The Complete History of Technology, a book I’m well-versed in. I’ve researched it for years, especially the last two. I fall into a dreamless sleep with the book straddled in my lap. I wake up some time later, stiff and sore all over. I manage to put the book on the mahogany desk and barely make it to the bed.
I spend the next two days at the mercy of Regina. Intermittent between fitful dreamless sleep, I listen to old television shows and skim book-after-book.
On day three, I wake with systematic determination. Time to strategize and regroup. I need to locate a station and fuse in. I doubt I’ll see where he is, but I need to check. I need a game plan. According to Regina, the only station close by is near the library, a place you won’t find in any other shires. Sounds good to me, maybe I’ll check that out while I’m out there.
“You go through town. You’ll see a small road, looks more like a path, dear, on the right. It’s unmarked. Turn down there and follow the windy road. You’ll end up at the library. The station is located directly behind it. Here’s some cucumber water and snacks for the trip,” she says, handing me a small paisley bag. I hoist it over my shoulder along with my sling-back satchel and head out.
“Thank you so much, Regina. I’ll see you tonight,” I say over my shoulder.
“Sure thing, hon. I’m making lasagna and homemade garlic bread for dinner; dessert’s a surprise. Bring your appetite, I’ve made too much,” she laughs heartily, waving me away.
Turning down the road, I start into town. Not many people are around, which is not surprising, given it is the most rural shire. I fit in fairly well. Another pair of jeans, this time donned with a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. I’ve pulled my hair to the side with my favorite hair clip. I love being in Crystal. I can wear all my vintage, historic clothing and nobody pays attention. There aren’t any rules for these residents.
I spot a woman about fifty, wearing a housedress straight out of the 1960s. A man is walking around dressed in denim jean overalls. I also spot a teenage girl sporting bellbottom jeans and a top straight from the 1970s, complete with fringe. It’s a stroll through ancient decades of fashion.
I see another woman, probably twenty-five or so, definitely around Shane’s age. Her straight sandy hair is painted generously with highlights from the sun. It’s long, well past her shoulders to the middle of her back. She’s wearing a short blue lace Bohemian jumper over her thin figure. Worn slouched ankle boots complete the outfit. She has three dogs on leashes. She walks up the path to what I assume is her house, a small cottage hidden in foliage away from the main road.
There are two little boys circling their momma like sharks, while she organizes her belongings. I spot suckers in her right hand. Blood in the water. I see two guys walk out of a restaurant on the right. They’re boisterous and laughing. One of them is doing an impression I don’t recognize. The other is laughing so hard he can barely catch his breath. It makes me miss my brother deeply.
I continue through the hilly town. I spot an apothecary on the left. There’s a woman my age outside sweeping the porch. Her long, thick blonde hair curls around her face, resembling a golden Clydesdale’s mane. She looks up at me and waves. At first, I stand frozen but then remember where I am. I give a little half-wave and smile, continuing on my journey. She goes back to sweeping.
The people become more scarce and the buildings sparser. The road fades from pavement to dirt. The trees thicken. Lush greenery surrounds me. The trees meet above my head creating a tunnel built from nature. The sounds of wildlife encompass me. It’s welcoming given the eerie silence I experienced when on ‘mute.’ I hear water bubbling somewhere, a babbling brook. The air chills under the canopy’s shadow. I can smell dewy grass, but then I taste hot sauce, not sure what that’s about.
I follow the hilly dirt road for what seems a very long time. I don’t know for sure though, I haven’t turned on my Slab. I’m waiting to do it when I’m not at Regina’s house, just in case. Thinking I may have passed the street, I start to turn around. There’s no way. I’ve been watching carefully.
I hear a voice. I stop and listen. Nothing, still radio silence. I decide to continue up the path awhile. Over the hill, I spot it. A very small clearing on the right side of the woods. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d never see it.
I start down the narrow pathway. It’s not an easy trek. It’s bumpy and rocky with twists and turns. There’s even the tiniest, most rickety ‘bridge’—I use that term loosely—I’ve ever seen. That’s Crystal Shire for you, not always up to date with modernization and safety protocols, evidently. The bridge hangs from ropes so frayed I can’t believe it’s still suspended. I look for any other way to cross. Nope.
“Okay. I could maybe use some help here…” I plead to the voices. “Come back, guys. How about the new one that helped me carry Shane? Anyone?” Nada.
Why. Why am I about to cross a bridge hung by dental floss? Looks as though someone put it together in the 1500s. It might as well be string-roped soup cans.
Well, okay. It’s not as if I haven’t been through worse. Let’s do this. I rub my hands together as if the gesture will somehow magically transport me to the other side.
It doesn’t.
Okay. I step onto the first board. The bridge swings dramatically.
“Wow. I’m not that heavy, asshole,” I tell the bridge. I realize I’m talking to a bridge.
With each careful step the bridge swings dauntingly. I have to step and cling. Wait for the swinging to stop. Step and cling. I get a good momentum going and think I’m going to make it.
Suddenly, the bridge dips and I hear a snap. I start shaking and attempt to steady myself. Below I see the babbling brook I heard. It’s wide and appears deep. I don’t know what to do. I figure if I lie down, my body weight will balance better. Then I can scoot the rest of the way, which is not close.
I start to scoot, my bags snug under my arm. I only have about fifteen feet to go. Inch-by-inch, I crawl. Nearing the end, I hear another snap. The left side has come undone. I’m now dangling from a floss bridge. I slip off the bridge holding on by my fingers. I wobble back and forth. Dangling from one thin frayed rope, I briefly glimpse a whir of memories. Accompanying smells of powdered donuts and a sharp twinge of burning rubber on hot concrete, then hot sauce again. I have a mission. I can’t die yet. He has to pay.
I inch closer and closer to gaining purchase when the rope frays even more, and I jerk toward the water. I’m just inches from the edge of land.
I decide I’m close enough to swing and grab the ledge. Getting a momentum going I sway upwards. One hand grabs the slat of wood that appears firmly attached to the ground, then the other. Believing I’m out of danger, I begin to pull up. The nails holding the wooden slat pull with it. Who designed this thing?
The water continues churning below, beckoning me into its dark mystery. I become mesmerized by its deep blue intensity. I’m tired. I want to be done. I just want to see my brother again.
Fine. You want me? Take me.
I let one hand go. The wood slips sharply. I hang from the edge of this tiny plank. I imagine a small ship in a bottle akin to the ones they used to construct. The plank, a minuscule board off the side of the miniature vessel. A tiny platinum haired doll dangles precariously over frozen polymer waves.
I sway one-handed, my bags stretching my shoulder from its socket. My fingers continue to slip. I’m fine with this. I can see Shane. But the mission…
Well, God decides all that.
One-by-one my fingers release. I let go. I start to free-fall, closing my eyes.
4
I jerk. Hard. I look up.
A giant hand has grabbed ahold of my arm. He pulls me up as if I’m that miniature doll and tosses me to his side. He hasn’t broken a sweat, nor is he out of breath. He’s the size of Captain America, maybe a little bit broader. Not as big as Shane, who was larger, the size of Thor. Darker complexion too, olive-skinned, with deep brown eyes resembling fountain Coca-Cola. Light c
aramel foam lines the inner irises, melting into outer rims of the cola’s dark syrup.
He’s wearing jeans, sporadically ripped and torn from use, held up by a thick, worn leather belt. The buckle is large but simple; one silver and gold wrapped prong fits through thick, tan aged leather. His t-shirt is well worn and vintage. It’s green, most likely once clover now faded to mint. He has work boots on. They’re scuffed, slouchy, and loosely tied.
My shirt is disheveled, and my hair has blown into a nice swirl on top of my head, not unlike a soft serve vanilla ice cream cone. I adjust my top and smooth my hair back into the barrette. I lean back on my elbows with a deep exhale. I’m more than a little indignant. I thought I was about to see Shane. Now, not only do I not get to see him, I have to continue this mission. Ugh.
“You okay?” he asks sincerely.
“I’m fine, unfortunately,” I mutter the last word.
He runs his fingers through his thick, dark shoulder-length hair. It’s slightly wavy, as if having been previously pulled-up.
“I just saw this white, fuzzy ball bouncing off the edge of the bridge and had to see what it was.”
“What was it?” I ask.
“Your hair,” he says with a hearty laugh—an almost familiar laugh. I think of the boys in town, then of my brother. I still can’t hear his.
“Well, thank you,” I say, realizing how rude I’ve been. Okay, you didn’t get to see Shane. You’ve got work to do for him, I reaffirm myself.
“No sweat,” he says. “So what on earth brings you out here?”
“I’m Lyvia,” I respond, holding out my hand not wanting to answer that question.
“Dagan,” he replies, shaking it. His hand makes mine look tiny. In fact, I bet he makes most people look tiny.
“You know you kind of look familiar,” he says with consternation.
“I get that a lot.” I turn away, praying he won’t recognize me. “I’m trying to find a Fuse Station near the library.”
“That bridge is a goner,” he points back to the dental-floss-constructed viaduct behind us. “They’re supposed to replace it, but it doesn’t get much traffic. Plus, if you go up the main road about twenty more miles, you can cross there.”
Regina never mentioned this. I’m sure it’s because she hasn’t been out here in many years.
“Well, they might want to now,” I reply, watching its fragile strings battle the strong wind.
“Sure, we’ll see,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Crystal Shire does things in their own time.”
This is true.
“So, you’re lookin' to fuse in. Which shire?” I catch him quickly glance at my forearm.
“Yeah, I’m nomadic,” I say, self-consciously rubbing said spot. The signals are imperceptible to the human eye. You need a signal-reveal to see what shire someone belongs to. Even though I don’t have the mark, it makes me uncomfortable.
“Me too, but you had to start somewhere,” he implores leadingly.
I’m annoyed by his inquisitiveness. Darkens don’t get the best rap.
“I’d rather not say.”
“Okay. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
“Ew, I hate that word.”
“What word? Bunch?”
“No, the other one.”
“Oh, panties, why?”
“It’s just dirty to me or something,” I reply, while scrunching my face.
“My grandpa used to say that all the time.” He’s laughing so deeply now; I can’t help but do the same.
“That just makes it worse somehow,” I say, sitting up. “You think you can show me where this place is?”
“Sure, what kind of gentlemen would I be if I didn’t?”
I hate asking for help. I could be drowning with nothing but a splinter of wood while a ship floats by equipped with an entire rescue crew, and I’d say, ‘Oh, no thank you. I’m good. I got this.’ It’s actually ridiculous.
He offers his hand. I stubbornly refuse it. I don’t want to appear helpless, besides I’m just standing up. I push up forgetting the weight of my bags and promptly land on my ass, a puff of dust.
“Wow,” he says, eyes widening, shaking his head. He grabs my arm before I have a chance to argue. He lifts me off the ground as if I’m a rag doll and sets me on my feet.
“This way,” he calls over his shoulder, already trekking through the woods.
I follow him while noticing fauna’s song. The leaves rustle and crickets chirp as the sound of water distances itself. The path twists and turns. It’s narrow and rocky. The thicket grows even darker. It feels like night is descending; although, it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon.
“How far is this place?” I ask.
“We’ve still got a little ways to go.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m always hungry,” he laughs again. That laugh.
“Well, I’ve got some nourishment,” I say.
We find a tiny clearing off the path. A few large rocks are inexplicably placed to the side; we each take one. His resembles a stool, mine—an oversized granite chair. Inside Regina’s bag, I pull out two glass bottles of cucumber water and cream cheese and olive sandwiches. Two of everything… Curious. There’s also some potato salad. She even included peanut butter cookies that have chocolate-covered peanut butter candies smushed in the middle.
“Wow. I haven’t had a cream cheese and green olive sandwich since I went to Boblo Island. It was a renovated amusement park when I was little. That was a long time ago,” he says wistfully. “I was probably just five-years-old at the time.” He takes a colossal bite out of the sandwich.
I try to remember the last time I’ve had a cream cheese and green olive sandwich. I think I was three. Whiff of fresh cut grass. A far away whistle. Flash of silver.
“It’s been awhile for me too.”
“So, Lyv, tell me about yourself,” he says matter-of-factly.
I freeze. My brother called me Lyv.
“Well, Dag,” I reply, taking his lead. He chuckles. “I was born. I grew up. Now, I’m in a forest with a strange man eating ‘Boblo’ sandwiches, hoping I don’t get murdered.” Well, it wouldn’t be the worst thing.
“I don’t wanna murder you, Lyvia. I just want to take you to my secret lair and play dress-up.” His stare is unnerving.
I stop chewing, trying to remember what I can use as weapons. I guess the shoes, given they turn into nails again. Of course, this is happening. As if my history with men would presume any differently. I shouldn’t be surprised. Wouldn’t be the first time something just as horrifying happened to me.
His stare is broken, and he laughs and laughs. He cracks himself up. I can’t help myself. I join in.
“Your turn,” I say, when the giggles subside.
“Nope, your answer was unsatisfactory, Miss Lyvia. We can try again in the next round,” doing his best old-timey game show host. “You do not get the prize.”
“The prize being… your life story? I think I’ll survive.”
“Harsh. Okay… Here it goes… I was born. I grew up. Now I’m stuck in a forest with an obstinate Maltese.”
“Okay. Now, that was harsh,” I say, with a deep chuckle.
“I actually come from a long line of Granites, but I love to study and write. After my grandma died, my grandpa became unconnected. I went to live with him for many reasons,” he says, but doesn’t commit to the rest of the thought. “Anyway, I found it a much better fit. More subjects to research in Crystal. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always have the greatest respect for Granite Shire, but it wasn’t for me.”
I’m not going to pry, but I’d like to know those “reasons.”
“I can definitely relate,” I tell him, offering no more.
“I know you can,” he responds with a very knowing look—too knowing.
Now, I’m uncomfortable. I shift on my rock and offer him a cookie. He eats it in one bite. Then, I give him the rest of mine.
“So, how much farther
do we have?” I ask.
“Probably about another hour with our current pace,” he replies sardonically, already back on the trail.
We make the rest of the journey in relative silence. I wonder what I’ll see when I fuse in. I wonder where I’ll find him. After what seems like forever, the trail begins to widen. A massive building that looks completely out of place stands at the edge of the forest. It appears the forest picks back up right behind the library.
“The station’s back this way.”
He takes me on another windy path that circles the building. I see at the very back hidden in a patch of trees: The Fuse Station. It resembles an ancient gas station that’s been remodeled to modern-day. There are only four terminals. As we walk past them, I see they are unoccupied.
Recognizing I require privacy, he says, “I’m gonna be in the library. You can get me there when you’re done. I’ll take you back to town.”
“You don’t have to do that. I think I can manage,” I reply.
“Oh, like you did on the bridge?” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
5
Facing the entrance, I walk up to the fourth terminal. The AI senses me immediately creating an invisible barrier to make the terminal appear empty, unless you tried to walk up to it. I pull out my Slab, open it, and set it on the ground. It lights up to create my welcome hologram.
“Hello, Lyvia, it’s been a while,” the voice I programmed speaks. A disappointed parent.
“I know, Persephone. It’s been a rough week.”
“Well, hopefully, I can help,” she replies with a little more enthusiasm.
“Yeah, hopefully,” I mutter.
“Am I connected unlinked?” I ask, knowing the answer.
I Am the Storm Page 3