Broken Realms (The Chronicles of Mara Lantern, Book 1)

by Moneypenny, D. W.

  “Did you have any success with the crystal?” Ping asked, setting two white paper bags and a brown cardboard tray holding two soft drinks on the floor next to his mat.

  Mara reached down and picked up the marker. “No, it’s still just a marker. No cheese for my burger.”

  “I only meant that as an example. It wasn’t intended as an assignment.” He pulled a burger out of the bag. “Did you get any feeling or sense from concentrating on the crystal? Anything at all?”

  “Nothing I would consider life altering. I spent most of my formative years making fun of my mother’s New Age practices. The only thing I’m likely to generate with this crystal is a sarcastic comment. It’s probably not the ideal talisman if you want me to develop magical powers.”

  “I hate that word, magic. It is superstitious and fantastical. What I want you to embrace is metaphysics—a higher natural form of physics. We are not learning sleight of hand or trickery. We will not be using any wands, potions or incantations. This is the real thing.”

  “Sorry. I’ll try to be more politically correct in the future.” She snagged a fry. “Assuming I can ever progenerate, or whatever a progenitor does, that will help me deal with these freaks from another realm, right?”

  “If you develop your abilities, you will eventually be able to deal with just about anything.”

  CHAPTER 38

  PING PICKED UP Mara’s meditation crystal and took it to the metal cabinet, placing it on a shelf. He swung back the doors and leaned inside with both hands. When he straightened, he held an antique wooden cathedral-shaped tabletop radio.

  “Oh! That’s a Philco 90,” Mara said, getting up from her mat, reaching for the radio.

  “No, no. Sit down. No touching.” He nodded back to her mat with his forehead.

  “Does it work? Look at the woodwork, the columns on the front, the fancy speaker grille, very cool. It looks like the outside is in great shape. Wow, those were built in the early ’30s.”

  Ping set the radio on the ground next to his mat, facing Mara, but out of her reach. He dusted off his hands on his pants, walked over to close the cabinet and returned to his mat.

  “I see I have your attention,” he said, smiling.

  “I’ve seen radios like this before, but I’ve never gotten to work on one. I’d love to get this to work if it doesn’t already.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m not sure if this works.” Ping smiled again. “That’s what we are going to do today, see if we can get it to work.”

  “Yeah, I get the feeling there’s a catch.” She half glanced at Ping, never turning her face away from the radio.

  “You can work on it all you want,” he said. “You just can’t touch it. Not with your hands and not with any tools.”

  “What? How’s that supposed to work?”

  “Use your ability. You are a progenitor. Concentrate on the radio and make it work. Shape reality with your will.”

  “You still think I can fix things metaphysically instead of mechanically. Is this radio supposed to be my talisman?”

  “In a way. I do think you may be using your abilities without realizing it. Let’s give it a go and see if we get anywhere. What can it hurt?”

  “I’ve never fixed something with my mind before.”

  “Well, now is your opportunity.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “What do you normally do when you are given a broken device?”

  “The first thing I usually do is touch it.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I open it up and assess it, learn how it is put together.”

  “Okay, close your eyes. I want you to do the same process in your mind, in your imagination.”

  She surprised him by closing her eyes without arguing further.

  “Now talk me through the process of working on this radio. Tell me what you are imagining,” he said, lowering his voice to a soothing tone. He rested his arm on the arch of the radio’s wooden casing.

  “I run my fingers over the front of the casing to make sure nothing is loose or ready to fall off. Then I jiggle the knobs to make sure they are seated well, and I slowly turn each one, leaving the Power button for last. I turn it to make sure it works properly. I don’t plug it in yet. I don’t want to power it up until I have a chance to make sure all the wiring and electrical components look okay. I don’t want to fry anything by turning it on too soon. I look at the back. I remove the wooden backing on the case and expose the electrical components.”

  “What do you see inside the back?”

  “There’s a tin platform holding the tubes and capacitors and other components. There is a switch built into the tin platform. Wires lead to the dials and knobs on the front of the casing.”

  “The electronics look new, in working order, don’t they?” Ping asked.

  “I don’t see anything that looks broken, worn or grounded. It looks like it is in working order.”

  “Now what should we do?”

  “We need to plug it in. It needs some power.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Ping said, getting up and walking behind the closet. A second later he returned with an extension cord. He plugged the radio’s power cord into it. “Okay, ready to go.”

  “Now I need to turn the knob in the center until it clicks.” Mara’s voice faded. Her brow furrowed as she envisioned the radio coming to life. She heard low static, she imagined reaching for the volume button, turned it, and the volume grew louder. The sound did not come from her imagination. She opened her eyes, and Ping smiled as static echoed throughout the empty warehouse.

  “You turned it on when my eyes were closed.”

  He shook his head. “I would not do that. Close your eyes and concentrate. I want you to focus on doing what I tell you.”

  She tried to protest.

  “I said close your eyes.”

  She closed her mouth and then her eyes.

  “I want you to find a station. Tune the radio until you find a station. See if that dial works.”

  She envisioned adjusting the dial. Almost immediately the static changed tones as the dial shifted across the spectrum. Mara opened one eye to see if Ping was playing with the radio. He wasn’t, but his eyes were round, and his mouth gaped.

  “What?” Mara asked.

  The static stopped changing as if she had stopped turning the dial. Ping dropped the surprised expression, shook his head and pointed to her eye. She closed the eye and went back to the dial in her mind. The static grew louder, until it hit a station.

  “…man is going to ruin our country. I cannot believe that he got reelected,” a voice boomed out of the wooden radio. AM talk.

  In her mind, she continued to dial, heard more static, then the Bee Gees’ “Saturday Night Fever” blared. She dialed some more until she hit “Jesus Take the Wheel” by Carrie Underwood. More static. She turned the volume knob until it lowered to the point she could no longer hear anything. She opened her eyes.

  “What were you so weirded out about a minute ago?” she said.

  “For a second, it looked like you flickered,” he said.

  “Flickered? I flickered?”

  “I think it must have been a trick of the light. One of the fluorescent tubes up there must be getting ready to go out.”

  She looked up at the lights. None of them appeared to be sputtering the way they do before they burn out. She arched an eyebrow at Ping. “I think if I was flickering, I would know it.”

  He nodded. “I want you to try something out of the box,” he said. “I want you to call Buddy on his cell phone.”

  Mara looked at him puzzled and reached for the phone in her jeans pocket.

  “No, no.” Ping pointed at the radio. “Call him on that.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Just imagine it, like you have been doing. Just pretend. Humor me.”

  Mara lifted an eyebrow, rolled her eyes and closed them. She visualized the radio sending a si
gnal out of the warehouse to a local cellular tower. She imagined turning knobs back and forth to manipulate the static so it emitted the appropriate dial tones to send out Buddy’s phone number. After a few seconds, she heard a ring. She opened her eyes. The ringtone came out of the radio speakers.

  “Hello?” Buddy spoke from the grille of the Philco 90.

  Stunned, Mara didn’t speak for a minute until Ping leaned over, tapped her on the knee and pointed at the radio.

  “Buddy, this is Mara. How are you doing?”

  “I’m great, Mara. How are you?”

  “I just thought I would call and see how your phone was working.”

  “It works great. No more echoes.”

  “Great. Well, I better let you go, it’s getting late.”

  “Okay, bye.” He hung up.

  She stared at Ping. “Explain to me how you did that.”

  “Mara, I didn’t do that. You did.”

  “You said I had to believe it before it would work. I don’t believe I can call someone’s cell phone using that old radio.”

  “On some level you must believe it, because you did it. I think you have always believed you could make machines and technology do what you want,” he said, standing up. “Soon you will be able to do a lot more, once you practice and gain some confidence.”

  “So I have the ability to tune a radio with my mind. What good is that?”

  “Mara, your ability is much more profound than that. You are a progenitor. Just be patient, and you will see eventually. Why don’t we pack up this stuff and call it a night?”

  “That sounds like a great idea,” Mara said. As she stood up, a wave of dizziness caused her to stagger a couple steps. “Whoa, that’s strange.”

  “Are you okay, Mara?” Ping stepped up to her and braced her arm.

  “Maybe I got up too fast.” She shook her head and cleared her vision. “I’m good now, I think.”

  She walked over to the radio and disconnected the extension cord. She looped the electrical cord over her arm, pulling it across the warehouse floor until the plug wound around the corner of the cabinet.

  “Where was that plugged in?” She pointed to the far end of the cord.

  “It wasn’t plugged in. There was no need.”

  “Well that radio didn’t power itself.”

  “No, you powered it.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Her face reddened.

  “There aren’t any outlets within reach of this cord.” He waved an arm around the cavernous warehouse.

  “You must have a battery of some kind inside the radio.”

  Ping pointed to the radio. “Look for yourself.”

  Mara finished winding up the extension cord and sat it on the ground next to the radio. Sitting down beside the Philco 90, she slid it around to face away from her. She pried open the back panel with a fingernail and looked into the cathedral-shaped wood box. It was empty. It contained no electronic components, no tubes, no wires.

  “There’s no radio in here. It’s just the shell.”

  “Exactly.” Ping smiled once more.

  CHAPTER 39

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING, Ping walked into Mara’s shop with a newspaper tucked under his arm. He browsed the shelves waiting for her to finish for the day. Mara put the final touches on a vintage Polaroid camera, flipped up the bar holding the flash, pointed it at Ping and pressed a button. She retrieved a photograph from a slot in the camera’s base and waved it in the air while it developed. After a couple minutes, she handed him the picture.

  “Now that’s grease-monkey magic. No metaphysics required.” She folded up the hinged device and placed it on a shelf behind the counter.

  Ping took the picture and smiled. “I used to have one of these. Why would someone want an old Polaroid with all the digital options available? Can you even buy the film cartridges for these nowadays?”

  “You can buy the cartridges online. Some people just love the whole experience of it. Taking the picture, watching it develop. It is kind of cool.” She pulled the money tray from the register and walked it back to her office, calling back over her shoulder as she went, “So what is the lesson for this evening, sensei?”

  “I’ll ignore the inappropriate Asian stereotype,” he said, unfolding the newspaper on the counter. “Have you read the news today?”

  “If the day is slow, sometimes I’ll catch up online when I’m doing office work, but not today.” She returned with her jacket. “You ready to go?”

  “I was thinking that instead of going to the warehouse this evening, we would go visit the pilot of the flight we were on.” He pointed to the newspaper. “Pay our respects.”

  Mara leaned over the counter. A headline of an article at the top of the inside page read “Flight 559 Pilot Suffers Mysterious Illness.” Mara scanned the story, which reported that Matt Sandoval, the pilot of the flight that went down in the Columbia River a little over three weeks ago, suffered from an undiagnosed and untreatable condition. He had an unknown blood disorder and trouble breathing. The condition, which he did not have before the accident, was described as life threatening, but the article said he had been released from the hospital and was being cared for at home.

  “Why would they release him if he was in such dire condition?” Mara looked at Ping.

  “My guess is he is going home to die. If there was something the hospital could do, they would keep him there and treat him.”

  “I feel bad for him, but why do you think we should go see him? It’s not like we know him or anything.”

  “Mara, remember, there is a pretender out there somewhere who is interested in you and the Chronicle. The more we learn, the better prepared we will be. The only way we can gather information is to talk to others who were on the flight. The pilot might have a unique perspective on events. It doesn’t sound like Mr. Sandoval is going to be around much longer, so we should talk to him.”

  “I don’t know. It seems like a terrible time just to drop in. I mean, the guy is dying, and I’m not sure how keen I am on dealing with another one of those freaky passengers. I am still getting over the Gambles.”

  “You’re the one who wants to get her life back. That won’t happened if you just hide here waiting for the next freak, as you call them, to show up. Besides I already talked to Mrs. Sandoval, and she said we could stop by. I told her that we wanted to thank her husband for bringing us home safely.”

  “Why do I think I’m going to regret this?”

  “Look, he’s sick. I don’t think it is likely we’ll have to fight him off.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Just a few blocks off Cedar Hill Boulevard over in southwest Portland.”

  “Great. I suppose you want to take the Ross Island Bridge.”

  “That’s the correct direction. What’s wrong with the Ross Island Bridge?”

  “Let’s go. I’ll explain it on the way.”

  Mara held open the shop door for Ping and followed him outside. She pulled the door closed, reopened it and slammed it shut to get it all the way closed. The frame had a tendency to swell when the air was damp. Engaging the dead bolt took two tries as well. When she turned from the door, Ping had already crossed the sidewalk to his car where Sam stood, eating a candy bar. He held it up and pointed it at Mara with a look of amazement on his face.

  “Don’t tell me. They don’t have chocolate where you come from,” she said as she got into the front passenger seat.

  “Of course they have chocolate. I’ve just never eaten it before.”

  “Well, it looks like you came to the right realm to pig-out. Just keep in mind we have fat farms too.”

  “What are fat farms?”

  “Keep eating pizza, corn dogs and candy bars, you’ll find out.”

  “We’ve already discussed working on a better diet and getting a little more exercise,” Ping said as they drove away. “So tell me, what is your concern with the Ross Island Bridge?”

  “I have a fear of water. B
ridges kind of stress me out, especially the small low ones that are close to water,” Mara said. “There is one in Seattle that actually floats on the water. That’s the only one I absolutely will not cross, so far.”

  “What does that stem from?” Ping asked.

  “No one knows. I was born that way,” she said. “I didn’t slip in the tub or almost drown while swimming. Nothing like that at all.”

  “My sister got pulled into a serpent pool by a blood eel when she was five. She almost drowned. She would never go near the water either,” Sam said.

  Mara shivered.

  CHAPTER 40

  CAROL SANDOVAL’S SMILE deepened the lines around her tired eyes as she welcomed Ping, Mara and Sam into the living room of her split-level brick home. She pushed an unruly strand of silver hair behind her ear as she pointed them toward a long couch the color of oatmeal. Once they were seated, she sat across from them in a high-backed leather chair where she listed to one side, using the arm for support instead of sitting back. For a moment there wasn’t a sound except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

  “Thank you so much for seeing us,” Ping said. “I was sorry to read of Mr. Sandoval’s illness and wanted to make sure he knew the passengers appreciated his efforts to keep us safe on the flight.”

  “That is so kind of you.” She settled back in her chair. “It’s been quite a challenge since the crash with Matt’s illness. Have the two of you fully recovered?”

  “We’re beginning to get back to normal. It was a most unusual experience,” Ping said.

  “What about you, young lady? Are you feeling better? I read in the paper you got a bump on the head and had to spend some time in the hospital yourself.”

  “They kept me largely out of an abundance of caution. I’m better now.” Mara nodded.

  “That’s wonderful. I wish there was something we could do for my Matt. He’s had a tough time these past few weeks.”

  “The newspaper didn’t report many details about your husband’s condition. How is he doing?” Ping asked.