on a group of graffiti guys tagging up the side of a building, but she had always tamped them down. Guys, and everything that went with them, were for other girls—girls like Janie who wore bright colors and flirted, girls who didn’t spend their nights armed for battle against a stepfather’s heavy footsteps coming toward their room.

  “What do you mean?” Janie looked at her quizzically. “You’re almost eighteen. Me and Doug have been together since sophomore year!”

  “Yeah, well.” Daphne stabbed at a pile of dirt with her boot, wishing Janie would change the subject. “That’s you. I’m me.”

  “You probably just haven’t met the right guy yet,” Janie surmised dreamily.

  “Maybe.” Daphne kept her voice noncommittal. She was pretty sure no guy could ever erase the years of damage Jim had done.

  They passed through the pine grove and into a scrubby field beyond. The mountain range loomed like a procession of dinosaurs in the distance, purple and imposing.

  “Can I ask you something?” Janie raised her big, blue-rimmed eyes to Daphne’s.

  “Sure.” Daphne hoped it wouldn’t be more questions about her love life. She didn’t want to lie to her cousin, but the truth—that she could never forgive any guy for sharing the same anatomy and needs as Jim, that being close to males who weren’t family sent panic rising like a flock of crows in her throat—was too ugly to say out loud to her sweet, bubbly cousin, whose world seemed to be all Jesus and puppies.

  Janie turned and took her arm. “How did it happen?” she asked gently.

  “What?”

  “The accident.” Janie tucked the words in around her like a soft, blue blanket. “That brought your stepdad home to God and made your mom so she can’t take care of you anymore. How did it happen?”

  Panic snapped at Daphne’s tongue. She’d thought of a million stories to tell during the long bus ride out to Wyoming—car accidents, house fires, a burglary gone wrong—a million ways to avoid retelling the story that made dark bile churn in her stomach and her head feel stuffed with thorns. She couldn’t bear to tell the Peytons the truth: that she was both a victim and a killer, that her past was a long, musty tunnel of shame and abuse. She didn’t want them to see her as anything but the Daphne they’d known and loved when she was a child. She’d come to Carbon County to get away from the curiosity that followed her story like a cloud, to escape the prying reporters with their perpetually personal questions. All she wanted was to start fresh.

  She opened her mouth, willing words to come, but all she could do was let the air rush over her tongue, parching it dry.

  “It . . .” she started. “I . . .”

  Then Janie’s arms were around her shoulders, a pudgy hand patting the small of her back consolingly.

  “It’s okay,” her cousin crooned in her ear, in the same voice she used for her unborn child. “You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready. I’m sorry I asked.”

  Daphne accepted the hug, knowing that she wasn’t worthy. She’d killed a man and was covering up the truth about it. She had no right to let herself be consoled.

  “God has better things in store for you,” Janie whispered into her ear. “I can feel it in my heart. Those trumpets when you showed up yesterday were no coincidence. They were a sign.”

  Daphne’s only response was to hug Janie tighter. She still couldn’t make sense of the strange sounds that had heralded her arrival, but she was sure there had to be a logical explanation, something simple and obvious that the rest of the town had somehow overlooked.

  Bella burst into a series of high-pitched yips, straining at her leash, and Janie released Daphne from the embrace.

  “What is it, Bella?” she asked. “Do you hear a car?”

  Bella stood on her hind legs, doll-sized paws raking the air.

  Daphne cocked her head. She could hear a dim rumbling from down the road, growing louder as it approached.

  “Maybe it’s Doug!” Janie smiled wide. “Nobody else ever comes here. Let’s go see!”

  Bella frisked at their heels as they retraced their steps through the pine grove, emerging into the sunshine just in time to see Floyd race out of the trailer. He quickly tucked a fresh shirt into his Carhartts as a tan truck decorated with the green US Forest Service shield pulled into the driveway.

  “He’s here!” Floyd called, practically dancing a jig on the gravel. Daphne noticed that he’d tamed his normally wild hair into submission with pomade, so it looked glued to his scalp.

  “Who’s here?” Janie asked.

  Aunt Karen hurried out of the trailer behind her husband, the flesh on her arms jiggling under her appliquéd T-shirt. “The geologist from the ranger station,” she whispered to the girls. “Your father’s asked him to check for oil on the land. It’s another one of his get-rich-quick schemes.”

  “Seriously?” Janie scooped up Bella and stroked her head as she leaned in close to Daphne. “He’s been doing this since he lost his job. First it was selling vitamins, then entering online sweepstakes. Who knows what this is all about?”

  Karen opened her mouth to explain, but Uncle Floyd had already bounded up to the truck, an optimistic grin on his face and his hand poised to shake.

  “Rick Bodey, it sure is good to see you!” he said as the door opened and a steel-haired man tanned like a baseball glove stepped out, his regulation green trousers and brown belt barely containing a stomach that ballooned out almost farther than Janie’s.

  “Hey there, Floyd.” Rick gripped his hand with a strong, single pump, but Daphne noticed that his smile looked strained, like he’d rather be somewhere else—probably somewhere with just rocks and no people at all.

  “And these are the lovely ladies in my life.” Floyd gestured toward them. “My wife, Karen; daughter, Janie; and last but not least, Daphne, my niece.”

  “Pleased t’meetcha,” Rick said to their shoes.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Karen hurried to his side. “A cup of coffee, maybe, or some ic
ed tea? We have Crystal Light, too, and—”

  “You wanted me to look at something on your land?” Rick interrupted, turning to Floyd. Karen’s mouth gaped open, and Daphne felt her left eye start to twitch like it always did when she was mad.

  “Well, ah, yes.” Floyd twisted his hands in front of his belt buckle, face suddenly pink. “If you follow me, I think you’ll see what I mean.”

  He started toward the dry creek bed behind the trailer, and, after a longing look back at his truck, Rick Bodey fell into step.

  “I do appreciate you stopping by,” Floyd said as they passed the rusting engine block. “I know you must have a lot to do.”

  “Yeah, well, the wildlife guys insisted.” Rick’s voice was flat. “They still won’t shut up about that dead snake you brought in. Said I had to come see what else you had up your sleeve.”

  They passed the trailer and descended into a small ravine. It looked like it may have been a creek once, long ago—small, smooth pebbles lined the bottom, and it cut through the land in a lazy, meandering arc—but it had been dry even when Daphne was a kid, and stubborn bushes clung to the inclines on either side. At one point someone had decided to use it as a makeshift dump, and it still contained a smattering of old plastic bags, glass bottles, and the rusted shell of an ’80s-era washing machine.

  “Well, I think you’ll be pretty pleased.” Floyd pointed to the rocks at the base of the washing machine. “You see these guys right here?”

  “Sure.” Rick put a big, tan fist on each hip. “What about ’em?”

  “See, well.” Floyd kicked at the rocks at his feet, suddenly embarrassed. “I took a look at some of your charts down at the ranger station, and, well, see, the rock type here—it’s the same as at a few other sites around the Northwest where folks found oil.”