Ignition

by Emma Shelford

  ***

  I drift down the corridor in the direction of my hotel room, my mind roiling in a foggy, unkempt way. It’s not surprising that I can’t keep a straight thought given the time. Jen’s warnings of keeping my secrets bottled up echoes Braulio’s words too closely. I scowl. It’s very easy for them to say, with their shallow experiences of only one lifetime. The problem is, I’ve seen it all before and I know how spilling my guts often ends. A memory pops unbidden to my mind of Claude, a man I thought was a friend. That is, until I floated his spoon in midair to prove myself. He landed a blow right on my nose, a hard punch strengthened by his fear, and ran out screaming for the commissaire. I fixed my nose using my lauvan, grabbed my cloak, and left town immediately.

  I approach the door to my room. At the threshold, I realize how little I want to sleep right now. I don’t want to descend into the world of my memories again tonight. I don’t want malingering feelings of dread from warnings given by long-dead warriors. I just want to sleep—for just one night I wish I could go to bed and dream about absolutely nothing at all. I was in such a good mood last night. The volcano was dealt with, I spent a relaxing evening with my friend—everything was as it should be. Then my ghosts raised their heads, bringing anxiety to my mind and driving a wedge of distrust between Jen and me.

  I squeeze my fists tight, suddenly angry at nothing, at everything. I pace past my room and continue down the hall where I pass a swaying man opening his door. He gives me a drunken glare.

  “What are you looking at?” I snarl, and twitch his lauvan. He stumbles, gives me the finger—I don’t think he’s coherent enough to vocalize—and slams the door shut behind him. I stride to the window at the end of the hall, my bad mood quickly falling from anger to melancholy. I lean against the wall beside the window and sigh deeply. The hours before dawn are always so dark. I hate being awake and alone at this time. It’s too quiet—my thoughts roar loudly and my emotions are easily awakened. Normally I’m excellent at keeping my cool, but at this hour I feel raw and exposed. I rub my arms reflexively even though the hotel is well-heated. I fight a sudden irrational impulse to run back down the hall, burst into Jen’s room, and tell her everything. Maybe then the dark emptiness of the night wouldn’t feel so oppressive.

  But what if she can’t take the truth, and kicks me out of her life for good? Then I truly would be alone in the dark. A strained friendship is still better than no friendship at all.

  I press my forehead against the glass to cool my fevered anxieties.

  “A new day will come soon enough,” I say out loud. “Darkest before the dawn, et cetera.”

  I’m not very convincing, even to myself.

  I stand like this for a few minutes, holding myself together, until I feel it. The ground beneath my feet shivers, like the skin of a horse when a fly lands on it. I raise my head and my heart sinks.

  “No. No, this can’t be happening.”

  I look to the sky and the dark silhouettes of the Three Peaks. The leftmost one has a cap of cloud around its top. Another tremor shakes my knees and a picture on the wall behind me thumps on its hanger. The cloud grows bigger.

  Mt. Linnigan is awake, and is angrier than ever.

  I’m rooted to the spot. How the hell is this happening? I fixed the situation yesterday. I spent all damn day waltzing around the mountain, fighting my nausea to weave the endless sick lauvan together. Everything was calm and controlled yesterday, the mountain wrapped up in a beautiful lauvan package.

  I don’t even know what to think. My tired brain revs up out of necessity. Perhaps Anna did something? She’s not skilled enough with the lauvan to change what I did, or even to sense it. But the spirits she is in contact with—could they have undone my work? I’m suddenly cold with the thought. I know next to nothing about spirits. How powerful are they?

  My thoughts are interrupted by the nearby wail of a police siren. Blue and red lights flash down the street, and uniformed men and women leap out of the vehicles and start knocking on front doors. They deliver a message to the bewildered people answering the doors and move quickly to other houses. Lights flicker on one by one in the dwellings of Wallerton. The floor trembles again.

  I jolt upright when the hotel’s fire alarm begins to bray. Muffled thumps and bangs precede the emergence of the hotel guests in their sleepwear and robes, looking tired and confused.

  “Whereza fire?” a teenage boy mumbles as his parents usher him down the stairs.

  Wallerton is being evacuated. That means that the scientists at base camp have measured something drastic on their instruments, something that scared them enough to give the order to move the entire population to safety.

  I have to get to the mountain. I have to figure out what’s happening. And now it seems my timeline for dealing with this explosive disaster is drastically shortened.

  I swing myself down the stairs, barging past the family with the teenage boy who is taking its sweet time maneuvering the steps.

  “Hey, watch it, buddy!” the father yells at me. I ignore him and barrel into the lobby, past the front desk where the night attendant and manager hastily pull on reflective vests, and out into the night. I look wildly around for a quiet place to transform, but the best I can manage is the space between two cars in the parking lot. It’s dark enough—it will have to do.

  I stop for a moment, indecision warring with my urgent need to get to the volcano. Jen is still in the hotel, without a car to get her out of this ticking time bomb called Wallerton. I have no idea how long until Mt. Linnigan erupts, but the best chance any of us have is if I get to that volcano and try to mitigate this disaster long enough for everyone to escape. I whip out my phone and text Jen.

  Get out as fast as you can. Take my car. Keys are in the glovie as usual. I’ll hitch a ride. I need to do something first.

  That will have to do. I crouch down and fumble for my lauvan. Eventually, I stop what I’m doing and take a deep breath.

  “Calm down, Merlin. Getting yourself in a twist isn’t going to help anybody.” More methodically, I feel out for the correct lauvan. They’re in my fingers in a matter of moments—I’ve done this a thousand times before. It was only my anxiety getting in the way. I flap out from between the cars. My wingbeats take me farther and higher, but before I float out of hearing, someone on the ground speaks.

  “Hey, look. Is that an owl?”

  No, you idiot, I think crossly. Does nobody know their birds of prey anymore?

  CHAPTER XX

  The sun breaks the edge of the horizon between two distant mountains in a fierce display of fiery red. I flap my wings harder. My wish was granted—dawn came quickly this morning. But instead of bringing with it the promise of hope and renewal, all I can see in the near future is death and destruction.

  Ahead of me, the mountains glow a brilliant orange. They remind me disturbingly of fire, and lava. I banish the thought from my head and fly faster. My tiny heart, already pumping more rapidly than my human one, strains in my feathered chest. The highway stretches to my right. A line of vehicles glints in the rising sun, a miniature robotic snake far below me. I desperately hope that Jen is in one of them, zooming away from this cursed volcano and back to Vancouver, home, and safety.

  From up here, there is an incredible view of the whole coastal range—peaks upon peaks, crests upon crests of mountains, snow-covered rows of teeth in a titanic shark mouth. The Three Peaks are straight ahead, sentinels before the army. And now Mt. Linnigan is not alone with its smoke signals.

  Mt. Vickers and Mt. Kullen steam as thickly as Mt. Linnigan does.

  The rush of the cold, dew-laden air wakes me up more strongly than coffee, and the familiar feeling of wind passing through my feathers calms me despite the circumstances. There’s no point in worrying until I get there—I can’t plan until I know what happened.

  But I can find out what the scientists know. Banking sharply when this thought hits me, I spiral over to the base camp. It’s only a few minutes as the m
erlin flies, and shortly I flap to a perch on top of the white tent in the parking lot.

  If I thought there was a buzz of activity at the base camp the last time I visited, it was nothing to the hubbub today. Everyone is shouting instructions, rushing out of the tent into the parking lot, unceremoniously hauling pieces of sensitive-looking and undoubtedly expensive equipment from inside the tent and loading them into the waiting trucks. Some vehicles are already backing up, and their irritating beeping noises produce an unpleasant disharmony. They narrowly avoid the frantically milling scientists and rangers. Another tremor shakes the ground and a few people scream. The shaking causes the tent to sway on unsteady poles. It catches me off guard and my wings flap vigorously to maintain my balance. I click my beak in annoyance and try to ignore the fresh plumes of steam rising from the three mountains just ahead. My keen falcon hearing picks up on the babble below me. Most of it is shouted instructions, but I sift through the cacophonous jumble of voices until I focus on a male voice speaking in the tent directly below me. I recognize the voice—it’s the man I spoke to, Dr. Pessimist from the television. I suppose I should rename him Dr. Realist, and myself Mr. Misguided Optimist.

  “There’s no way I can tell,” he says. There’s silence for a few seconds. He must be speaking on a phone. “I told you I can’t pred—no, just make sure everyone’s out. I’ve only ever seen readings like this right before an eruption. Wallerton’s on the lahar flow path, I’ve told you that before. It’s shaping up to be a plinean, as far as I can tell. Worst of both worlds.” A pause, then, “As fast as you can. Look, I have to go. I need to get my people out of here before it’s too late. I’ve left some remote monitoring sensors here—they’ll have to do.”

  The call apparently finished, I wait until I see Dr. Realist leave the tent. While he talked, most of the trucks were loaded and left. Now there’s just the one remaining. The scientist swings into the passenger seat and the pickup spins with a spray of gravel as it shoots out of the parking lot.

  So, that’s it. It’s just me and the mountain. If it were as satisfying to sigh heavily in this bird body as it is as a human, I would. Another tremor shakes the empty tent and I use the opportunity to take off toward my lauvan ring—if it’s still there.

  I aim my wingbeats toward the spot where I buried the fire opal. I have to start somewhere, and it seems as good a place as any. Perhaps the grounding has come undone. Perhaps it’s an easy fix that I can shore up quickly. Perhaps I’m still a misguided optimist.

  I spiral to height in an updraft and flap toward the fire opal. From this height, so close to the mountain, the glistening blanket of healthy lauvan is clearly visible in the morning light. The peak appears to be free of yellow, which puzzles me. Why all the commotion if it’s not caused by sick lauvan? I finally fly close enough to get the lauvan ring in my sights. It’s still intact and visible from this distance, but upon closer inspection it’s fraying, disintegrating into its individual lauvan components. I flap harder to get to the fire opal. The lauvan ring should be holding—there should be no reason why it’s falling apart.

  As I near the ground, I let my lauvan resume their usual form and land hard in a stumbling run. The opal is only ten paces away. Instead of a neat lauvan cluster descending into the ground, all I can see are writhing strands of lauvan convulsing in a loose pile of earth. I slide onto my knees, push the twitching lauvan aside, and scrape out loose earth in frantic handfuls.

  “Where the hell are you?” I mutter. My mind starts to process what I’m seeing. Only a small portion of the sick lauvan still enter the ground—most flap aimlessly around me in the air and in the grass. But what puzzles me more is that none of the multicolored lauvan of the fire opal are showing yet, even though I’ve dug far enough to reach them. The depression should be filled with them by now, wrapping around the sick lauvan and twisting between my digging fingers. The hole is conspicuously empty.

  My fingers feel a smooth roundness unlike the jagged rocks naturally in the soil. I brush dirt away and grasp the object between finger and thumb. It’s not entirely smooth—my fingers feel an edge where they should only encounter polished roundness. I hold my breath and bring the object up into the light.

  The rays of the rising sun hit the opal, passing through milky translucency to reach shards of glittering orange and red which glow like fire deep within the stone. Sylvana was right—it really is beautiful in the sun.

  But there are two problems. One, I’m only looking at half an opal—this one is clearly split right down the center to leave behind a jagged edge.

  And two, I shouldn’t be able to see the fire opal at all.

  Where are the opal’s lauvan?

  CHAPTER XXI

  The fire opal is lifeless in my hand. Where a multitude of colorful lauvan should twine around my fingers and brush against my own lauvan with a tingle of connectivity, there is only emptiness. There’s nothing but the glowing fire of the opal.

  I shiver despite the sun on my face. I didn’t know it was possible to strip the lauvan off of a spiritually-valued object like that, not so quickly. Once, in the past, I tried to remove the lauvan from a lover’s crucifix out of idle curiosity, but the lauvan clung stubbornly. And it felt wrong, somehow—the lauvan belonged on the crucifix. If an object is forgotten or ceases to be valued, the lauvan will eventually fade and drift away. But the fire opal doesn’t have even a single lauvan hugging its surface—it’s as clean as a lifeless rock at the bottom of a pit.

  The spirits that Anna communicates with must have done this. I severely underestimated their power and reach. Somehow they are manipulating the lauvan to disrupt this center and create a volcano where none should be. I tried to tie up the sick lauvan and ground them, and I have no doubt that it would have worked if it hadn’t been tampered with.

  But no spirits dug that hole. At least the ones I saw wouldn’t have—they were made purely of lauvan, and wouldn’t have been able to interact with the physical world. And no human stripped the lauvan off of the fire opal. Even I can’t do that—it must have been done by the spirits.

  “Anna, are you still getting into trouble?” I say out loud. I feel around for the other piece of the opal. It won’t do me any good, not now that it’s stripped, but I feel bad leaving it in a hole. I put the useless pieces in the pocket of my jeans. Then I stand up, decided on my course of action.

  There’s only one way out that I can see. I need to confront the spirits if I can, and either find out what they want or show them who they’re dealing with. I don’t let anyone walk all over me, ever.

  I stride over to the nearest lauvan-cable. My heart pumps and my breath comes in quick bursts. I’m ready for this confrontation. I’ve skated around the real reason for Mt. Linnigan’s activity for days. I need answers, and I need results. And I’m ready to fight to get them if need be.

  But truth be told, I’d rather talk. I want to know more. I want to learn what the spirits are, why they talk to some, why they’ve never come to me. I want to know what Sylvana heard when the spirits mentioned my father. I want answers to questions that have plagued me for centuries.

  Pumped up and ready for action, I halt at the surface of the cable. The sick and healthy lauvan are twisted together yet again. I set my jaw in defiance.

  “Ready or not, here I come,” I say, just in case the spirits can hear me. I doubt they can, but what do I know? The spirit world didn’t exist for me until yesterday. I brace myself and plunge both my hands into the swirling mass of lauvan.

  My phone rings. Who the hell is calling me right now? The university can shove it, as far as I’m concerned, and Braulio can wait. Telemarketers can stick it up their—I freeze. What if it’s Jen? What if she’s in trouble? The car hiccupped once last week—what if it won’t start for her?

  It’s time for some multitasking. I keep my right hand in the cable and try to concentrate on feeling for the presence. My left hand fumbles in my pocket across my body when the phone rings for the second time. It’
s Jen after all—I’ll make the call quick.

  “Jen?”

  “Merry!” Jen practically shouts my name. Her voice is filled with relief that quickly turns to exasperation, anger, and fear with her next words. “Where the hell are you? What could you possibly need to do? A volcano is about to explode. Please tell me you got a ride with Anna and are on the highway.”

  “Umm—no.” I try to keep my mind on my exploratory right hand in the cable, but it makes it difficult to think about what to say to Jen. “I just have to do something first. I’ll get away safely, I promise. You’re out of town, right?”

  “No, I’ve been trying to call you for the past—argh, Merry, what the hell?” She must have called while I was in my falcon-form. My phone was probably a feather at that point. “Where are you?”

  There’s a slight wavering in my fingertips. I’m distracted—is it the presence? How should I communicate with it? Can I send my questions about the spirit world and its intentions through my lauvan the same way I travel along the cable in my mind’s eye?

  “At the mountain,” I say, then bite my tongue hard. I didn’t mean to say that. Dammit. I lose track of the wavering as my mind snaps back to my conversation with Jen.

  “What?” Jen is speechless for a moment. “How did you get there without your car?”

  That’s another question I don’t want to answer. I feel a surge of tingling in my fingertips.

  “What the—”

  There’s a blow to my lauvan so powerful as to give me physical pain. It throws me back, breaking my connection to the cable and making me drop my phone. I sail through the air.

  “Fuck!” I’m so enraged at the unknown presence getting the better of me that I let forth every expletive I can muster on the spot from my large and impressive vocabulary. “Merde! Scheisse, godverdomme! Satans også, sıktır!” I crawl back to my phone. The cable twists innocently in front of me.