IMPERFECT ORB

by K. Lorel Reid

  David started and immediately jumped to his feet. He was looking around him for a weapon of some kind — anything — and scooped up a tennis racket that had been propped up against the side of the trunk. It was raised high above his head, ready to strike, by the time he followed Samantha’s gaze towards her bedroom door and… nothing. The door stood ajar and uninteresting, just the way they had left it.

  “What the — you scared me!”

  Samantha’s only response was to let loose another peal (of screams). So convincing was she that David had to look again in the direction of the room door to ensure that he had not missed something — a mouse, maybe? Then he got confirmation of the act from downstairs. As Samantha paused to take in another breath her father could be heard yelling from down below.

  “Samantha! Would you please give it a rest, already!”

  “Samantha! Quit it!” her mother yelled from somewhere else in the house even before her husband had finished his admonitions.

  “God dammit,” was her father’s muttered agreement.

  David had a palm flat against his chest and was trying to slow his heart rate. Clearly this was something Samantha had done before. He was just relieved nobody thought that he was attacking her.

  “God, you’re good,” he conceded, sitting back down on the floor, cross-legged, the tennis racket now resting across his lap.

  “Acting lessons,” she replied

  “No kidding.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Since the fourth grade.

  “And singing. And Dance. Other stuff too but my passion is acting; singing is a close second.

  “I have to pass science, David. I’ve enrolled myself into a Voice master class at the end of the summer, even though my parents specifically told me not to. I managed to scrape together the money needed for the minimum payment but I need my parents to help me cover the rest, even with this job at the makeup counter. I can’t ask them for it if I fail summer school.

  “I know you think that no one leaves Ceedon’s Valley for long. But I’m going to. I just want to be famous. I want to appear on the big screen and have the entire audience gasp at my beauty. I want to leave Ceedon’s Valley and never look back. I can do it,” she continued with fierce determination in her voice, “but I have to be ready. All the classes and lessons and coaches would not have been for nothing, you’ll see.”

  David didn’t say anything but could completely relate: he felt as though he had been trying to run away from this place for a few years now; he just had’t managed to get anywhere.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mike, too, had had a horrible week. At night he was tormented by vivid, impossible to discern dreams. Always present in his dreams was the old chest, a blue background, the feeling of falling or, worse, being pulled. There was always the suggestion of the polyhedron — ever menacing and unseen, no matter how Mike tried to twist his ephemeral body to glimpse it.

  On waking, Mike was left with a suffocating dread that this thing with the crystal was not yet over; that the crystal and the magic were not really gone; that they meant to return and would keep coming back until they got what they wanted, which was…? Mike had no idea; couldn’t even guess. All he knew was that with the passing of each restless night he felt more and more as if the polyhedron was coming for him. To what end, he couldn’t guess. Why had it turned on him? He didn’t know. Did he turn on it first? He couldn’t remember.

  And that little chest…. That horrid antique…. It plagued his dreams at night but also seemed to call to him during the day. It always seemed to be intruding upon his thoughts. He was always glimpsing it from the corner of his eye. It seemed to pull him towards it with an incessancy that was all the more exhausting considering he had been getting almost no sleep.

  The pull and call of the box was so great it became all but impossible to ignore, especially when it clamoured for dominance above the pull and call of the polyhedron. Oh yes, his initial reprieve after the destruction of the polyhedron was over. He now heard it calling to him again — distant but insistent. It reminded Mike of that evening years ago when he had first tumbled down the steep slope of the Drop and discovered the clearing within.

  He found that having the old chest close to his person seemed to quiet the voices and slacken the pull and so had taken to carrying it with him whenever possible. It wasn’t difficult. He hardly went anywhere. He mostly just stayed in his room. He just didn’t trust that he was sound enough to be out in public.

  Even James was in the mix, though not as vibrantly as in the past. Like the polyhedron, his was a distant, though clearly menacing babble; too faint to be heard clearly but clearly threatening in its nature.

  Mike was tormented also during the day. It was not just the mental cacophony but a real physical agony that had settled into his bones. He felt as though there was a force trying to reshape his bones from deep within their marrow, while the tendons to which they were attached protested discontentedly. It hurt when he walked, when he lay down, when he tried to sit in a chair for any length of time.

  Something was definitely not right. And as he lay uncomfortably on his bed that Friday night — five days after he had thought he had destroyed the polyhedron for good; hours after he had caught David and Samantha trying to hide looks of horror and concern while pretending not to see him — he realized that it was not over and he had to fix things or he would surely succumb to insanity if not death.

  He had to go back into the Drop. He didn’t know what it was he had to do but he knew he had to do it there. He would go first thing tomorrow, before he lost his nerve. All he had to do was survive another horrible, sleepless night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  David was in his room going through the last of his stretches. He felt good. He felt at ease, relaxed, prepared and ready to run off the pasta dinner he had gorged himself on the night before.

  His room was bathed in the grey light of an early summer morning. The curtains were pulled back and the window was wide open giving free passage to the cool morning air and the sound of chirping birds. As the sun rose over Ceedon’s Valley David knew that he couldn’t have asked for more ideal conditions under which to compete.

  He glanced at the digital clock at his bedside and decided to make his final preparations, which were pretty simple, really: one last trip to the bathroom — he had been hydrating consciously since early morning — and ensuring those shoe laces were done up nice and tight.

  When he bounded down the stairs and headed towards the front door he passed his parents in the kitchen — he knew he would. He was wearing his running shorts and t-shirt and a new pair of running shoes — exact make and model as his last two pairs of running shoes. He couldn’t be bothered to hide what he was up to anymore. He just couldn’t take the added stress. This thing with Mike…. (He forcefully pushed the thought from his mind. Now was not the time.)

  His parents were seated at the table drinking cups of coffee. His mother was wearing a pair of pyjamas, no doubt having just changed out of her scrubs, since she had just returned home from an overnight shift at the hospital. His father was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a polo — hard to say what his plans were for the day. When his father — full on desk jockey without an athletic bone in his body — caught sight of him, he gave David a broad smile.

  “Hey, you running the Ceedon’s Valley marathon this morning?” he asked with some pride in his voice.

  “Half marathon,” David admitted nonchalantly.

  His mother said nothing, only pressed her lips into a thin line and took another sip of coffee.

  “Hear they’re giving away cash prizes this year. Got some big name sponsor, one of those superstores thinking of opening shop in Ceedon’s Valley… trying to curry favour with the city councillors, I think.”

  “Heard,” David replied, trying to conceal his grin.

  “What kind of time you thinking of positing?”

  “Hopefull
y not much over two hours.”

  “You just may take the race if you can make it in at close to two hours,” his father stated knowingly.

  Specifically, they all knew there weren’t any elite athletes who would bother to race in Ceedon’s Valley, even for a big cash prize.

  His father then continued, mostly to himself, “a man can eat a lot of pancakes in two hours… but why rush it when breakfast is served until noon?”

  David’s father now looked up at David and stated the obvious, “If you don’t see me at the finish line I’ll be in the breakfast tent. You can meet up with me there if you want.”

  “Sure,” David replied.

  His mother only rolled her eyes.

  David planted a kiss on top of her head and was out the door in the next second.

  David, who didn’t like to be at the starting line too early — too much nervous energy — made it through Registration with just enough time for a brief warm up jog around the block before the announcer, through a series of large outdoor speakers, called the participants to the mark. David forced himself to stay loose and buoyant, bouncing on his toes, even as he assembled alongside he other runners — more than previous years, he noted.

  The announcer next told them to “get ready.”

  David settled in, reminding himself not to go sprinting forward with the sound of the starting pistol. It was a distance race. A fast start meant little.

  “Set,” boomed the voice through the loud speaker.

  Crack! The starting pistol sounded and the race began with a raucous of cheers and chants and noise-makers from the assembled on-lookers.

  Mike bolted from a lying to a sitting position on his narrow bed. His body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat which brought up goosebumps when hit by the cool morning breeze blowing through his open bedroom window. He could feel his heart beating wildly behind his rib cage, as though trying to break free. His breathing was fast and shallow. With an effort he willed his breathing to slow and deepen, his heart rate to follow suite.

  He became aware of the distinct silence surrounding him that demarcated an empty house. Slowly he re-oriented himself to time and place. Of course. It was Saturday, early August, the first day of the Ceedon’s Valley summer festival. His mother, being on the city counsel would have been there since the break of dawn to help with the set up. His father would have gone along as a reluctant volunteer.

  It didn’t matter. Mike was not going to let the throngs of people stop him from what he was determined to do. At this point he was just plain angry. One way or another he had to find a resolution to the maelstrom that had become synonymous with the polyhedron once and for all.

  Besides, there were no events that brought the residents and visitors of Ceedon’s Valley even close to the Drop. This morning there was the marathon and the pancake breakfast. By afternoon, there would be buskers and games and some small carnival-style rides. All of this took place along the main street and centre square of the small town, well away from the more heavily forested areas of the nature trails and the Drop. An added plus was that it was still early in the day. The only people about were likely to be the runners and those settling down for an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast under the large food tent.

  Mike threw back the covers, mind made up, and when a sharp spasm of pain scampered up one side of his leg and clamped down on his back as he extended his legs over the side of his bed, his urgency was doubled.

  Mike hastily brushed his teeth, took one of his legendarily quick showers, and dressed in fresh clothes — bomber shorts and a t-shirt. He didn’t bother with breakfast. He was afraid that maybe, just maybe, with a stomach full of Cheerios, he would loose some of his conviction. Instead he grabbed the new penlight he had purchased after his lighter had died and the antique wooden box, brass key still in the key hole. When he pulled the antique box down from his bookshelf, grasping it in both hands it seemed to jump at his touch then settle down into a high frequency vibration, barely discernible, if it was there at all. And of course, there was that pull.

  “Maybe I should just bury the thing,” he thought to himself as he left the house. But Mike knew that he never could. His mother would freak out if she ever found one of her precious family heirlooms missing.

  Outside the street was silent, the morning air fresh and cool. With anger and determination to spur him on Mike headed for the Drop.

  The sun continued onward with its slow ascent, ambivalent.

  Samantha was enjoying waking up slowly. It was the weekend after all and damn it if it wasn’t early. She half-wished she hadn’t promised to meet up with David right after the race but on the plus side the early meeting would likely free up her Saturday night to do something — anything — other than school work.

  As she pinned up her hair, getting ready to climb into the shower Samantha absently sang some vocal exercises — an ascending series of arpeggios — quietly, under her breath, so as not to wake her parents. On weekends they relished sleeping in even more than she did.

  After the shower she was feeling slightly more awake and took time to enjoy the process of getting dressed for the day, as she always did. She pulled her dark hair back into a pony-tail, applied some light make-up, pulled on a short baby blue gingham-patterned dress and a pair of white running shoes. With her sunglasses it was just the right look for a small town summer festival. She packed her essentials into a cloth messenger bag and slipped silently out the front door, giving herself just enough time to make it to the finish line a little past the two hour mark.

  The creature, way back in the darkness of the hidden, long-forgotten caves, felt as though it was just settling into The Long Sleep when it felt a pull of its own. What the boy and others before him referred to as the Crystal, was trying to rouse it from its looming hibernation. The creature tried to ignore the pull but like Mike was unsuccessful. The crystal could not be denied — not by him — since they shared a common bond which had only grown stronger over the millennia and which, amongst other things, involved blood.

  The two were at this point so intertwined that the creature often had to struggle to keep its consciousness its own and could feel the invasion of the crystal even into its physical body to the point of deformation. The crystal probably would have taken over the creature’s form and mind years ago, but all signs seemed to indicate that its ever-pushing invasion was only a harbinger of the death of the creature and hence the crystal as well — so closely were they linked; such was the nature of a knot formed with blood.

  On this morning, however, the crystal would not be denied. The creature was roused with an urgency and pulled, against its every instinct and desire, to the surface and into the light of the rising sun.

  Samantha took her time making her way to the centre of town. The morning air was still cool though the sun had continued its ascent. It was definitely going to be a nice day for the festival … and she was going to be stuck inside doing school work — ugh! Anyways, she had already made up her mind that no matter how much or how little she and David got done, she’d come out and join the after dinner crowd, which was more here scene anyways.

  When she realized that the path leading to the Drop was just up ahead, she shivered involuntarily. That was one shortcut she wouldn’t be taking any time soon. And what was that creature? Well it had to be a person. Just a very deformed, very dishevelled person. You could see them in Ceedon’s Valley any day of the week. For some reason the campers felt that being one with nature was synonymous with abandoning basic hygiene altogether. Thinking back on that night inevitably brought back the embarrassment of having gone on so badly at the sight of it in front of David and Mike. She still couldn’t believe that she’d actually fainted. How cliche. Sure she had missed dinner, that was a part of it. The other part was that it had been dark and, as usual, her imagination had been on over-drive.

  Well whatever or whoever it was she’d written him into her screenplay: The town recluse living out i
n the woods, solitary; immediate suspect in the ritualistic slayings of several teenagers over one summer. She saw herself as the witty, astute detective who was able to see beyond the overgrown beard, powerful arms and shoulders — all the better for digging a shallow grave, don’t you know — and lazy right eye. Instead she honed in on a clique of private school boys, none of which bothered to take life seriously because apparently you didn’t have to when your parents had money.

  If anyone protested that the role of lead detective was too mature for her, she could always fall back on the role of best friend to one of the slain who becomes the de facto partner to the young detective. The one who, despite pleas to leave the police work to the professionals, has enough computer skills and inside knowledge of all the high school cliques to blow the case wide open. Sadly, its that knowledge which puts the young girl’s life in danger….

  Samantha had arrived at the point where the sidewalk met up with the path that ran alongside the drop. Despite Samantha’s determination not to look in the Drop’s direction, she couldn’t help herself, she did just that. When she turned she saw full-on what she must have glimpsed on the periphery of her vision. There, in the distance, was Dave’s friend, Mike. A few feet away from him, with its back to her, was the same creature they had seen the night before — she was sure of it. Even though the sun was now out and the gloom was restricted to the shade of trees, she still couldn’t tell…. Human? Broad shoulders, shaggy hair everywhere, two arms, two legs… but the deformation of the appendages and spine…. She could only conclude that this creature more easily moved on all fours….

  For his part, Mike scarce looked better. It seemed like his spine, too, was beginning to curve. His arms and legs seemed to be straining to bend and twist in unnatural ways. His face showed the strain of chronic pain: Little beads of sweat dotted his forehead, the complexion was wan and pale. He looked exhausted. His eyes were wary. His mouth was twisted into a scowl of anger and hatred. There was no room for fear on that face, though surely, Samantha thought, once the reality of the situation dawned on him, that’s likely all that would remain.