Today, like most days, Dad’s wearing his lucky-charm orange baseball cap. I rarely see him without it. His hair, curling out from under the cap and around his ears, is in urgent need of a cut. His eyes are lined with shadows, while spiderwebs of wrinkles mar his skin, two tones darker than mine thanks to some Mediterranean DNA in his heritage. My dad’s getting older, scruffier; his bedraggled appearance is a reminder of things people my age rarely have to think about. Noticing these things about him makes a prickle of sadness roil under my skin, starting in my toes and traveling all the way to the top of my head.
I meet Dad’s eyes, but, in his usual fashion, he avoids making prolonged eye contact with me—something I used to take close to heart when I was a kid but not anymore.
Despite Dad’s heavy layer of aftershave, I smell tobacco on him. Dad started smoking again after he lost his job. For as long as I remember, he’s been one of those serial tobacco quitters who’d fall back on their old habits the moment life gets too tough.
To distract myself from unhappy thoughts, I give Dad a questioning look as I nod my head to Riley’s foil hat. Dad shrugs in response just as Riley lets go of me and proceeds to adjust his odd headpiece, smoothing it down the sides of his head with both hands. “They’re watching,” he explains. “Trying to read my mind.”
“Who’s trying to read your mind?” I ask, then see Dad’s serious eyes saying, Do not encourage it. Whatever Riley’s new quirk is, Dad doesn’t want me to indulge my precocious cousin’s runaway imagination. So, like many other unsettling things about my family, I let it go.
I’m burning to tell Dad about Doreen, and Mom’s will, but I know better than to poke that pit of snakes. Instead I ask a slightly less charged question: “So how’s the job search going?”
Ever since his dismissal, Dad’s been job-hunting. Or so he’s been telling me and Aunt Nadia.
Caught off guard by my question, Dad takes off his baseball cap and runs a hand through his hair—more gray than copper. His eyes evade mine. “I’m not really looking anymore, Hayden. You see, I found an independent funding source to continue my research.”
“Seriously?” I don’t mean to sound so disbelieving, but I can’t help it. The prospect of someone in their right mind deciding to fund my father’s “research” is not something I’d imagined ever happening. “Which foundation is it?”
“Not a foundation exactly. More like a private endeavor.”
“What, like a philanthropist who’s into the Nibelungs as much as you are?” The words come off bitter. I just broke one of our unspoken rules and mentioned Dad’s crackpot science, but it’s too late to back down now, so I stare at him expectantly.
Dejected, Dad looks at me, his eyes tired. I already know from the stern shape his mouth is taking that this conversation is over. Since Mom’s disappearance, I’ve barely had an exchange with my father that lasted long enough to be considered a “proper” conversation. I know he’s actually capable of producing long sentences: There are hours-long, amateur videos of unfortunate “lectures” my father has given on the topic of the Nibelungs (the legendary dragon-slaying Siegfried; Siegfried’s long-suffering wife, Kriemhild; other figures of Nibelung lore). It’s only when he’s in the same room with me that he gets all fidgety and talks in non sequiturs. The truth is, I’ve never been able to understand why Dad, a physicist, even became interested in researching far-fetched rumors of a supposed subspecies of humanity or how he decided they must come from another dimension. Whenever I try to figure out exactly what he’s talking about, I get bogged down in the details of Germanic legends and very theoretical physics, and I’m still left confused about what the Nibelungs are even supposed to be.
Dad puts his baseball cap back on. “I just want you to know, Hayden, that everything I do, even if it seems crazy to you, is to protect you.”
“Protect me from what?”
But, of course, he doesn’t say. He never does. And honestly, I have little interest in pushing the matter further. There’s too much troubled water under that bridge already, and the bridge isn’t even strong enough to hold two people.
* * *
I didn’t exactly state my plan of keeping the trip a secret from my family, but Del must’ve read it off me, because her mouth forms a tight line when Nadia enquires about her spring break plans. If Dad suspects anything, he’s not showing it. If only I could break through the barrier of his skin and discern his thoughts. Does he ever think of Mom? Does he wish things were different between us after her disappearance? Does he regret the distance? Every time he catches my not-so-subtle stare, he cracks his knuckles and shifts in his seat, visibly uncomfortable in his own skin.
We’re finishing our dessert (Nadia’s homemade tiramisu) when a storm drops on Brooklyn with the ferocity of a rabid, hungry beast. Dad and Nadia wrap up their visit and rush to get home before the roads flood and the traffic gets bad. As they gather up their things, thunder cackles and roars, shaking the living-room windows. Del twitches like a petrified bunny.
And then, as if orchestrated by the invisible hand of a puppeteer, all heads turn toward the window, and we watch, mesmerized, as a brown pigeon smashes right into the glass and slides down, leaving a bloody trail in its wake before plummeting to the ground.
Observations Journal 2.0
When I was a child, I started my journal of observations. The move was inspired by my dad, the scientist. I wanted to be like him, to explore the natural world, to see things as they truly are: a series of logical, interconnected events, enslaved by the predictability of cause-and-effect and the inevitability of explanation. But then Dad lost his scientific credibility, and my childhood theories, meant to explain the most bizarre and creepy of occurrences, seemed ridiculous and unnecessary.
The irony is not lost on me that today, my eighteenth birthday, I restart my observations journal, this time inspired by my mom.
My goal is to make a record of my experiences of the natural world around me so that I can look for clues about what really happened to my mother.
Today, two events occurred that, while seemingly unconnected, share enough similarities between themselves and to past events to suggest some kind of common element.
The events in question:
a. A seal in the aquarium lost its sense of direction and crashed into the glass wall, and
b. A bird smashed into a window of the apartment I share with Del.
Similar events in the past: Jen Rickman (?) and the Tiger Incident.
Conclusion: Sometimes animals (and possibly humans) go nuts around me for some bizarre reason I’ve yet to figure out.
Arista Kazan’s notes from Prof. T. Holland’s
Experimental Physics 203, Lecture 5.
What is actually known about the Nibelungs?
There are three sources of information. Some are more reliable than others.
First, there are historical “facts” (the least reliable source?):
The Nibelungs—also known as the Nibelungen (in German) or Niflung (in Old Norse)—were possibly (note the lack of certainty!) a Burgundian royal dynasty ruling over a city called Worms on the Upper Rhine region of Germany in the early fifth century. Details are scarce.
The second sources are Norse and Germanic myths telling us of the race of the Nibelungs and the notable figures in the Nibelung mythology:
There was once a Burgundian princess called Kriemhild who dreamt of a falcon torn to bits by two eagles in midair. Kriemhild’s mother interpreted the dream as a prophecy about Kriemhild’s future love, doomed to be brutally killed by his enemies. To stop the prophecy from being fulfilled, Kriemhild vowed to never marry—a classic example of a self-fulfilling prophecy, where the mythic hero/heroine’s attempt to alter fate in fact expedites this fate.
And then there was Siegfried, a young warrior credited with all sorts of amazing feats, from slaying a dragon to winning a “hoard” of treasure from two clueless brothers whom he killed so as not to share the said hoard with them. (As t
he brothers were also Nibelungs, the hoard—or treasure—is referred to as Nibelungen, that is, “of the Nibelungs.”)
Siegfried fell in love with Kriemhild and the two married, but the courtly intrigues shortly took him far away from home. During his travels, he got involved with the Icelandic princess Brunhield, who was strong and proud, an undefeated warrior.
All this ended badly for everyone, with Siegfried getting betrayed and killed by his closest allies, with Kriemhild vowing to avenge him and gain control over the hoard, and with the hoard being lost in the process, never to be found.
And this brings us to the third source of information about the Nibelungs: the little truths hidden in the metaphors of myths.
This is also where the multidimensional physics come in.
Take the very concept of the hoard, for instance: Why not specify that said hoard was nothing more than a simple treasure—as in jewels and gold?
Why define this hoard by a tribal name—the hoard of the Nibelungs?
When referring to the hoard, the legends indeed speak of a treasure but fail to say what this treasure actually was.
What we do know is that should Kriemhild have succeeded in claiming the hoard following Siegfried’s death, she would have amassed a Great Power.
What power is this exactly?
This power could be metaphorical, of course, but what is more likely, as Prof. Holland’s research suggests, is that the hoard was, in fact a horde, a supernatural army that would serve its master, one standing at the ready, capable of conquering the world the moment it’s released.
And so, this horde was taken from Siegfried and Kriemhild by their enemies and hidden away. Since Kriemhild failed to locate the Nibelungen horde, how likely is it that this metaphysical army is still concealed somewhere, waiting for the right moment until it can rise up again?
Another—perhaps the most important—metaphor comes from the story of Siegfried’s strength. Like many epic heroes, Siegfried was invincible but for one weakness: When he once slew a dragon, Siegfried bathed in the creature’s blood. Unbeknownst to Siegfried, a leaf from a linden tree was stuck to his skin, blocking the dragon blood properties and rendering this one spot his Achilles’ heel.
Multidimensional physicists talk of the multitude of universes, but one cannot travel from one universe to another unless a stable opening occurs naturally or is artificially created. Prof. Holland’s research has led him to believe that this unprotected spot on Siegfried’s skin is nothing but a metaphor for an opening between two worlds.
Prof. Holland hypothesizes that one such opening exists in the state of Colorado. This area, abound with physical anomalies, presents a fertile ground for testing his theory.
4300 Zephyr Boulevard
Canyon Ridge, CO 81236
970-153-8100
Dear Tom,
My doctoral thesis, as you know, was near completion at the time of your tenure’s revocation. Days after your dismissal, I was advised my thesis was to be reviewed, pending a decision as to the future of my academic career.
After learning my thesis was deemed unsuitable for submission, I was presented with a choice: to start from scratch on a new topic under new supervision and lose years of data and hypothesis-testing, or leave.
I decided to leave.
I have no regrets.
Shortly after my departure from Ian Trainor, I was approached by a representative of Blue Haven Research Institute. Have you heard of it? I was offered a job, and the offer was too good to refuse.
With your research funding pulled back, in my capacity as the Institute representative, I come to you with an offer to finance your research out of the Institute’s funds. The details are enclosed. I hope you accept this generous offer, and I look forward to working together once more and moving physics and humankind into a new era of scientific exploration.
Yours truly in science,
Arista Kazan
Senior Research Fellow, Blue Haven Research Institute
8
ON THE MOVE
After Dad, Nadia, and Riley depart into the storm, the rest of my birthday evening passes in a flurry of preparations. Del insists on putting the plane tickets and car rental in Denver on her credit card, working on the optimistic assumption that the freak storm ravaging the city is going to pass by morning.
I protest her generous offer of bankrolling my soul-searching trip, and she concedes that I can take care of feeding us while in Promise. I agree but also assure her that I have the fullest intent of eventually reimbursing her for my share of the travel expenses.
Having done the dishes, I check on Del, but she’s still deep in the realm of Internet travel bargains. I leave her to it and get started packing. I dig through my wardrobe, grabbing jeans and hoodies and piling them on my bed. Most of the nicer clothes I own are either gifts or purchases forced upon me by Del when we’ve gone shopping together. (Or more like when Del goes shopping and I’m persuaded to tag along.) Whether it’s a consequence of my homeschooling, years in therapy, or just the way I’m wired, I’m apathetic to clothes. Mostly I just wear jeans, tees, and sweatshirts. I own three pairs of Doc Martens, one pair of sneakers, and exactly one pair of girly sandals with heels. The latter was—you guessed it—a gift from Del. My most extravagant acquisition to date is a tailored leather jacket I bought when I got my college admission letter. Del calls me a tomboy with girly potential. She also swears that one day she’ll change me. After failed makeover number three, I hope she’s on the verge of giving up.
Once packed, I retrieve the deed to the Manor and Mom’s cryptic message from under my pillow, stuffing both into the side pocket of my trusty messenger bag. The card’s warm to my skin, as if Mom’s demanding I pay attention. I want to. I really do. But what’ll it cost me? What price am I prepared to pay to learn Mom’s secrets?
* * *
Del gets her miracle. The freak storm passes, leaving behind a drizzle and the wind. A lone willow tree in the neighboring backyard is scratching at our building’s wall, like a ghost begging for warmth. By the time I join Del in the living room, the evening’s given way to a breezy night.
My roommate’s languid form is splayed across the length of the couch. Del’s all shining skin and long legs tangled with the duvet cover. I wish I had a talent for the fine arts so I could paint her. But with Del’s impatience, I guess I’d never get her to sit still long enough for me to give her beauty its fair due.
My laptop on her stomach, Del grins at me. “Good news: Student discounts rock! And not so good news: As I suspected, we can only fly as far as Denver. Promise has no airport. We’ll have to drive there. It’s about four hours. Can you tolerate listening to my Manu Chao albums that long?”
* * *
That night I fall asleep thinking of my father’s tired eyes. He says that whatever it is he’s doing, it’s to protect me.
As he was leaving the apartment, he embraced me, but there was a slight hesitation. He whispered into my hair that he loved me. Caught in the moment, I forgot all about my childhood pains of isolation, about feeling powerless and alone. For a blissful moment, I forgot about all the rage I felt after we lost Mom and all my disappointment at the pitiful detour Dad’s career took once he started penning manifestos about time-traveling warrior hordes and anomalies that serve as portals between dimensions. I forgot all that.
In that rare moment, I was just happy that Dad hugged me. Even if his hands were uncertain, like he was embracing a volatile animal that could not be trusted.
9
SOMEWHERE IN COLORADO:
PART 1
Masses attract one another. When an apple falls from a tree, it’s the strength of gravity that makes it happen. The farther objects are from one another, the weaker this gravitational force becomes. But it never completely disappears.
Every day, over two thousand people are reported missing in the United States. When my mother left our family home and walked into the fog-shrouded forest, she contributed to the
sad statistics of persons never to be seen again. One missing human in a crowd of many.
Yet I feel her visceral tug, as if she calls me, as if her pull defies space and time to reach me. As if my mother is still pulling me, reaching under my skin, entering my bloodstream, making my blood sing in response, in recognition.
* * *
The morning comes. We make it to the airport on time only to learn that our flight is delayed due to low visibility, an aftereffect of the storm.
While we marinate in the cramped waiting space by our gate, Del chats up an airline rep at the counter and flirts her way into a business-class upgrade for us both. Seriously? I don’t know how she does it, but her charm works every time.
I stare out the window, wishing the fog would clear out. Eventually it does and we’re allowed to board. The plane’s almost empty, which partly explains our upgrade luck. Excited at first, Del’s chatter weakens as the seatbelt light goes off. She dozes off on my shoulder. Soon restless sleep claims me, too, dragging me into a familiar land of fog and warriors on horseback, galloping through the woods.
But this time my recurring dream has a new element: Shannon.
He’s grown into a tall, menacing figure, which is further enhanced by his armor. His mouth quirks up in acknowledgment of my presence. I can’t zero in on his face. Every time I come close, he shifts just out of focus. But I know it’s him. Even though I haven’t seen him in years.
He rides by my side, the two of us at the head of our terrifying army, which is wearing human skins like ill-fitting costumes.
Even asleep, I’m aware that my hands are slick with sweat. My heart’s deranged rhythm is an unholy metronome, making me sick to the bones. Every time I come close to waking up, I get dragged back down into the whirlpool of dreams. I descend deeper and deeper and then I reach the bottom, where there’s no light, no air, nothing.
What the Woods Keep Page 4