IMPERFECT ORB

by K. Lorel Reid

  Glancing up at the clock Mike realized it was almost noon. His day was half gone and the magic was still in the polyhedron. Deciding that that in itself was a shame Mike decided on a quick breakfast of cold cereal so he could get out of the house at his first opportunity.

  “Mikey,” yelled that high, whining voice, “I’m going now.”

  Mike was in his bedroom getting dressed, when he yelled out his goodbyes. The timing was perfect, he’d just finished his breakfast and had taken one of his legendarily fast showers and now was getting dressed to leave the house himself. It was as the boy headed out the door that that feeling came to him once again. With unexplained dread he turned. He didn’t like that box; he never really did. Perhaps, in its day, it may have been something remotely beautiful, but now…. Even though his mother said it was an antique he found it hard to imagine that it had any real value.

  Mike began to shut the door, promising himself that he’d return and look at it later. It was then that that feeling hit him strong and hard; heavy and persistent. For a moment the world went out of focus and the boy was thrust to the ground, landing on hands and knees. In that moment the wind had been knocked out of him. In the damp sunlight he stood there, bent over, trying to catch his breath.

  Quickly, afraid someone had seen the entire thing Mike wobbled to his feet, escaping back into the house. Now once again on the other side of the door he tried his hand at logical thought. Nothing seemed to register. His head was still spinning, and now, as the boy stood just inside the front door, it also began to ache slightly. He had to go to the Drop yet something — once thought to be just an uneasy feeling — was pulling him toward the box; and, worst by far, it seemed to want him to stay there. Running out of patience and becoming frustrated Mike darted into the den and snatched the box from the shelf. Then he stopped. Something was missing. There was still that uneasy feeling pestering him irrationally.

  Slowly turning in the room Mike glanced the walls and furniture. On his second turn around the boy caught sight of his father’s desk. It sat in a corner looking tidy and nearly invisible, so accustomed was he of its presence. Mike moved quickly in that direction, feeling as though by the time he reached the Drop night would have already fallen. When at last he came to the desk Mike began going through its drawers.

  “Come on,” he grumbled under his breath. For something that looked neat and tidy on the outside, it was quite the opposite inside — much in life was like that. Finally in the centre drawer, the only one he had yet to search, Mike found what he was looking for.

  “Finally!” he yelled aloud, taking the old brass trinket in his hand. It was cold and crooked. Mike opened his palm, looking down at it. The key was bumpy and bent out of shape. He doubted it could still fit in the lock. He didn’t really care either way, that was everything and now he could leave. After stuffing the key as far into his pocket as possible, Mike was off… at last.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “…do I make myself clear?”

  The response was scattered and not too enthusiastic but Mr. Peters seemed satisfied.

  The stout bald-headed man had erupted in front of the class that morning. Not that David could admit surprise. He saw it coming. It was in the way the middle-aged man hobbled into the room. His lips were set in a thin, pressed line, and his jaw took on a determined angle. The body language read one thing, at least as far as his plump little body was able: cold determination. David attempted to approach him but even the air around him was freezer cold. Of course the teacher had waited for the entire class to arrive and get comfortable — basically another ten minutes after the late bell had rung — before dropping the bomb.

  As it so happened Mr. Peters was anything but impressed with the class’ work thus far. He said the way things were going, if the majority of the class didn’t get perfect on their final exam — and it was here he started to laugh aloud before he caught himself — they’d get to take the course yet again. None of his pupils appeared really surprised; or really moved, for that matter. David could have told him that from day one. But the man seemed determined. He said in his entire teaching career he had yet to fail more than two students in any given semester. He also added that his record would not be shattered for the likes of them.

  So, there were very few raised eyebrows when all found out that on that day’s agenda was one hour’s worth of work, jammed into half hour intervals, the remaining half hour being consumed by tedious review. Each session commenced and concluded with only seconds to be spared, if any time at all. When somebody raised their hand and respectfully commented as to the pace of work, Mr. Peters, in the form of a not-so-veiled threat, simply replied that if they didn’t get through all the material he had planned for the day, he’d have to keep the entire class late to finish up, which was something he had every right to do. David supposed he did.

  “I can’t believe this!” Samantha exclaimed in a quiet voice, as she flipped through her textbook.

  David knew exactly what she meant. Quiet Mr. Peters had clearly lost it. And look who was paying for it: a bunch of kids who just happened to be taking eleventh grade science for the second time.

  “I wonder,” David asked her, “how long before this blows over?”

  “Soon, I hope.”

  David soberly agreed. Mr. Peters was feeling the panicked unease of upcoming exams. As much as David would have liked to say that he too panicked over exams, it just wasn’t true. Try as he might, all he could feel towards a test or exam was apathy — or, on the odd occasion, grim resignation. What David currently felt was the nervous excitement of the nearing marathon. Thankfully his ankle had healed quickly and his training was going well. All in all, exams were the last thing on his mind.

  Studiously, he and Samantha bent their heads low into their textbook. David was praying for a small amount of homework so he could get in some more training before bed. Samantha had taken a compact from out of her purse and was examining her face in its tiny mirror. It didn’t matter, though, not really. The trick was to look like you were busy. Of course that usually came to haunt you in the long run; but that wasn’t the long run David was concerned about at the moment.

  Eventually David did get around to reading that chapter, which was good because there were twenty questions, awaiting answers, to be done. After having completed only about half of them Mr. Peters told the class to put away their books. That small murmur arose again. It had been the most noise the class had made all morning; but then, the morning had just begun.

  For the next half hour Mr. Peters talked, and the the half hour after that they answered questions on what he had talked about. (It was like science boot camp, really.) Then there was a quiz on last night’s homework. David was amused to see that break time quickly arrived. The class had silently moved along. Whenever anyone had to talk, they whispered. No one had noticed this fact just as no one noticed the fact that as they left the room they all walked on tip toes — except for Samantha, who wore a pair of red pumps the clicked-clicked-clicked as she went.

  “Samantha,” Mr. Peters called as she began to noisily leave, “may I have a word with you, please.”

  David’s breath hitched as he thought about how Mr. Peters was on a roll and mused over what he might say to her. Samantha herself seemed unmoved. Easily, she changed her course of direction and now headed towards Mr. Peters. David left the room and as he did so he heard the teacher start to intonate calmly, rationally. Only two steps down the hall the man’s voice could no longer be heard.

  The lunch break, as always, was too short in comparison to the long periods in class. David spent the better half of his horsing around while waiting in line for a donut — always on sale at that time of day — and a carton of milk. After wolfing down what he considered lunch he quickly ran back to the science room, which was a good thing because after the second bell sounded Mr. Peters shut the door, locking out everyone who had yet to return. Only after Mr. Peters had finished discussing the exp
eriment that they were about to do that afternoon did he exit the classroom, closing the door behind him, in order to deal with the small, bewildered group of latecomers that had aggregated outside.

  When Mr. Peters re-entered the entire class did the experiment together; doing what he said, when he said it, without much questioning.

  “This,” Mr. Peters explained, “is because you have proven without a doubt to be like four year olds, requiring constant supervision.”

  Personally David was insulted, but no one else seemed to care. So, as already stated, they worked under very close supervision. It was a chore keeping up with Mr. Peters who gave orders quickly, quietly and was loath to repeat himself.

  “Here goes,” Samantha said as she began pouring some sort of chemical — David hadn’t gotten its name — into something else — David hadn’t gotten the name of that either. Only when she was done did something peculiar transpire. And, even more strangely, when the entire incident was over there was a lot of doubt as to whether anything out of the ordinary had taken place at all.

  The red liquid fell from the beaker to mix with the chalky liquid waiting below. Together they produced a yellow suspension which sat calm. Samantha was pleased and so was David. (Hey, at least something had happened.) Then, without warning, the yellow suspension began to bubble and spill over the side of the beaker. And, to blind them momentarily, a flash of blue light exploded around them, its source indeterminate, accompanied by a surge of heat, its origin also unknown. Samantha screamed and there was the shattering of glass as the beaker crashed to the floor. Other beakers exploded and broke and other people screamed as well. Then, in another moment, the class fell silent and stood looking at Mr. Peters for direction.

  If David was not mistaken the short man looked frightened. The teacher’s skin was parched and red — like their own, proving that something had happened. His eyes, wide and frightened, jutted a fair distance from his head; wisps of white hair fell awkwardly onto his forehead giving him and uncharacteristically disheveled look. David thought that like his own hair there had been a moment when every strand had been stiff and standing on end — literally.

  The next moment was unnaturally cool despite the already gone-without-a-trace pulse of heat. Nobody knew what to say and no one wanted to move, afraid of what might happen if they did. It was up to Mr. Peters to decide what was to be done next.

  The man at the front of the room took a step forward. In a shaky voice he mumbled something about dry lightning. Then, obviously struggling to regain his composer said, “well don’t just stand there, write down your observations.”

  Quickly everyone scurried to do what they had been told. David made note of the changing colour when both solutions had been mixed, but he didn’t dare say anything about the flash of blue, nor the surge of heat. It would be one of those things everyone knew about but nobody wanted to speak of directly. Quintessential Ceedon’s Valley.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  To Mike the day could not have seemed more perfect if he’d planned it himself. Ceedon’s Valley, which was exactly that, bisected two other towns. It appeared to be just one very long, narrow street. It was a bit more than that of course, but it was a lot longer than it was wide. When compared to the other cityscapes on either side it seemed almost entirely sparsely populated green space, caught between two prospering towns. So it could be agreed that a valley it was. As Mike walked now he wondered about Ceedon.

  Nearing the end of the street he spotted a little boy that reminded him of the story he’d told to his mother the day she had come home from work, supposedly to get her files. The sudden urge came to him to run up to the boy and say, “Hey kid, do you know where I can find Ceedon?”

  Naturally, that was something he’d never do. Boys like Mike never did things like that. On that perfect day it had not crossed Mike’s mind that if that ‘apprehending’ deal was any good he wouldn’t be wondering about Ceedon, a person long since dead and buried, he would know.

  As Mike turned onto the main street which would take him to the Drop he tried to hide the box as discretely as possible. He didn’t know what he was doing with it anyway. He had wolfed down his breakfast and in return his stomach had protested by cramping. Why he had grabbed the box he now couldn’t figure out. Not to mention the key, of all things. In response to this last thought Mike’s hand was quickly at his side pocket, feeling for the key. If he lost it that would be a crime his mother would not forgive him of. But, fortunately, the key was still there. Its irregular shape could be felt through the thin cotton, and to Mike that was a feeling that brought momentary relief.

  Even before the boy’s legs took him onto the dirt path Mike saw something that bewildered him. Colours: flashing behind his eyes in a way he had never seen before. The hues seemed to play on every bump that came to rise on his arms and at the back of his neck. Something was wrong. The colours were red and black, and the shades and values screamed violence and venom. Mike stopped, his heart fluttering uneasily. What was going on with the polyhedron? Something was wrong, but what could it be? He stood beneath the heat of the midday sun, biting his lower lip. It was strange, he thought just then, that unless something was somehow connected to the polyhedron he knew exactly what to do. But it was beginning to seem that his ability to ‘apprehend’ things didn’t include apprehending the magic… or the Drop… or the polyhedron.

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out what’s going on,” Mike decided aloud. He tucked the box neatly under his arm and stepped onto the dirt path. He spotted, walking towards him, a woman and a small child. Mike stalled, looking into the woods beside him. When at last the woman and child passed he began to quickly move again, blocking out colours of poison that both frightened him and forced him onward at the same time. Glancing up and down the dirt road one last time Mike decided it was safe and parted the branches, preparing to slip into the Drop. But he couldn’t, not easily.

  Mike squinted beyond the branches. At first he thought himself mistaken but then realized that things were just as they appeared. There were more trees than usual — a lot more. They cluttered the steep slope and completely filled the space that had once been a clearing.

  Carefully, holding the box tightly under his arm, Mike stepped into the entrance. This is what the Drop was supposed to have looked like. Trees were clustered together, their trunks only inches apart. Both branches and roots were knotted and entwined. Leaves, taking on every shade of green, crossed and overlapped so many times they formed a tightly knitted canopy that must have been at least two meters thick.

  Mike swallowed hard and began to move forward. As he stepped his foot caught onto something and the next thing he knew he was falling. He screamed as from his hands flew the box. His mother’s precious box. He didn’t want to look as to its fate, but that was alright because he couldn’t. His back was twisted and facing towards the bottom of the cliff. It was on his posterior Mike began a quick, bumpy descent. Often he met up with a tree, trying, hopelessly, to cling to it but the hill was too steep and he’d be off and sliding again.

  There had been a time for but a moment when Mike had been still, half way down the steep stretch. He had been falling backwards and now stood up against a large tree. He was careful as he twisted his head. By doing this he was awarded a not-so-bad view of the lower half of the hill and what had once been a clearing. The box was already down there and from his warped position it looked to be in one piece. From deep within himself escaped a sigh of relief. The red haired boy shifted his weight just slightly, and it was that careful movement which gave way to his falling again. Between trees Mike continued to slide, turning cartwheels as he went.

  Michael Gregory had been screaming but he stopped suddenly with the realization that he was no longer moving. Slowly his eyes opened and the flecks of green that made up his irises focused on the foliage which lay like weeds all about him. On his back, Mike viewed branches and leaves closing off the sunlight from above. Then he sense
d something. The feeling was like a person walking with eyes cast downward, then looking up just in time to stop himself from bumping into somebody else. He ignored the pain to shift position and it was a good thing he did so. Coming from behind, weaving this way and that between the trees, the polyhedron came flying towards him. He didn’t dare hold out his hand towards it. Blinded by reds and blacks — colours that weren’t really there — Michael shakily rose to his feet. Barely steadying himself against a tree, he side-stepped and the glass object missed connecting with him — barely. What exactly was going on? It seemed that the polyhedron, like a rabid dog, had turned against its master.

  Mike fell to his knees and gathered the small box in his arms. In one piece it was, yet he questioned how much longer it would remain so. It was then, in the dusk of the underground forest, Mike caught sight of a glint of metal on the forest floor. It was the key. Impulsively one hand fell to his pocket. It wasn’t there. He let out a strangled cry and scurried on hands and knees to retrieve it. That’s when things really started to happen. From out of nowhere up lifted a fierce breeze. In frustration Mike screamed again as he dropped the miniature chest and brought hands up to protect his eyes. Sticks, dirt, pebbles, fallen leaves and other bits of debris began to fly through the air.

  Panic-stricken, Mike tried to move but found himself blocked by trees in every direction. He forced his eyes to open and was soon blinded by bits of dirt. Heart beating hard within its boned cage, Mike felt around frantically for the key. Through one barely opened eye he caught sight of it, and after grabbing the box again he set off in that direction.