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ICARUS
(First 5 Pages)
EVERYONE knew Ik was a moron. They tittered over his intelligence—his lack of intelligence—in the lounges and judicial chambers of the royal apartments. In ornate halls and decorated courtyards at Knossos, and rich green gardens and groomed pathways steeping the grounds at Phaistos, he was derided by servants and bureaucratic stooges alike. In shacks and huts, farmers, fishermen and merchants cracked callow jokes at the boy’s expense. Highborn or peasant, it mattered little; Ik served as a collective joke across the small island kingdom to anyone unkind enough to tell it. Which was more or less everyone. Sorcerer’s Son, they named him. As batty as his father and clever as a bowl of figs.
None suspected the truth.
Ik, rightfully Icarus, son of the king’s inventor and chief architect, Daedalus, was not the joke that the people of Crete believed. Laughing, they were fumbling into his deception. And they were in fact, protecting him. For Ik, as it turned out, was far cleverer than anyone suspected. And it was the joke that served the boy.
Today, Ik was catching octopuses.
Strictly speaking, he was catching jellyfish—and really, he was just gathering them—but the final result would be the same, a bevy of meaty tentacles, as ready to be cooked and devoured as he was to oblige them.
The design of his traps was simple: shallow holes in the ground, reinforced with thick bands of kelp. He had sprinkled the bottoms with shredded bits of fish, patting a thin spread of sand over top. As the tide came in, his snares bore Poseidon’s swell unaltered. But then the waves began their retreat, drawing ribbons of earth back with them, down into the heart and bowels of a hungry ocean, leaving the bait exposed. And so came the jellyfish. Tightly clustered, the slow gluttons feasted, refusing to abandon their bounty even as the water dropped. And as the holes became landlocked, the jellyfish found themselves trapped, confined into pools growing shallower by the minute. Oblivious to the danger, they indulged their greedy appetites just waiting for Ik to come claim them.
Dragging a long, woven basket tied loosely about his waist, Ik cut a crooked line from trap to pregnant trap. Of the fourteen he dug this morning, he had checked eleven so far. Nearly all had proven fruitful. Scooping his quarries in the fingers of a three-pronged crop, he puddled them together in his basket. When he finished collecting them, he would carefully remove their stingers then cut them up to be used in a second set of traps. These would garner him the octopus he so desired. In the end, four measly rotting fish will have yielded him at least seven or eight good sized octopuses.
Ik dropped down at the next trap. A last bastion for sea life in the sun-scorched desert above the waves, the slow-shrinking pool had become little more than a sunken patch of damp earth. A wealth of clear, swollen bulbs lay clustered along its bottom. Two big ones and five medium. Not so bad. He scooped them into his basket, ignoring the dozen or so tiny jellies filling the spaces between. Too small, he thought, closing the lid. And indeed, his crop would not even have been able to hold them. Not worth the effort to pick them out of the sand. Hopping up, Ik moved away down the beach.
The day was getting on. Apollo had begun his evening plummet back to his resting place beyond the horizon, igniting ribbons of scarlet, like luminous waves, across the burning sky. The afternoon’s crushing heat was ebbing into a calmer, almost agreeable warmth. And the tide was coming in. Ik hurried along the water’s edge, anxious to clear the last of his traps before the sea rose again to steal what was his. Idly following the dive of a swooping gull, he glanced back the way he had come and his eyes landed on a boy, seventy or eighty paces behind him, following his tracks in the sand. Ik spun away, so startled he nearly tripped on his own ankle. How long has he been there? He wondered nervously. Was he behind me when I stopped at the last trap? He could not recall whether he had turned to look back then or not. Has he been watching me this whole time? An uncomfortable chill tickled his spine.
Pretending a calm indifference to the presence of the stranger, Ik hurried on. I didn’t look at you. I didn’t see you. He closed his eyes and bit hard into his lip. You don’t know me. I’m no one. I’m nothing. Just another kid on the beach, a dummy who can’t even talk. It was no good though; he could feel the boy’s curious gaze on his flesh, as good as stripping the skin from his shoulders and back. Walk casual, he ordered his legs, but his strides fell poignant and deliberate into the sand; clenched fists swung past his hips like loaded pendulums, clinging to arms held stiff and unnatural.
The marker for his next trap appeared in front of him. Marching toward it, Ik resisted a boiling urge to peer back. He knelt over the sandy bowl and was glad to find only a single large jellyfish waiting there. Good. He would just as soon go quickly now, before whoever that was had a chance to catch up. As he scooped it into his basket, he could not help stealing another peek over his shoulder.
The boy was much closer, barely forty paces back, ambling toward him in the same leisurely gait Ik had, a moment ago, failed to counterfeit. He was taller and at least a few years older than Ik, maybe even fifteen or sixteen. His long, strong legs devoured the sand with consummate ease. Ik knew he would have to run to match pace. “Piss off,” he heard himself hiss, scrunching his face in frustration. He jumped to his feet and plunged ahead, wicker basket skating and bouncing in the sand beside him.
It was not that Ik was afraid of the newcomer. Not exactly. That was not why he fled. It never occurred to him that his pursuer might want to hurt him, or that he was in some kind of trouble. How could he be? No, the disquiet pouring like poison into his mind had nothing to do with fear of harm or of punishment. It was simply being in the presence of another person that so deeply unnerved him, absorbing their questions and words, facing the chisel of curious eyes. It was ever a trial to hold tight to his subterfuge, to maintain what he had been taught all his life. People were dangerous, he knew, traps set to snare him, as insidious as his own were for the jellyfish.
Never speak. Two words he had heard more than any others in his lifetime, repeated over and again by his father. Since before he could speak. Not to strangers, not people you know. Not anyone. Should some fool natter in your direction, question you and demand answers, by all the gods, hold your tongue, Boy. Cozen the face of a fool and be … silent! None must suspect you so much as understand their words. Never. Speak. Two small words. Yet the entirety of Ik’s existence fell into their edict. . .
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THESE were not her friends; she could not allow herself to forget. They were maniacs. They were monsters. They deserved to die.
◦ ◦ ◦ ◦
BOUND to her chair, Arona Medina could not help wondering why no one had put a bullet into her skull. They had the manpower. She had given them more than enough reason to do so. Yet as the human tide flowed around her, no one so much as glanced in her direction. She was an afterthought now. But why keep her alive then, she wondered. Why take that risk?
Grunting again, she strained her bindings, listening as the metal chair creaked beneath her. Not a whine of capitulation though; more an amused aluminium squawk, as if to taunt her in her efforts. No, Arona was not going to break herself free that way—though this did not stop her from trying. No, she was good and caught, a prisoner in the heart of the Destiny Sphere.
The so-called Sphere—not a sphere at all really, so much as an oversized bunker—was the world’s latest and by far most ambitious eco-enclosure. It was the brainchild of tech-billionaire Solomon Mace, who had both funded the project and himself designed every detail. Today its doors were scheduled to close, beginning the ten-year isolation of thirty-two-hundred hand-picked volunteers. It was to be a perfect ecosystem, and would provide invaluable data to benefit countless future generations.
So they said in the press, anyway.
Arona was determined to stop it.
She could feel bruises forming on the bones beneath her flesh. Every move she made tightened her nylon bindings, cutting them a little deeper into her flesh. She continued to struggle though, jerking and pulling to free herself. Failing today was an option she was not willing to accept.
“All Destined signed and counted,” a voice on the intercom announced, popping slightly from an unseen speaker behind her. “Doors will be sealed in two minutes. Here we go people.” A faint cheer filtered through the walls. Those around Arona, however, carried on as though they had heard no announcement.
Then another voice spoke—not on the intercom, a living voice—deep and musical. It cut the chatter of the chaos around her. “Agent Medina. I was so very hoping you’d be here for this.”
Arona closed her eyes. She exhaled a deep, chuckling breath. “If you’re so glad to see me, untie these ropes and I’ll give you a big ol’ hug, yeah?” She turned her neck but the man stood directly behind her, just out of sight. Yet that voice was unmistakable.
“I would, Medina. Believe me, I want to. I’d love nothing better than to release you.” Solomon Mace stepped around into view. A big man, tall and fat, with a wide, square face that flushed when he spoke. Bushy eyebrows and a thick black mustache gave weight to his aspect, offsetting the bare dusting of silver thinning atop his skull. His customary Italian silk was gone today, in its place, a set of navy-blue coveralls, no different than those worn by everyone else around them. Somehow, as he stood before his prisoner, shifting considerable weight from one foot to another, the utilitarian garb only added to his imposing air of command. “In fact,” Mace went on, “I will untie you. I’ll be happy to untie you…”—checking his watch theatrically—“…in just over a minute now.”
As if cued to his words, the intercom buzzed again. “The doors have now been sealed. All Destined check in for final count.”
Mace held up his radio. “Solomon Mace. Zero-zero-one. Confirm.”
“Mace, zero-zero-one, confirmed,” a man’s voice crackled back at him.
“Not long now.” The big man smiled at Arona with something resembling warmth.
This was it. Arona sat, stunned; she had never considered that it might actually happen. The scope of it hit like a weight dropped on her chest. Son of a bitch is really going through with it. Her ribcage seemed to constrict on itself. Twisting in her chair—wildly now—she wrenched once more at her bindings. “You can’t!” she growled. “How can you? How can you even think it!?” She threw herself forward and back, desperate to break free. Failing in this, still seated, she lunged at her captor. The chair arced onto its front legs then tipped forward, throwing Arona to the floor.
In twelve years with the Royal New Zealand Navy and nine more with NZ-SIS, Arona had taken more knocks to the head than she cared to think about. Generally, she shook them off, kept going; occasionally, one managed to leave her senseless; two or three had actually put her in the hospital. This time, however, as she tumbled forward, it was not the crashing impact that caused her to cry out. Not the flame of agony as her nose audibly crunched into the concrete; it was the knowledge that she had faced her most important task, the mission that would forever define her, with stakes as high as they could possibly be, and—
CRASH!
—she failed.
So there she lay, folded into the contours of her chair, hot tears mixing with the crimson pool spreading around her broken nose. Over her stood Solomon Mace.
“Final count confirmed,” the voice on the intercom said. “Signalling Seraphim release.”
For an instant, all motion stopped, as if to acknowledge the moment’s gravity; then once again, everyone was moving. Unseen hands lifted Arona off the ground. The chair was gone—though she had not noticed anyone cutting her free—and she was on her feet, standing in front of Mace.
“It’s done,” the big man said.
Arona looked on in a daze. It’s done. The words coiled inside her head. It’s done… her eyes met Mace’s. Done…
Evil bastard.
An animal growl escaped her lips. She threw herself at Mace, but four strong arms caught her up immediately. “You son of a bitch!” She thrashed furiously but could not break free. “You … son of a bitch!”
“Don’t fight us, Agent Medina,” the billionaire rumbled. His face wore no look of triumph. His gaze held Arona’s, steady and cool. “Don’t make us kill you.”
“You’d better. I’m sure as hell going to kill you.”
“I don’t think so.” Mace smiled wanly. “In fact, you … I think … are going to join us.” Ceasing her struggles, Arona barked her contempt. “Believe it,” the big man said. “We just released the Seraphim Virus in twenty-nine major airports around the world. It’s lethal, airborne and extremely contagious—even animals and plants act as carriers. At first, no one will realize they’ve contracted it. It’ll lie dormant for months as every last pocket of civilization becomes infected. Then one day, without warning, it will strike. Killing fast. Killing everyone.
“There is no cure, Arona. There will be no time. Every human outside this structure will be wiped from the face of the earth. It’s already happened. There’s nothing more you can do.”
Nothing… Arona felt weak. My mum, a voice croaked in her head.Andy and his wife? And Luke… Sheached to fight back; she wanted to grab Solomon and tear his throat out. Yet if no one was holding her, Arona doubted she would have strength left to stand.
MATRIARCH
(First Chapter)
THE ELDEST
FATE. DESTINY. DOOM.
They rule our lives, decide our futures, queens of fortune and potential. So small are we in Their eyes—so titanic Their vision—we sometimes view Them as a single inescapable god, decider of everything, of both final and first, both cause and consequence. But each is unique.
They are Sisters.
Born in the same instant, Destiny and Fate have ever been rivals. Squabbling for control of all that is, and all that will come to pass, they command our stories, vying for ownership: Fate singing Her songs in reverse, with endings decided before have begun—parables carved in the currents of an immutable universe. While Destiny scribbles in the ink of human action, telling stories born of spirit, courage and resolve, of foolishness, fear and greed. Her endings are those we achieve for ourselves, yet they are no less inevitable, no less Hers in the end.
Then there is the Eldest.
Doom.
Doom eclipses Her Sisters. They are nothing that She was not already. Like Fate, She is the chosen endpoint assigned to each living soul; like Destiny, She is the fruit of every worldly ambition. And She is more. Doom is the great and terrible scorecard, the price of admission, deferred until journey’s end. She is the reckoning of each life’s work, be it arranged in the stars or shaped by choices freely made.
Whether you believe in Destiny, in Fate, in neither or both, Doom cannot be denied.
She will be there in the end.
Doom awaits us all.
CHAPTER ONE
Doom
EACH Sister was present in the hospital that day. No one saw them. No one heard their voices as they laid claim to the oldest and youngest alike, to every life and future resting in-between. But they were there. Fate’s unyielding certainty clung to the air, mingling with the sharp balm of ammonia hastily spread across vinyl, tile and plastic. Destiny’s resolve crackled around every pulsing body, binding lives in an intricate web of hopes, fears and grim determination. And of course, Doom was there, lurking out of sight, hiding around corners and behind heavy doors. In such desperate settings, where people came to press back against death, fight tooth and nail for one more decade, one more year, just one more breath of life, the Eldest Sister was never far.
Today in particular, more than any in a very long time, Doom’s presence could be felt. Today, she was here with purpose. This was the day the Merrill family would arrive en masse. The day Ayla Merrill, the ancient family matriarch, came to the hospital to die.
◦ ◦ ◦ ◦
“SHE was fine,” the man explained—tried to explain—fumbling words as his voice betrayed an agitation barely held in check. “She was normal. Gran’s always been—I mean, she’s old, but she’s always been . . . healthy, you know? I can’t think of a time I’ve seen her sick. But she just started coughing and wheezing, and she just—and she just … dropped. Like a bag of onions!”
“How old is your grandmother?” the admissions nurse asked, pen never leaving her clipboard.
“Great-grandmother,” the man corrected automatically. “A hundred-nineteen. It’s her birthday. It was at her party it happened. Everyone was there. It was something else, really, a miracle—that we could all make it, I mean. Like—not just most of us—everyone came. So many different schedules. Six generations under the same roof…” The man was beginning to babble. For a time, the nurse allowed him. The patient had been admitted, assigned a bed, and wheeled away by an orderly; it was a slow afternoon, and amazingly, no one else was waiting; no harm letting him unburden himself. Soon she realized however, if she hoped to get anything useful from him at all, she would to have to interrupt. “…the youngest still poopin’ in diapers of course, but we—” The nurse opened her mouth to cut in.
“Dan!” A female voice slapped at them from the entrance. Five more had appeared through the sliding glass doors. The one who had called out, a well-made-up but dazed looking young woman—no older than thirty—scooted past a trio of middle-aged ladies who were supporting a hanging-grey-thread of an eighty—perhaps even ninety—year-old man. “We met up in the parking lot.” The younger woman nodded toward the others. “Mum and Dad are right behind. How is she?”
It took the nurse a second to realize this last was directed to her.
“Well we—”
“Cass! Dan!” A couple in their fifties hurried through the doors and up to the group. “How is she? What do they say?” These questions were not addressed to the nurse, who had yet to get a word in.
“I don’t know,” the young woman, apparently named Cass, answered. “I was just asking.”
“I don’t know,” Dan echoed. Then turning back, he resumed his monologue. “She was having trouble breathing, right? Well, first off she was fine. Everyone was saying…” The man’s rambling account washed over her once again. Painfully suppressing the urge to clench her jaw, the nurse watched as three more Merrills trickled in to attach themselves to the group. Was she to contend with the whole extended clan today? she wondered with no small feeling of dread.
Before more could arrive, before Dan could recite the entire family history, she managed to time an interjection into one of his short breaths. The doctors where examining their great-grandmother, she told them—or their grandmother—or in the case of the ancient-looking man, his … mother?—the one they called Gran, in any case—and they would be back with their diagnosis soon. In the mean time, no, they could not all go wait with her; no, she herself was not going to speculate on what might be wrong; and yes, they could remain in the lounge, so long as they kept to themselves and bothered no one.
This last answer was one the admissions nurse would come to regret.
One-hundred-thirty-eight relatives—ninety-nine direct descendants, and a healthy smattering of in-laws—gathered in the waiting area that evening. “Gran is a remarkable woman,” one of them told the nurse when she approached them to elect a contingent who would stay and wait for news, allowing the others to go home. “Hundred-nineteen and sharper than anyone I know. None of us can imagine what we’d do without her.”
“She sounds incredible,” she answered. Now please move on like any normal invasive swarm.
Eventually, she did convince them. Six would remain through visiting hours. One would be allowed to sit overnight with the patient. For this, they elected the young woman, Cass, who had grown up next-door to the old matron. All agreed, she lived closest to Gran’s heart.
◦ ◦ ◦ ◦
IT was a little after 2:00 a.m. when Gran awoke. Cass did not immediately notice. Her focus had fallen hard on what the doctor had told her, and it was difficult to think of anything else. “It’s her time,” the woman had said, hands folded on a closed folder containing Gran’s entire medical life. “Her body’s giving out. She might make it till morning, maybe a day or two, but … she’s very old.”
Old, Cass thought. Her laptop sat open in front of her, a half-finished pamphlet design splashed across the dimmed screen. She had hoped to distract herself with work, but for hours she had no more than stared at the open file. …might make it till morning, maybe a day or two… The words circled in her head, overwriting all other thought. …but she’s very old… The idea that this woman, this fixture in Cass’s life, would be gone soon, was all she could focus on. As her great-grandmother’s sleep became restless, Cass’s attention was drawn inward. Even when the old woman slipped back into consciousness, she failed to notice. Only when Gran actually called out, did she finally snap back to the world.
“Ollie?” Gran’s fear cut the darkness, causing the younger woman to start. “Ollie, where am I? Where is this? What am I doing here? Ollie?!”
Tossing her laptop to the other chair, Cass reached for the old woman. “Sh-hh, Gran,” she whispered. “Sh-hh-hh, it’s me. It’s Cassidy. Your little Cass.”
“Cass?” If anything, Gran’s voice sounded more panicked. “Oh God. Cass … where am I? Where—where’s Ollie?”
“Gran, no; it’s okay. It’s okay. You’re in the hospital. You’re with me at the hospital. You fainted at the party. We brought you here to rest and get better.”
“No. No, I don’t like this, Cass. I need to see him. I need … I need … oh…” Her voice trailed off, as though the effort to speak was too much. This frightened Cass. Gran did not scare easily. Gran did not get befuddled. She was immutable, a force of nature. Seeing her like this…
“Greatest-Granddad’s gone,” Cass said, pressing the old woman’s knuckles in her palm. “He passed a long, long time ago, remember? Years before I was born. You do, Gran. Don’t you?
Surprisingly, this seemed to have a calming effect. Gran’s muscles relaxed. She eased herself back onto the bed. “Yes,” she breathed, sounding a little more herself. “Yes, Cass, that’s right. A long time. I just forgot. Just for a second.” She placed a frail hand over Cass’s, which Cass then sandwiched in her own. They held on like that for a minute before Gran pulled away. “Poor Ollie,” she murmured. “Poor, poor Ollie.” Then, “Please, Cassidy, the light. I’d like to see my favourite girl before I go.”
Cass flicked the switch on a wall-mounted fixture over the bed, and a dull glow kindled in its frosted bulb. “None of this before I go crap,” she chided. “You’re going to get better, okay? Mum and Dad brought you some things from the house; some clothes, your jewellery, that old book you like to read. They want you to keep your spirits up so you can get out of here and back home where you belong.”
Gran smiled. “My little Cass. A hundred-and-nineteen is long enough sentence for anyone, wouldn’t you say?” Cass shook her head. Gran had exceeded her generation’s life expectancy before she herself was born, yet to her, a world without the old woman in it was unthinkable. “Besides,” Gran continued, ignoring Cass’s silent objection, “a promise was made many years ago, and I expect it’s time to keep it.”
“Gran, what are you—”
“You say they brought my bobbles?”
Sitting back, Cass nodded.
“Please.”
Cass allowed herself a moment of uncertainty before retrieving a small cherry-wood box from the windowsill.
The box was an antique. Intricate friezes lay carved around its sides, each depicting a season of the year. Webs of brass and silver decorated the lid, set seamlessly into the polished wood. Cass adored this box, though she had never been allowed to touch it, or even look inside. It was strictly off-limits, the only real restriction Gran had ever enforced. Setting it on the old woman’s lap, she returned to her chair by the bed.
“I never told you how I ended up with your great-grandfather,” Gran remarked quietly, opening the little chest.
Cass took a moment to consider. A legend in the Merrill family—second only to Gran herself—Greatest-Granddad Ollie had died in the 1940s, before even the grandchildren were born. Yet each generation had grown up with him. Sitting cross-legged on the old woman’s worn living-room carpet, or curled into an ancient chair or sofa, listening to Gran’s stories, they had come to know him, to love him as if he had always been around. And though his death was something of a murky spot in the family chronicle—rarely discussed and vaguely understood to be suicide—it was his life the old woman loved to recount. The sort of man he was, how much he meant to her. They had gone on such adventures together, lived through incredible events. Through these enthralling tales, he lived again, and the entire family grew to adulate him, even as Gran herself did.
It was no small shock then, when Cass realized she had no idea how Gran had actually come to meet him. That can’t be right, she thought. Gran would have told that one. Surely, I would have asked. But thinking back, giving herself a good long moment to think, she found her mind drawing a blank.
Before Cass could voice her surprise, Gran—whose eyes remained fixed inside the box—shot up a silencing finger. “Wasn’t a question, Cassidy,” the old woman muttered. “I’m not asking; I’m saying, you’ve never heard this story.”
Cass’s mouth snapped shut.
Picking carefully through her jewelry—a bird digging for insects amidst a carpet of fallen nettles—Gran’s eyes widened as she spotted what she was looking for. She set the box aside, and in her hand held a silver bracelet formed of fine, interlinking bands. It wore a heavy coat of tarnish, painted on, presumably, by time and neglect, but was a wonderfully detailed piece and looked to be one-of-a-kind. Cass could not recall ever seeing Gran wear it. In fact, she was fairly certain she had never seen it at all.
“This bracelet,” Gran said, wistfully, “is older than you’d guess. Older than you’d believe, actually. It has more stories in it than I could tell you if I had … well, till you were my age. But the most recent, the one as it matters to me … and to you … is the tale of your great-grandfather. Oliver. It’s a story I’ve not told anyone. But then, no one as God-awful-old as me could miss how special you are, Cass—could doubt that you deserve to know. I suppose it’s time someone does.”
Cass’s throat seemed to swell. It was a struggle to pull air into her lungs. She knows she’s dying, she thought. She knows this will be the last story she tells. Leaning forward, crushed by the realization, yet desperate to hear what Gran had to say, she listened as the tale began.
“It was, oh … so far back now, in Turkey, maybe a year after the war—not the Great War; a few years on. After the Liberation. I guess these old bones would have looked about your age then—just shy, maybe—a girl, figuring out what it means to be a woman.
The winter rains came strong that year. I don’t think I’d seen the river so high…”
OLD MAN ON THE BUS
A Short Story
(Sample)
AN old man stands before his workplace locker. His shoulders slump under the weight of twelve hours sold to his employer for an emailed paystub he never learned to open—as surely as his back bends beneath seventy-plus years traded for bad ankles and a basket full of memories. He slides out of his jacket and straightens it over a wire hanger, depositing both into the open metal cavity. He unclips and folds his tie—gently, careful not to crease the fabric—then sets it in place on the bent shelf above.
“Night, Ben,” a woman calls from outside the locker room. There is no door, only a partition of white-painted bricks, stained grey by countless wayfaring palms. The old man answers his colleague, wishing her a restful sleep. Then he turns attention to his collar.
His fingers are slow. Each button is an effort, but a gradual split grows down the front of his shirt. The Stallion Security logo embroidered to his chest vanishes as the garment falls open. Shrugging free, he stuffs it into a maroon laundry bag. Next go his slacks. The old man dons his street clothes as slowly and carefully as he undressed. He drops the laundry bag in a half-full bin, then steps out of the locker room. By the time he makes it to the elevator, up into the lobby, and out the side doors to the bus stop, his wristwatch reads 12:12 AM. Twenty-two minutes past the end of his shift.
The old man does not sit, but stands behind the stop’s bench. He offers a glance to the fresh stain puddled across its seat. Puddled over last night’s stain—over the previous night’s, and as many nights before as could well reach the Cretaceous. Resting forward on the seatback, he shifts from one foot to the other, watching for the lights of his homebound chariot.
The city is quiet at this hour. Few cars wander the streets. Fewer busses. The old man’s will be the last for its route. If it were scheduled to come a little earlier—if he got off work just a few minutes later—he could not have taken this job when it was offered three weeks ago; he would have had no way to get home. Lucky how things work out.
The old man covers a yawn with the back of his wrist. He offers three slow blinks, then yawns again. He continues to shift his weight, lifting and shaking each ankle as his body sways.
The bus arrives on time.
It stops in front of him, hissing as the door opens and the floor lowers for him to enter. Cautious as ever, the old man climbs aboard. He flashes his pass, then turns to face up the aisle. There appears to have been a game tonight; every seat is taken, and a number of travellers stand in the aisle. The old man’s gaze drifts to the first four seats on either side—priority seating. He eyes the six teenagers spread collectively on top of them, laughing and jawing without an upward glance. He turns a hopeful look to the driver, but the man’s attention is on the road, and by the fog in his pupils, whatever plans he has for when his shift ends.
The old man wilts inside his clothes.
Before he can turn back to the teenagers, perhaps to swallow anxiety and ask to be allowed to sit, the floor lurches beneath his feet. He staggers and dances comically to catch balance, kicking knees well above his belt. He hugs the nearest pole moments ahead of what would have surely been an injurious fall. A churl of laughter rises from the seated teens. Not at him. At some youthful gag borne among them. Still none has noticed the old man … except one, a boy draped in team colours. He paints the old man with a curious eye. But he says nothing, does not shift or offer up his seat.
The old man studies his shoes.
Walls hum as the bus rolls forward.
They cross the bridge and make their way north. Streetlamps skitter across fore-lit windows like orange and yellow spiders migrating to the rear. The old man clings to his pole against the sway and shift of inertia.
A woman appears before him—young, perhaps thirty—in a coral pea coat and grey leggings. Cinnamon-coloured hair, swept to one side, slides from her shoulder as she leans in to speak. “Would you like my seat?” She gestures to the middle of the bus, where an undersized backpack rides an otherwise empty spot. Before he can answer, she asks again. “Did you want to sit?”
The old man smiles and thanks the woman. He allows her to help him up the aisle. The woman grabs her backpack and gestures him into the seat. He thanks her again and says what a relief it is to be off his feet; he explains how his job requires him to stand in place for hours, how even for his younger colleagues it can be—
“Oh, it’s okay,” the woman says, just short of stepping on his words. “I sit all day at work; I could stand to stand a bit, you know?” She chuckles spuriously. The old man nods. “Have a good night,” the woman chirps before he can open his mouth again. She turns away, walks four paces, and pulls a phone from her coat pocket.
Seated, the old man leans back.
HappyVille
(Unpublished)
(First Chapter)
A Landing Between Stairs
THE door hung above, open and silent, commanding the staircase.
Against her will, she crept toward it. A carpeted step moaned under the press of her foot, its wooden protest scarcely touching her ears before sweeping up the passage to vanish into the space beyond.
No. No, no, no… I can’t do this. I won’t.
Rebellious legs drew her on.
Oh God in mercy … spare me.
The door grew in her vision, its breath hot and nauseating-dry. Doleful framing strained against the widening gap within, an expansion too violent to contain. Her foot lifted, oblivious to her mind’s frenzied objections, touched the next step and pushed down until it lay beneath her. Another step. Another. And another again.
She knew what she would find at the top. She knew who. Dreaded eyes she dared not face.
Another step.
She lifted her foot … and she froze.
Time stretched out with long pointed fingers, eager to draw her on. Her shoulders drew away. She lowered herself. An inch. Then another. Her toe touched the stair below, and after an impossibly long moment, blessed it with her weight.
Her heel fell on air.
The world revolted as she lurched back. She flailed and clutched at nothing. Her back arched sickeningly, and a startled gasp escaped her lips.
The passage spun. Stairs collided with her shoulders, and against the small of her back—hips bouncing—knees tossed over her face—ankles slapping the walls as she tumbled. The staircase ejected her, a bruised parody of deliverance. And there she lay, heart aflutter, head buzzing with shock, and with pain.
There she lay as the world gradually righted itself.
◦ ◦ ◦ ◦
THE world gradually righted itself.
A thousand bruises and aches throbbed inside her skeleton. Her skull pulsed with silent obscenities. For several seconds she lay on her back, staring up. At last, she gathered onto her elbows to scan her surroundings. An unforgiving cherrywood floor lay beneath her, wanting for polish and near-black with age; faded rugs floated across its surface. Sharp-edged walls, barren in their flatness—though papered over, and accented with old photos and diminutive paintings—stood tall and unfeeling over antique furniture. Flinty light from an unseen source painted everything in the same dusty colour. Or perhaps, she considered, everything was merely covered in dust.
Where is this? The thought formed unbidden in her head. Nothing she saw looked familiar. How did I get here? I was… What was I doing?
The stairs.
Scrambling back, kicking at the open beside her and watched it slam shut across the ascent. Bam! Vibrations radiated through the floor. They were nothing against the thrum in her chest.
Eyes wide and panting, she stared at the narrow plank separating her from … from … from what? Where had she been going? Why was she so scared? She had not a clue. Somehow that made it worse. The door loomed above her, housing every fear she could imagine. So easily could it open, she thought, so small a barrier for whatever lay beyond. Her gaze fixed on the handle. She held her breath, waiting for it to turn.
Movement on the other side. The wood seemed to bow out in her direction. She edged away, too afraid to stand. Unable to breath. Eyes pinned to the handle. Any second…
“Is someone there?” A voice called from behind her.
The girl jumped and let out a startled hiccup. She clambered to her feet and turned from the door to a banister overlooking a crooked little stair—this one went down, not up, and possessed nothing of the other’s frightening presence. It took her a moment to see the shape upon it.
“Hello?” the man called again. “Who’s up there?” His movements were slow and careful. He was old, she realized, tired, withered and grey.
“H–hello?” the girl replied, not knowing what else to say.
The man crested the top step. He was short and slightly pear-shaped. A button-up shirt hung rumpled from his narrow shoulders, untucked over deep brown slacks. His face was long and dark, with a nest of silver curls resting delicately at its peak. A well-defined crinkle darkened the spot between his brows as he directed his attention toward her. “Now, just who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“I–I,” the girl stammered. How could she explain? She could not even recall where she had been before this. “I don’t know,” she eventually said. “I…”
She searched her mind. What the last thing she could remember?
Nothing. There was nothing.
“I don’t know,” she repeated. “I don’t know who I am.” The realization struck like lightning. She barely swallowed the resultant whimper. The man considered her for what felt like minutes. She wanted to say more, but what could she tell him? Then she had a thought. “I guess you must not know me either. We’ve never met?”
The man weighed her with a look. “Why don’t you come on downstairs. I’ll fix some tea, and we can figure this out.” Before she could offer a reply, he turned and receded back the way he had come, beckoning her to follow.
The nameless girl hesitated. Could she trust this man? He’s a stranger to me, she reflected. Then again, so am I. But I’m in his home—I think—with no guess as to how I got here … and no idea where to go next. What choice do I have?
She did not move.
A chill trickled down her spine. She could sense the other staircase behind her. She dared a glance back. The air around the door seemed to shiver, as if by an unfriendly heat. She took a quick step away. With a last uneasy glance, hurried after the old man.