I Am the Storm

by Trisha Lynn Halaas

  “One time when I was little I was on vacation with my family. When I got back, my friends had come up with this ‘genius’ plan, as they described it. They wouldn’t tell me what we were up to, only what part I needed to play,” Xane continues.

  Dagan sighs deeply, rolling his eyes. He leans back and glances down at a non-existent watch on his wrist. “This better be good,” he says, lifting his eyes from his invisible timepiece.

  “Okay, okay. So, I’m told that all I have to do is get this kid, Winston, to the culvert that connects the freshwater lake to the river by my old house. Easy enough. Plus, with curiosity pushing the agenda, I was in. We used to swim down there. The water rushes through the metal tunnel creating a giant wake. We would tie up rope and battle the roaring current,” he demonstrates the scene with his hands.

  Suddenly, I taste cherry Kool-Aid. A flash of slate coral-fossilized Petoskey stones, pebbles coated with patterns that resemble rays of sun. Sounds of buzzing insects fill my ears. A stifling heat encompasses me making it hard to breathe. It feels like waking up in a tent as the rising sun cooks its inhabitants.

  I snap myself back to the present, taking a breath of the lair’s cool air. Xane looks into an imaginary distance, probably envisioning that long-ago summer day—his boyhood memories on replay. Dagan’s not amused. Shocking.

  “Listen up, buddy. I’m wicked tired, and Miss Lyvia here has just about had it,” he says, pointing his right thumb at me.

  I look at Dagan dubiously. The guy’s been in our ‘interrogation chamber’ for a total of twenty minutes. I’m starting to get the sense that Dagan’s an impatient guy, which is just fine with me. If I can handle Shane’s unrelenting restlessness, severe instant gratification tendencies, and zero impulse control, I can handle a little impatience.

  Suddenly, thick creamy Calder eggnog sprinkled with nutmeg coats my tongue. Shiny red and green wrapped boxes adorned with bows of all sizes overflow beneath a lush twinkling tree. The snapping pops of a crackling fireplace fill the air. A small dark figure sits on the very edge of a couch in the tree’s glow, well before sunrise. His silhouette holds a gift in his lap, shaking with excitement and eagerness. He’ll probably open it the second he gets a witness.

  “Okay, so, you and your friends…” Dagan starts again, sighing. He rests his elbows on his thighs and shakes his head gravely as he looks down. The dramatic display reminds me why we are in this current situation. Christmas memories swiftly move to the background.

  “Xane, we hate this just as much as you do. I know ya could really use some cold water and a couple of aspirin. We’ll be real happy to getchya some. Just gotta ask a couple more questions, dontcha know,” I say, trying for good cop but sound exactly like Marge Gunderson in Fargo, complete with Minnesotan accent. I was going for something a little more Beatrix Kiddo in Kill Bill, a badass good cop version.

  So, that just happened. They both look at me perplexed, unsure how to respond to that particular presentation. I don’t blame them.

  Dagan breaks his incredulous stare and shakes his head again. Between he and I, we are the female-male version of 21 Jump Street. Oh, you know, just the usual—Schmidt and Jenko trying to shake some info from our captured ‘perp.’ We might as well unknowingly eat a few drugged Rice Krispy treats before we infiltrate a frat house.

  “So, it was a very warm day, even for summer,” Xane continues.

  Dagan starts to say something but stops instantly the moment our eyes meet.

  “I get Winston to the culvert. Only my friend, Riley, stands waiting. He tells Winston that the culvert is actually a portal to another dimension. He says if he goes through the tunnel he will be transported to an invisible plane. It’s so hot and humid—all I want to do is rope surf the current. Plus, I have no idea what the guys are up to with this whole story. I had never gone down the culvert to the lake; although, I knew it was no ‘portal.’

  Riley’s story is so convincing, Winston decides to try it. Riley takes him down to the tiny pool framing the tunnel. He pulls a giant, thick rope I’ve never seen out of the water. He tells Winston to hold the rope and follow it to the end of the ‘portal’ where transportation takes place. Keep in mind, the current is strong—stronger than strong—it could wipe you right off your feet. It could probably rip a few layers of your skin off. It could…”

  “We get it,” Dagan cuts him off. “Move on.”

  Xane gets serious. “So, this Winston kid gets the rope. He disappears into the tunnel. It’s not a short tunnel. It’s pretty long. I don’t know how far, technically. Probably a thirty-minute trek through the current, granted it’s not high tide, which this ‘genius’ idea hadn’t taken into account.

  After about ten minutes, we hear an echoing scream and the current pressure rises. Riley won’t go in. He’s too scared. I’m known to be a bit reckless, even back then, so I take ahold of the rope and climb up. The water is rushing to my knees, whereas it began at Winston’s ankles. The water pressure is like quicksand. I can barely gain headway, but somehow, I do. I yell—‘Winston!’ and again—‘Winston!’ but hear nothing.

  I walk for five minutes, the water is rising steadily but not that fast. I continue yelling, starting to get worried. I make the ten-minute, halfway mark and see a shadowy figure hunched to the side of the tunnel a few feet in front of me. Winston is pressed against the curve of the tunnel, taking deep breaths. He locked himself in the metal grooves of the tunnel, although the current continues to battle furiously.

  He squints, eyes flooding with relief when he recognizes me. ‘I let go of the rope when the tide started rising,’ he says, through heavy exhales. I tell him to grab the rope from me and we’ll finish the rest of the way together, having absolutely no clue what awaits us. Knowing my crazy friends, it’s not gonna be good.”

  Dagan groans and rubs his eyes with growing frustration. “Dude, this got a point?”

  “Just let him finish,” I interject, enjoying the vividly painted picture, wishing for popcorn. Dagan gives me a sharp look. I wait a beat before meeting his eyes. My look shuts him down, instantly. He sits back with an indignant stare. I look at Xane to go on.

  “Okay. We’ve got about a quarter of the way left, five minutes or so. But the water is near our waist, almost tripling our time. We move at a snail’s pace. We are both getting tired. At this point, the water is nearly to our chests. It’s getting to the point where we have to try to swim along the rope to keep us tethered. I can see the opening. Sunlight is streaming in. It’s getting bigger. Winston is doing great at keeping up, as the water is nearing the top. Our heads are only a foot below the metal ceiling. When we finally emerge, there is no one there, none of my friends. I look around the wide lake and see nothing but trees. We swim over to the bank and climb out breathless.

  ‘Where are we?’ Winston looks around in awe. I just stare at him.

  ‘Winston. We’re in the lake. The one that funnels through the tunnel.’ That kid, I tell ya,” Xane shakes his head. “So, I’m looking around for my friends wondering what the hell they had in mind with this ‘portal’ stuff. Just then, Winston and I hear yelling. Spotting movement in the woods, we sprint toward something red among the trees. I see Georgie’s red shirt and Taylor too. I’m pissed. These assholes don’t tell me anything and then I get sucked into the culvert to find Winston? I’m about to crack some skulls, so to speak, I mean they’re my boys and all, but still. However, the closer we get to the scene, worry replaces anger. First, we see flailing limbs accompanied by crying and screaming.

  They’ve been lifted off the ground and hover, becoming frozen in the air. Unseen pressure squeezes the life out of them. I stop Winston with my hand and survey the scene. Both boys are suspended fifteen feet off the ground. Pure agony etched on their faces.”

  “A Framework trap,” I interject.

  “Yup,” Xane answers. “I didn’t know what to do. I knew that if I stepped into the crosshairs, I would be right up there with them. I also knew they wouldn’t last
more than seven minutes once the invisible pressurized chamber reached capacity.”

  “What’d ya do?” I ask eagerly, sitting forward, really craving some buttery popcorn. Dagan gives me a look that says, ‘If you don’t settle down, I’ll make sure you never taste salty buttery popcorn ever again.’

  “What I did was this. I located the snare midway the length of a giant oak tree. It was shaded from the sun, and you know how natural sunlight interferes with those.”

  It’s true. Direct natural sunlight is pretty much the only weakness of Framework traps. It has to be placed in a 24/7 shaded or covered area, or it won’t operate.

  “Minutes have been ticking by this whole time. I reckon they got prolly two left, at most. I climb that oak faster than anything in my life. The snare is soldered to the trunk, however, looks like a long time ago. I have a kist key on me. I use it to pry the snare loose, knowing the key itself would do little good with my age limit. I wrap my arm around the tree as far as it will go placing the snare in direct sunlight. I hold my breath. Drops of sweat cover my body, which had dried from heat.”

  “Okay, Shakespeare, let’s speed this up,” Dagan says impatiently, clearly not enjoying ‘story time’ as much as me.

  “Who’s Shakespeare?” Xane asks, slouching again.

  Dagan rolls his eyes. I get it. Most shires barely concentrate on historical culture. Pretty much just Crystal, actually.

  “He’s an ancient writer,” I say. “So, did it work?”

  Xane looks pleased to continue with his story of suspense. He smiles his mysterious smile.

  “Of course, it did. Probably took twenty seconds of pure sunlight and whoomph—Georgie and Taylor flop to the ground, desperately clutching for air. I fall from the tree, triumphantly holding the snare,” he says, patriotically lifting an invisible trap with his free arm to an unseen sky.

  “Okay,” Dagan says, deeply exhaling. “And how does any of that relate to our questions?”

  “Well, had I known the plan, I wouldn’t have gone along with it. I wouldn’t have gotten Winston into such a predicament. I woulda talked those idiots out of the whole she-bang. So—way I see it, this guy with his great ‘manifesto,’ is probably pulling some ass-backwards plan that is not going to work and will probably result in things a lot worse than a Framework trap.”

  7

  Dagan gestures for me to follow him through a motion-censored sliding door behind the wall of weapons. Inside, I find us behind the neural network wall acting as a two-way mirror. I feel like Larry Bosch, another long-forgotten author of a detective series. Bosch was a Vietnam War vet, tunnel rat. He was a great investigator, short-tempered, not unlike Mr. Rapp over here. He braces himself on the ledge.

  “I think he’s telling us the truth,” Dagan says, eyeing the guy.

  “But, are you a hundred percent sure?”

  “Nope,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets, shaking his head. Still staring at the back of Xane’s.

  Looking at Dagan’s solemn profile, I feel a spark of light flicker in the now empty pit that is my soul. It feels like the glimmer of a new spiritual link, the call of the Dark Shire. It’s only a dim flickering right now, not the strong beam of unseen light that connected me to Shane. It’s more a lambent glow of hope. Whatever his real ‘reasons’ are, I know that Dagan and I ultimately want the same thing—to finish Levi.

  “Well, I may be able to help with that. And you don’t need the latch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have Synesthesia,” I start.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’m familiar with it.” Not surprising, he’s familiar with every subject it seems.

  “But what does that have to do with getting intel without the latch?” he asks.

  “I don’t know if it will work. But with my condition, I have telepathy. It’s something I’ve had to develop, and I get lots of help from my spirit guide.” I hate explaining this. This is why Darkens don’t get the best rap. Believers and nonbelievers. “I actually have a lot of spirits visit me, mostly deceased family and friends, but I haven’t heard any since…” I trail off, shaking my head.

  “Since when?”

  I ignore the question.

  “I can hear most voices clearly, but at times it’s loud and crowded. I can’t make any promises, but it’s worth the try. It’s gonna be painful for him,” I say.

  “How painful?” he asks.

  “Headache would be the closest description. One that makes you think death is the only medicine. But, it’s over before ya know it,” I say the last sentence brightly, brushing my hands together as if ‘all in a good days’ work.’

  He looks at me strangely.

  “I’ll just follow your lead.”

  “I like your thinking,” I reply confidently. I walk over to Xane. He sits up straight looking at me a little bewildered as I stride purposely toward him.

  “This may hurt a little,” I say dramatically placing my hands on each side of his face, hoping the added drama might up my chances of success. I close my eyes and push his temples together. I pause.

  Nothing.

  I say it again followed by low humming of the Rocky theme.

  Nothing.

  I take a few steps back and start from the top.

  “This may hurt a little,” I say as if it was 'take one,’ hands rising to his temples, I throw my head back, squint my eyes tightly.

  Nada.

  I do a twirl and spin and throw my hands up to his face, yet again, “This may hurt a little,” this time said in a booming voice emitting deep from my chest.

  Still nothing.

  I drop to the floor and crawl toward him as if I’ve been stranded in the desert searching for water. I climb up his chair and exclaim, “This may hurt a little,” I close my eyes, convinced this spectacle has got to get some attention.

  Naught.

  I turn to perform my next take—

  “Stop,” Dagan stares with wide eyes. “Stop. Whatever is happening, Miss Monroe.” Shakes his head. “Method acting. I like your commitment to the role. But—uh—I don’t think it’s working right now.”

  My hair has become tangled during my performance. I pull it out of my clip to refasten. Xane stares at me from his chair.

  “What. The. Hell. Was. That.” A statement.

  “It was an act of desperation,” I say stretching out the barrette. God, I could really use my friends back. I miss them all. I miss you, Shane—I almost say the last four words out loud but catch myself. The scent of leather fills my nose accompanied by a freshly lit cigarette. Sound of horse hooves on a dirt path. Shaky whirring images of scenery from a crazily horse-driven cart.

  Suddenly, the hair tie grows in my hand. The spiky vine expands retaining its round shape. Dried blood-spattered thorns pierce through a band of ancient metal. It grows to the size of a crown. A crown made of thorns. Nearly identical to Jesus’ Crown of Thorns. Maybe, those are the nails that crucified Jesus too…

  My hands shake violently at this transformation. First the shoes, now this? It’s very, very heavy and sturdy.

  “Lyvia… You’ve just unveiled the Crown of Thorns,” a voice says in wonderment.

  From my bag.

  8

  “Seph, you’re supposed to be turned off.” I carry the crown to my bag and shuffle around blindly with one hand, feeling for my Slab.

  “I know, Lyvia, but the neural network down here has an extra barrier against the Framework. A somewhat spiritual barrier…” She trails off cryptically, as I pull her out.

  “What’s that about?” I look at Dagan.

  “Hello, Dagan,” Persephone transforms herself into a realistic hologram. She’s life-size and opaque. You’d think she was 100% real if you didn’t try to touch her. Today, she is dressed in green. Usually favoring neon colors, she’s got on skinny jeans, a vintage t-shirt, and tennis shoes, all varying shades of glowing lime. Her dark straight hair is pulled up in a no-nonsense ponytail. She’s thin and has a sp
rightly nature. She walks up next to him, pulling herself up to sit on the edge of the table. He looks on.

  “We’re going to need to get to know each other,” she says, seeming to already know more about him than himself. Most Slab technological holograms have nothing on Persephone or most Dark Shire Slabs. Lunar technology allows for much better technological advances. Still, I have yet to see one as good as her. That’s how I like it. Clearly, Dagan has never seen one so lifelike.

  “What the hell? Is that your Slab?”

  “Nope. That’s Persephone.”

  “Hi, Dagan. I’d shake your hand if I could,” she says smiling. “Wow. You’ve got a nice place here.” She pops off the table and takes a look around.

  “I can see you still love your old-school football,” she muses, as she surveys the man cave. Wow. Persephone is better than I thought. I’ll be drilling her when we get a minute alone.

  “Seph, let’s stay task-at-hand. What is this?” I ask, holding the crown.

  “That, my Lyvia, is the Crown of Thorns. Worn by Jesus Christ, Himself,” she replies, examining the intricate headwear I hold awkwardly.

  “What does it do? Who is it from? How does it work? Why do I have it? Is this really from Jesus’ head?” I spit out questions faster than I think them.

  “Well, it goes with the nails, you know,” she points to my shoes.

  “What nails?” Dagan asks.

  I ignore the question. “Seph. Why didn’t you tell me any of this earlier at the station?” I ask, annoyed that my program knows more than me. A lot more, apparently.

  “I wasn’t positive it was completely secure, but here... Well, there’s an impenetrable barrier. Nothing could get through,” she says, eyeing Dagan suspiciously.

  “Um, hi. Hey, guys. Would someone mind telling me what is happening right now?” A forgotten Xane interjects from his interrogation seat.

  “Minute, Xane,” I say, with a hand to silence him.

  “Seriously guys, I can’t—”