by Jen Greyson
Rain blankets the yard in a soothing patter as Papi comes back in, pausing for a second on the threshold to hold the door for Bimni.
I ask, “What does this mean? Yo soy todo.”
“I am whole.”
“Estoy lleno de luz?”
“I am filled with light.”
“Nada existe más allá de este momento en el tiempo.”
“Nothing exists beyond this moment in time.”
Thunder booms and the windows rattle.
“Las rutas son míos para hacer y deshacer.”
“Paths are mine to make and unmake.”
“El tiempo es flexible.”
Lightning illuminates the yard and bright tendrils surround Papi.
“Time is pliable.”
Heat and noise bombard me like the house is collapsing around us, and I try to scream but it’s frozen in my throat. I’m blind and can’t feel anything around me, as if I’ve been launched into a black hole. I throw my arms out, searching for the counter.
“Papi?” The word is quieter than a breath, as if the darkness steals the sound as well as the light. A spark ignites around my waist, and I flinch, my hands flailing to brush it away. The spark tracks my smallest movements, and I brush at it again, but it stays—even as I lift my hands to my face, the spark follows.
It’s coming from me. It’s the same blue bolt that showed up last night. I can inhale at last, and my adrenalin spike ebbs. It’s still dark, but I have light. I am the spark.
I focus on making the erratic embers glow in unison. They splinter, frayed ends whipping into the blackness. I have no idea what I’m doing and can only make useless sputtering tendrils.
“Papi, talk to me. Where are you?”
The moment I get the flickering bolts concentrated into one erratic line, I’m blasted by light and noise, and the intensity forces me backward. My lungs compress and there’s no air to scream. I stumble. Hard stone rakes my toes and shin. Air finally floods my lungs and I gulp it in.
I fall to one knee and dig my fingers into the cracks between the stones under me.
I hear old women chattering in Spanish, and that totally throws me off because the only Spanish-speaking female in our neighborhood is that skinny white kid in the immersion school. It can’t be anyone I know, because Abuelita Rosa died two years ago.
Shit shit shit.
I push myself up, and my eyes adjust to the blinding light. I’m outside. There’s no dark storm, no lightning. Now I’m surrounded by bright blue sky. Only . . . the crisp mountain air is gone, replaced by a salty humidity that’s making my sweats stick to the backs of my thighs. At home, the rustling of leaves is a constant reminder of a light mountain breeze, but here there is a boundless repetition of waves somewhere close.
Nervous laughter bubbles in my chest, and I trap it, swallowing hard against the sudden constriction in my throat. I did not just admit to being somewhere other than home. Because that’s not possible.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to count to three before opening them again.
Nothing has changed.
I’m still in the shade of a sand-colored, stucco building. Across the wide cobbled road, its twin stands guardian. Its red tile roof absorbs the bright rays of the afternoon sun, shuttered windows open to the salty breeze, and tall orange clay pots overflow with purple flowers.
I kick at the rosy cobbles. Soft clouds of dirt billow up into the moist air and settle a few feet away in the middle of the road. The earthy scent mingles with the salt and flowers. I am all too aware this is not a vision.
And maybe the last one wasn’t either . . .
I shiver.
It can’t be a hallucination, because my mind works in action and color, not peaceful Spanish landscapes. A hallucination would have me on some wicked custom creation, doing two hundred on a flat open road.
Curling the end of my braid around my fingers, I twist and untwist the hair, then brush the end across my lips. I replay the last cohesive, explainable moment—translating the page. Then the lightning hit in the yard.
Two strikes in as many days.
Is this lightning riding?
I take in my surroundings again. Did it kick me to Spain because we were talking about Papi’s family?
I lift my hand and rub it back and forth on the wall. Beneath my fingers, cracked paint falls away and tumbles across the toes of my boots. Stuccoed walls, tiled roofs, and terracotta everywhere. Could be Spain, or about a cajillion other places. Mexico . . . Chile . . . I could be anywhere.
A thrill of excitement surges through me. I’ve always wanted to travel.
A normal person might get hung up on my mode of transportation. Good thing I don’t care much for details—or normal.
I drop my hair, shake my arms out, and jog in place a little, then freeze. My ankle feels fine. None of the pain that should be there—that was there three minutes ago—is there. This puzzle keeps growing edges.
Searching to find something, anything I recognize, I scan the road that curves away from the scattered buildings of the village until it winds up the towering green hills dotted with pink and purple flowers. Nothing familiar that way.
Each building is a stamp of the one next to me. The flowers change color, but the red tile roofs, tan, squat walls, and shuttered windows stay the same. A few benches and chairs furnish the entryways, but the chattering women seem to be the only inhabitants.
A barrage of Spanish erupts again from somewhere I can’t see.
I strain to make out any of what they’re saying. I pick up a few words, but the little Spanish I once knew has been replaced by quantum physics, linear algebra, and—more recently—the assembly order of a James Welt engine.
I suppose that’s shitty if I really am this far from home without Papi or the Internet to help me.
Above me, a balcony is full to bursting with terracotta pots of bright flowers. Their rich scent covers me like a blanket. Between the smells, sights, and sounds, I’m on serious sensory overload here. Too vivid to be a dream.
I press my hand against the sun-warmed side of the building and peek around the corner. There’s a small courtyard tucked between several low ramblers, and the road curls past them and to the right before it dead-ends at a large, red barn. Five women shell peas in a semicircle against the next building, beneath three hanging clotheslines. One is silhouetted behind a sheet hanging between pairs of pants and short-sleeved shirts, her hands peek-a-booing over the top as she pulls each piece off the line.
Oh yeah, definitely not Utah.
And now it’s starting to feel like this might not even be the right decade.
If this is real, and I’m somewhere other than Utah and not on the same day I left, that means I time-traveled. If that’s what lightning riding is—and oh, please let it be—does that mean my entire family is a bunch of freaking time travelers?
I let the possibility sink in for a second. And another. I dig my fingernail into the soft stucco until a small chip comes loose. Holding it closer, I sniff it, taste it, crumble it. Some of the dust gets in my eye, making it water. That doesn’t happen in dreams.
Again, a normal person would be flipping out about now. I stifle a laugh and peek around the corner to make sure no one heard me. The women are still chattering and shelling away.
So . . . I have the ability to swing lightning around like a bullwhip, and I also get to time travel.
Sweet.
It takes everything I have to not dance around. Take that, Nick, you dickwad!
I restrain myself. Before I go playing with my epic new toys, I should find Papi.
I cock my head. Would he have traveled, too? He’s probably standing in his kitchen wondering where I went. Which I still haven’t figured out. I scan the landscape again. So much to explore . . . Papi can wait.
The Spanish ratchets up a notch. They make me miss my abuela, and I close my eyes for a second and pretend it’s her chatting passionately with her friends. It makes me smile
. Guess I’ll see how these ones feel about an intruder—Abuelita Rosa would lose her mind.
I step into the small courtyard, and the chattering stops. I grin at them, but get none in return. They’re older than Abuelita Rosa had been, and they have her clear eyes, leathery cherub cheeks, and wide hips. Their bright skirts mimic the overflowing flower baskets, and their thick, strong fingers don’t pause in their pea shelling. A dozen more shells hit the basket while I’m standing there gawking.
“Hola,” I say.
The one doing laundry draws the sheet back, sees me, and tips her head in greeting. Her silver hair sweeps back into a severe bun, and reading glasses hang on a delicate chain around her neck. She moves out from behind the rows of laundry and stands behind the pea shellers, a basket of clothes in her arms. I struggle to recall some Spanish from when Mami used to let us use it. I should have studied in secret with my baby sisters.
I settle for charades until my brain comes back online. Sweeping my arms in a circle, I point to the buildings. “Where, uh, where this place?” God, I’ve lost control of my English, too.
The pea shellers chuckle and go back to their task and clucking, effectively dismissing me. The laundress hasn’t moved, and there’s a strange look of expectation in her eyes.
“Has anyone else come through here?” I ask her. “Older guy, little taller than me?” I lift my hand a few inches above my head.
Her expression doesn’t change as she studies me. I fidget beneath her scrutiny, wishing I still had my protective layer of leather instead of Tiana’s T-shirt and tight sweats. The rhinestone skull and crossbones across my chest beams in the sunlight, scattering reflections across the dirt and up over the walls of the building behind them. I’m a damn disco ball standing here in the courtyard.
Finally, she shakes her head.
Shit. Now what? Wherever I am, it’s no metropolis. The relaxed atmosphere of this place is as fragrant as the flowers.
Only it’s not doing anything to help me relax. Because I’m location hopping or time traveling or having a serious fit of food poisoning from the Chinese . . . that I didn’t eat.
I listen to the village—it’s too quaint to call it anything else. Beyond the chattering abuelas, the noises are organic. Goats bleat their complaints about the humidity, chickens scratch the dirt and peck small bugs from the hard-packed soil. If there are vehicles, they’re too far away to hear. Not a single engine roars. Nothing. I optimistically scan the landscape for a cell tower. No wires. No towers.
Nothing obscures the perfect crest of these hills. Not that I’m worried, but calling Papi would have been convenient.
I pat my hips and swear. My cell isn’t even on me.
Thankfully, I have a habit of sticking a few bills into the waistband of my panties because you never know. We’ll see how far sixteen bucks gets me.
Had I known I was about to be hurtled across space and time, I would have picked something with more pockets instead of these frigging sweat pants. I don’t even have socks I could stuff with anything important. One of sixty-seven reasons I hate flip-flops.
“Hola, Mami,” says a throaty, very male voice from behind me.
The women frown and lean into each other, whispering and pointing.
I spin around. A spicy, gorgeous guy sits just inside the open doors of the barn, astride a wicked vintage bike. A motorcycle. Thank God there are motorcycles.
Round headlight, thin fenders, leather cradle, gold lettering. I might be mistaken, but I’m almost positive he’s sitting on a perfect replica of a 1927 Fusté. Impossible to get parts for . . . unless he just bought it new, which may have just given me my when.
He drapes his wrists over the bars and flashes a grin. I should walk away, but the situation doesn’t leave me many choices.
I glance over my shoulder at the whispering conspirators. The silver-haired laundress is still pointing, and she’s getting louder. I step toward her, and she shakes her head, stabbing the air toward the bike. I jerk my thumb toward spicy-motorcycle-guy and raise my eyebrows. She nods sharply.
Well, that’s helpful. She can’t use a few charades? Maybe a word or two?
I swivel back to the bike and wobble with indecision. I’m not exactly discerning when it comes to trusting people. Thankfully I’ve managed to stay out of the crosshairs of evil my whole life, because I’m the kind of person who would believe a creep lost his puppy and if I’d just get into his white panel van, we could find it. Or, you know, straddle a stranger on a bike, because bikers are always filled with goodness.
Do I stay and try to find Papi, or do I trust this guy?
Since Papi isn’t right here with me, I’m assuming he didn’t come along, which means I need to get my ass home.
Not sure how I’m going to pull that off, but I suppose a time traveler can leave from anywhere, so I don’t have to stick where I landed. Pretty sure my lightning bullwhips are related. No way they’re separate freak issues.
If I get home and Papi’s missing, I’ll just have to figure out how to get back here. This can’t have been a one-time thing. I hope.
The abuela stares me down, waiting for me to go with Spicy. I want to go with him, because he’s the only thing resembling transportation—normal transportation. And he’s the only person willing to acknowledge me with a few words.
I turn and study him. I’m used to three-hundred-pound bikers infused with testosterone. Working in a custom shop has given me a Ph.D. in reading men. Except for Nick. Except for any guy I’ve ever dated. The moment I’m interested in them, my brain seems to dry up.
But even astride his Fusté, this one is as threatening as my eight-month-old nephew. I smile and push away from the building. “Hola.”
“¿Como te llamas?” he asks, but it’s garbled. Luckily that’s a ridiculously easy question.
“Evy.”
His grin spreads a little wider, and his eyes peruse my sparkly chest. “Hector.”
As much as I’d like to see how much info I can glean, I need to get a move on. I’m tempted to ask him where and when I am, but that seems like a good way to scare off my ride. I’m also not sure I’m ready for the answer, especially if my guess is way off.
“Moto benísimo.” Hot bike. I mock myself for memorizing that instead of something that could actually help me. It’s not my fault Mami wouldn’t let us speak Spanish in the house.
He responds, in Spanish again, but the words I hear don’t match the movement of his lips. Instead, the sound filters tin-like through my ears and amplifies.
“Want a ride?”
My eyes pop and I cough, covering my mouth while I try and wipe the shock from my face.
I hold up a finger and swallow in a weak attempt to compose myself. “Lo siento. ¿Qué?”
But that’s not what I said, either! I turn away and cough again before giving it another try. Sorry. What? “Lo siento. ¿Qué?”
He smiles and rephrases the question. “Do you need a lift?”
I dig a finger in my ear. Time traveling? Not a big deal. Lightning whips? Surprising but cool. Auto-translation? A little freaky.
Guess it’s helpful, even if it is unnerving. I scratch my head. Magic seems to be the flavor of the day.
I shrug, return his grin, and find it only slightly worrisome when my statement flows in a perfect native tongue. “I can’t remember how far it is to town. I could use a ride.”
He kicks the bike and cranks the throttle down. In a choking cloud of blue-gray smoke, the engine roars to life. I puff up at my assessment of the bike. A Fusté only smoked until it was broken in—a replica wouldn’t.
I almost laugh that my random bike knowledge is the solution to this mystery. Since Julius Fusté manufactured his bikes in Barcelona from 1924 to 1929, I’m spot on about it being a ’27. An original ’27.
“Don’t laugh,” Hector says with a hint of embarrassment.
I bite my lip. Who knows what the culture is here, but men are men and it’s never good to insult their
toys. I learned a long time ago, guys have specific perceptions of what skills girls are allowed to have. Some of our long-time customers won’t let me near their bikes. Even guys who think they’ve evolved still have instinctual reactions.
I lift my hands in surrender and reassure him. “No, I really like it. Really.”
You have no idea just how much.
Hector walks his Fusté forward to the middle of the street where I meet him.
I glance back at the women. They seem satisfied with my decision. Not sure yet if that’s a good thing or a bad one.
With my hand on Hector’s shoulder, I shift my weight and balance against him. As I lift my left leg and swing it over the seat, a stabbing pain shoots through my stomach.
I double over and curl against my outstretched knee perched on the seat of the bike, fingers clawing at my belly. My position half on, half off the bike leaves me badly unbalanced. Hector turns. His movements wiggle the bike, and now I’m pretty sure I’m going to do a giant face-plant onto the cobblestones. I can’t suck in enough air to tell him to knock it off.
I twist my head around and search the sky, straining my neck from my balled-up state. Lightning isn’t likely on such a sunny day, but it’s the only thing that makes me feel pain like this. Though never this bad.
I’m going to die.
I moan. “Off.”
Hector slides off the bike and wraps his fingers tight around my waist. I’m useless to help him. He lowers me to the ground, and my ears are deaf to whatever he’s telling me. There’s a loud roaring in my right ear. His anguished face disappears as another bolt of pain wracks my entire body. Behind my tightly shut lids, blackness rimmed with bright spikes of color radiates outward, pulsing with the pain. I’m pretty sure Hector’s making a break for it, and I’m going to be left to die by the side of the road.
Time travel is considerably less fun right now.
The roaring stops after Hector turns off the bike. He’s bending over me again, and I pry my eyes open a crack.
“Lightning,” I whisper through my parched lips.