INTO THE RIFT:
A SHORT STORY COLLECTION
by
Brett James Irvine
Smashwords Edition
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Brett James Irvine on Smashwords
Into the Rift:
A Short Story Collection
Copyright 2011 by Brett James Irvine
Smashwords Edition Licence Notes
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INTO THE RIFT:
A SHORT STORY COLLECTION
THE POET
A poet walks along a street, searching for inspiration.
HIT AND RUN
A man kills a pedestrian, and struggles to live with his choice to leave the scene before anyone arrives.
THE CLOAKED MAN
When the cloaked man arrives as destined, he is not at all what a believer expects.
POWER IN WORDS
Irik lives in a world where the words we speak have physical power.
FLIGHT OF FANCY
James goes for a quick flight in a small aircraft.
LOVE STORY
A simple tale of love and loss.
* * * * *
THE POET
The poet walks down the road, observing passersby. Here a man sweeps the pavement, brushing leaves and broken dreams into a bag filled with them. Here a young boy races his friends to the Roman baths on the corner, silver coin in hand; ready to purchase this week’s portion of cleanliness. Here a lady sits on a chair sipping a frozen coffee, enjoying the sun and her security, flaunting her beauty.
The poet smiles inwardly; here is his mark for the day. He sits at a table behind her, orders a coffee, pretending he can pay. What poet can pay? He scribbles down a story for her, quick and lilting and deadly. He scratches out a word here, adds a line there. He polishes it off, signs his name on the bottom, drops it onto her table as he walks past and away into the bright and glaring day. He ignores the sirens rushing by. The poet keeps walking.
* * * * *
HIT AND RUN
I killed a man. There was no-one else around for miles, it was dark, and it was not quite cold blooded murder, but it was cemented in my mind as such once I got back into my car. I drove off like a coward. I had taken what was not mine; I had sent to dust what was not yet meant for dust. And surprisingly, there was not that much blood.
I was on my way home from dialysis, which I got to on Mondays and Wednesdays, and I wasn’t feeling particularly fantastic. I was a bit woozy, and not really paying attention, and driving a bit faster than usual. I was flying down a deserted main road when a black figure darted directly into my path. I slammed on brakes, but of course it was too late, and the figure slammed into my windshield as it flew over the car and flopped down onto the tarmac.
I backed the car up (I’d slid considerably when I hit the brakes) and climbed out, dreading what I was about to see. I won’t describe what I’d done; I’ll save you that, but let me say that the man was not in a good state. It was obvious that he was dead or dying, but by this point I had not yet made up my mind to leg it.
I pulled his wallet out of his jeans pocket, trying not to touch him, not quite succeeding, and flipped it open. The first thing I noticed was his donor-card. The second thing I noted was his driver’s licence. Robert Schofield, aged twenty eight, registered not far from where I was born, it read. I had ended the life of a twenty eight year old man, and whilst I would sleep in my bed tonight, this young man would lie on a cold table or this cold tarmac, lifeless, his family left alone.
Tears bubbled up from inside, and I was a blubbering, snotting wreck, fawning over a man who I didn’t know, wishing I had been a little less sick and a little more careful. It was too late, and I couldn’t bear to face his family or explain to the police what had happened. I chickened out – I ran to my car, careful to rub away any fingerprints left on his wallet, and drove home. I called an ambulance on the way.
I passed out when I got home, exhausted from dialysis and shattered from what I had done. I expected to have terrible nightmares, but I awoke the next day feeling more refreshed than ever before. My reflection did not look guilty when I shaved, my hands didn’t shake when I poured my morning coffee, and I had almost forgotten about the incident completely when I sat in front of the television.
It was only when flicking through the news (unrest in Libya, US poker companies under fire, car accident on Main road) that I remembered what had happened, and had to fight a sudden wave of nausea. I decided to cancel my meetings for the day and went back to bed. After a few hours of unsuccessful napping, spent largely tossing and turning, I decided to work up the courage to call the hospital. After a few deep breaths, I picked up my cell phone and dialled.
“Hello, is that the Kingsbury hospital?” I asked a sweet sounding lady on the receiving end. “It is? Great. I, um, I’m looking for a close friend of mine, he, uh, he might have been brought in late last night. His name is Robert Schofield.” My palms were sweating, and I was fighting another wave of nausea. Eventually the lady on the other end came back. “Okay, I see. All right...thank you. My name? Oh, err...” and I clicked the receiver back into place before the conversation could continue.
Robert Schofield had been in a grave condition since the early hours of the morning, from trauma as a result of a hit and run. He was in a coma, likely brain dead, and if I wanted to see him I should come and visit as soon as possible. I had managed to fight back the nausea until now, but I couldn’t any longer, and rushed to the bathroom to be sick. I spent several minutes emptying my stomach, and several more spewing bile into the bowl. When I felt like I could stand, I moved to the basin to rinse my mouth out and wash my face.
When I stood up, Robert Schofield was standing behind me in the mirror. I froze. Cold terror snaked its way through my belly, and into my limbs. I couldn’t breathe. I began to tremble. His face was exactly as it had been the night before, disfigured, bleeding, empty of life. I couldn’t bear to look at his eyes, and I couldn’t bear to look away. When I finally blinked, he was gone. A fresh bout of nausea kept me near the bathroom for the rest of the morning.
*
The drive to dialysis the following day was a tense, excruciating affair. I was in pain, sick, and I was terrified of seeing Robert Schofield’s body lying cold and rigid in the road, however irrational that seemed. The closer I came to the spot, the tenser I felt. I slowed the car, terrified of going further, forcing myself to edge forwards. Eventually I came to the spot, and passed it without incident. I immediately calmed down, and the rest of the drive was without incident.
The drive home, however, was not. I was exhausted, and my wrist was aching from where the drip was inserted. I was driving slowly, but hardly paying proper attention, and so you can imagine my shock when a black figure darted from the side of the road and into my path. I shut my eyes and slammed on brakes once again, teeth clenched and hands tight on the steering wheel.
Once again I backed the car up, my heart thumping, my legs quivering, fresh tears streaming down my face. I stopped at the exact spot that I had murdered Robert Schofield, and climbed out of the car to look for my second victim. He had run out in a flash, and I barely heard his body hit the car over the sound of the squealing brakes. I was sure I had slid into him, and yet there was no body nearby.
I searched for several minutes, following the skid marks on the tarmac, checking over and over again on the road, opposite the road, in the gully on this side of the road, behind the car, further down the road...there was no-one. I took one final look under the car to make sure there were no limbs or scraps of clothing caught in the wheels, and when I stood up Robert Schofield was standing behind me in the reflection of the side window.
I screamed and jumped forward into the car door, twisting around as I did so, my hands covering my clenched-shut eyes. My breath was coming out in ragged gasps, and it took several minutes to calm myself down. When I eventually wrenched my eyes open, Robert Schofield was gone. I climbed back in the car and drove home more carefully than I had ever driven before.
*
Two weeks later, and I had largely managed to keep myself together. I had seen the dead man only once across a crowded train platform on the way home from a meeting in town and even then I was not certain it was him. I had convinced myself that it was simply a lookalike, a random occurrence that my mind used to trick me into thinking I had seen a ghost.
However, I was less sure of that as the week wore on. Twice I had seen a pale, bleeding face in a passing car window, standing behind me. Once I had been sure I’d seen him standing on top of a building opposite the coffee shop I was exiting, and once I had convinced myself that the ghost of Robert Schofield was staring down at me from a passing cloud.
I was not in a good condition. Physically, my kidney was getting worse. Dialysis was not helping, and I was soon going to need to go three times a week. If I didn’t find a kidney soon...I couldn’t bring myself to think of my own condition. I am not a religious man, or even a spiritual one, but I think it is easier to disbelieve in a heaven or a hell when you have not committed serious sin. It is much more difficult to wrestle the question of eternity spent in fire when one is a murderer.
Not only was my physical condition becoming serious, my work was suffering too. I had missed three meetings in the past two weeks, being too weak or sick to get myself dressed and there on time. I had missed an obvious bug in one software package I had delivered, and my reputation in the market had taken a hit. I was now considering cashing in on some share investments in order to take a prolonged break in the hope of getting better. The bottom line was that I needed a new kidney or I would die.
That night, I dreamed of Robert Schofield. The dream was so vivid, so cold that I am to this day not convinced that it wasn’t real. I woke in the dream to find myself seated on a large wooden chair, darkly polished and extremely uncomfortable. I was in a square room, bare cement on the floor, ceiling and walls, and there was no door. A single, brightly burning bulb hung from the ceiling.
Before me stood Robert Schofield. He was cleaned, and looked healed for the most part. He stood in his hospital gown. A deep scar ran from the corner of his mouth up through his cheek to end just above his ear. His head was shaved, and he had staples stamped into his skull where it had been cracked (by my car!). His eyes had that terrible, lifeless look, and they still scared me.
As is sometimes the way in dreams, I could not move from the chair. I kicked my legs out, screamed incessantly with no sound, tried in vain to throw myself to the ground. My terror grew as Robert Schofield stepped forward, now looming over me and almost blocking out the light from the single bulb. He turned to his side and lifted his hospital gown to show me the mass of scars running over his stomach, back and sides.
I was horrified at what I had done, and the nausea came back stronger than ever. He began dipping his finger into the scars, teasing them open and probing each hole in his flesh. With each poke my insides burned and my heart beat frantically, and I bit down hard on my tongue to try and stop the pain. I was sure I would wake up with blood in my mouth.
I was wrong. My mouth was dry and my throat was parched, but there was no blood as I catapulted upright in my bed. My bedclothes were soaked through and my hair was plastered to my forehead. I trembled for several minutes before my breathing slowed, and when I felt steady enough I climbed out of bed and got showered.
The second to last time that I saw Robert Schofield was directly after getting out of the shower that morning. I was shaving, and almost failed to notice him in the reflection. He was not standing directly behind me, but bending over my bedside table in the room behind me. He placed some object there, and turned and walked out of the room and out of the mirror. This time, I was not at all afraid. I was not nauseous, and my hands showed no tremor. I finished shaving and brushed my teeth.
There was nothing obvious to be found on the bedside table, and so I began moving things around, lifting up the book I was reading, checking under the lamp. Nothing. I was scrounging in the drawer, wondering if I had gone mad, when my cell phone rang its shrill ring. I nearly fell over with shock, but managed to compose myself enough to answer the phone before it stopped ringing. I did not notice the donor bracelet lying on the floor, having fallen moments before.
“Hello?” I answered. The voice on the other end was that of my doctor, telling me he had some good news. I asked him to hold on for a few seconds while I made my way to the lounge, where the signal was usually better. “Yes, carry on.” I was seated. “Oh my God...that’s unbelievable. Yes, yes. Okay. Tuesday? Yes. And doctor? Thank you.” My hands were trembling when I ended the call. I had a kidney!
*
Tuesday could not come soon enough. I was thrilled; I was a happy, energetic person. I felt as if I had a new lease on life, and the Robert Schofield saga took a back seat, finally washed out in the bright light of my good news. I arrived at the hospital half an hour early, and sat eagerly in the waiting room smiling at anyone and everyone. I could not wait to be wheeled away, to be instilled with new life.
Eventually my time came, and I followed the nurse to the room where I would get changed into the gown, and have my doctor explain the process to me. After several hours of nervous waiting, it was finally my turn to get wheeled through to the theatre. In the pre-operating room, the doctor checked a few vitals, and then motioned for the anaesthetist to do her dirty work with me.
She found the vein on my left wrist, and probed deeply with her needle. My wrist ached as the thick white liquid oozed into my system, taking wakefulness and sensation with it. It was more pain than I was expecting, but less pain than I was used to living with. I felt relieved that it was all over. I didn’t even flinch when I saw, leaning over me and smiling, Robert Schofield. He looked fresh and happy, and he seemed to be wishing me well.
“Doctor,” I mumbled, willing myself to stay awake for a few seconds longer. “My donor. What was his name?” He looked at me strangely for a second, no doubt fighting to understand my garbled, anaesthetized speech, and finally clicked. “Robert,” he said. “Your kidney was donated by Robert Schofield.”
* * * * *
THE CLOAKED MAN
Every day I spend a few minutes staring out of the window waiting for the Cloaked Man to take me away. Every day I cast a few cups of wine onto the earth out back in His name. Why do we still call it earth? That place is long gone. Every day I spend an anxious hour praying and intoning the rites described in The Book, hoping that they don’t pick me to sacrifice myself for the Elders.
Every day I bite my lip when Jerrick thrusts at me in feigned lust, hoping he finishes without losing his temper. Every day he loses his temper, and beats the side of my head with his curled fist, crying until he is exhausted and falls asleep. Every day he wakes up and uses the nanomeds to treat my wounds. Every day he strokes my hair and tells me he’s sorry that I’m like this and that he’s sorry he has to punish me.
Every day I wonder why we live like this, and when the Cloaked Man will arrive, blood under his finger nails, ash on his staff, gas rising from his lidless sockets. Every day I go to sleep, awaiting a day like the last. Every day, except this day.
I see him stepping out from the cover of the trunks – that’s what we call them on this planet: trunks, for they have no leaves or branches, just a trunk and a fruit each – his back bent and hunched and aching, his knees kicking out to the side, struggling under the increased gravity. He is old, the Cloaked Man. He has a strange hat.
Gunslinger? Cowboy? I don’t know why our King called him that. He looks like a loser, an old man, a lost hero, his missing fingers a reminder that life is hard and happiness is harder. Every day I have waited for this man. This day, he is here and I do not want to go. But I have made my choice.
*
I am not used to this new world. He is not as I wished him – he is beautiful and strong and heroic, and ugly and scarred and mean as well. His voice is free and soothing and harsh and scared. I don’t understand him. My mind hurts because he is human and not human, he is not like me, he shifts and changes and is hard and stubborn and doesn’t talk.
But I don’t intone any stupid rites this day. I don’t waste wine like before. The Cloaked Man gets angry with waste. He says it killed our world after we left it. He says it was killing our world before we left it too. His beard is scratchy, and I think I like it. He doesn’t beat me when the lusting starts.
My life is beautiful and free. The Cloaked Man came to save me, and I am learning to be free. The lessons are painful and I do not understand. But I am not forced to do anything, and I like it and I hate it and I am infuriated. I learn new words all the time.
*
Every day, I wait for the Cloaked Man to come back. I don’t waste wine anymore, but I still throw the odd cup of water. I know He is not coming back. I hate that He left. I hate it and I like it because I understand. He is missing fingers. He has no eyelids. He is not human.
Every day I spend a few minutes rubbing my growing belly, telling my unborn child that his father was a story and a hero. I hope our child is a gunslinger like the Cloaked Man. I love our child. I hate our child. I still lie awake after Jerrick has finished beating me, but I do not let him nanomed me.
Jerrick does not like my child. He knows it is not his. But he is afraid, so he hits harder than before and thrusts deeper. It is painful, and I hate it, and I like it too. He knows the Cloaked Man is gone. But he is terrified of the saviour the Cloaked Man left in my belly.
* * * * *
THE POWER IN WORDS
The dark sea crashed against the rocks far below, the waves thrashing with power and half formed thoughts. Rogue thoughts scampered up the beach and died as the cold wind washed free the salt and words in them. Irik shuddered and fingered the sigil in protection against the ocean-beast, and turned back to face the mountain behind him. His clansmen stood huddled together, each in their cloaks regarding him, waiting for his report. He turned back to the cliff and looked over once more, straining to see the beach below.
After several heartbeats, a wave crashed onto the sand, spraying salty spittle into the air. A living, breathing creature washed up on the beach, its form limp on the sand and shells. The water washed it further inland, the salt and thoughts and memories having no effect on the man-beast. Irik gasped, fingering the sigils furiously in the air in front of his face. He held his cloak fast to his head, hoping the salt in the air didn’t stick to his hair and his eyes, and turned back. He covered his head and ran back to his people, ducking under the spray to avoid being caught or struck, images of the prophecy bouncing thoughts excitedly around in his head.
*
Jack awoke to the smell of the sea and the taste of his own vomit. He sat up and opened his eyes against the harsh sunlight, wiping away the sand and salt from his eyelashes. He tried to stand, but turned his head to his side and vomited instead, all water and bile. After a moment’s rest he managed to drag himself up onto all fours, and began crawling landwards to the shade provided by a large, smooth rock.
He passed out again once he had reached the shade, and lay unmoving for several hours. He felt much better once he woke, and was able to stand up fully, if a little wobbly on his feet. He took a deep breath, spat it back out, and turned around to survey the land behind him.
The beach carried on for perhaps another 20 metres behind him, rising up an incredibly steep dune where the sand met rock – the cliff rose up in two columns higher than he could crane his neck, the sun peaking out between the cleft in the rock, lower now than before. He could see hundreds of caves and outcrops and ledges in the mountain before him, seagulls circling, the wind swaying the green grass violently where it swirled higher up.
He looked left and right; the cliffs going off around the curve of the shore in both directions, further than he could look without aid. He climbed atop the boulder, and craned his neck upwards to find some discernible path or track to make his way inland. The wind swirled violently, the seagulls swirling with it, and his eyes traced a believable path downwards that ended in a short climb some 10 metres to his right. The climb looked to be roughly 3 metres high. He perched his behind on the edge of the boulder and lay down, staring upwards.
The sun’s edge touched the rock now, and the air took on a cooler, more sinister feel. He watched the seagulls fly to and from their rocky perches, gliding and diving and shooting upwards with the wind. After growing bored, he sat up and looked at the sea, wondering where the ship was, and whether he sat on an island or on a larger landmass. No matter, he thought. I’m on land now, and safe. He watched a wave crest, break, tumble shoreward, saw a glint of metal in its catch. As he jumped down from the rock to investigate further, a seagull plopped down on the beach in front of him, dead.
Its neck was twisted around, it’s eyes open and staring. He looked immediately upward, and yelled out as another seagull missed him by several inches. Its neck was also twisted, its eyes the same. He looked upward again, and found himself looking high up into the faces of at least twenty, maybe more, humanoid creatures. Dark skinned, short, and wearing strange cloaks, they stared at him with round, black eyes, any sounds they made lost in the distance.
He waved his arms, gesturing for them to come down, but they simply watched him. He lowered his head after a time, rubbing it, pushing his neck this way and that to stop the ache that had developed from the constant craning. He looked up again into the eyes of a dead seagull, and he fell to the floor unconscious as it struck his head, its neck twisted and its eyes open and staring.
*
Irik watched excitedly as the gatherers bound and gagged the sea-creature, drawing their ocean-beast sigils in the sand to protect from the salty spray and its thoughts. They lifted him onto collective shoulders, and marched towards the Rock-God. They set him lying flat atop the God’s back, and climbed up next to him. The Gatherers lifted him up again, and the Gather-Speak commandingly called out the power word, his voice true and clear. The Rock God’s light shone then, and lifted them upwards to the safety of the caverns.
The Lookers and the Seeders and the Dreamers and the Cookers parted when the Gatherers crested with the sea-creature, giving them room to set it down. It had awoken during the ascendancy, but it had quietened its struggles now, its eyes open and staring at the tribe. The Tribe-Speak came forward as the Gatherers parted and left for the cleansing well. The tribe had closed in on the sea-creature, and Irik had to kneel down to see between their legs. He listened closely, his ears still getting used to the sound of voice.
The Tribe-Speak stood contemplating his words; Irik wondered at how careful one had to be when speaking. He had never used his speak-throat for words, only the toned chanting of the Dreamers when he had been in limbo, before choosing his path. He only knew two words; one was to create colour, and the other was to create water; he had learnt them by watching the Dreamers. The Tribe-Speak addressed the sea-creature lying bound on the floor.
“Man. Here sacred. Survive Storm. How?” The Tribe-Speak folded his arms across his chest, and spoke a power word. The gag fell from the creature’s mouth, and the creature spluttered and gasped for clean air. Before the creature could fill the air with its noise, the Tribe-Speak interrupted.
“Choose words wisely. Here sacred.”
The creature’s eyes widened and it seemed to consider its words. Irik crept further forward, his ears straining to hear its utterances. “Where is this place?” The creature asked in a voice that was smooth, high-pitched and small.
The Tribe-Speak addressed it again. “Not where. Who. Dreams. Memories. Survive Storm. How?”
The creature spoke again, louder this time. “I dreamed I was drowning. I just...changed it. I dreamt I washed ashore alive.”
The Tribe-Speak nodded and stepped backwards. He turned to the Dream-Speak at his side, and signalled an instruction. The Gather-Speak signalled the Gatherers, who again lifted the creature onto their shoulders and prepared to carry it away. The Tribe-Speak addressed the creature again, before the Gatherers carried it away. “You have strength. Speak little.” With that, he motioned for the Gatherers to carry the creature to the Sleep-Cave.
When the crowd had dispersed, Irik found himself face to chest with the Tribe-Speak. He stepped back and bowed in custom, crossing his ankles and covering his mouth as he had been shown. He then stood up and looked into the Tribe-Speak’s face to await instruction. The Tribe-Speak smiled, and signalled for him to follow. Irik bowed again, and followed.
*
Jack let himself be carried on the shoulders of the people, wondering whether he still dreamt. His mouth was no longer gagged, but he felt inclined to obey their chieftain, intrigued as to his knowledge of and interest in Jack’s dreams. He was unsure whether he was their prisoner or their guest; the tied ropes suggested the former, but the chieftain’s manner the latter. Intrigued, he looked around him to try and make some guess as to where he might be going.
His restricted view showed him cliffs high above him, vegetated with grass and flowers and short trees, bent under the influence of regular strong winds. He could see rocks, mostly grey, and innumerable caves and coves, and several pathways both clear of and under hanging cliffs and rock faces, one of which he appeared to be on. The way winded, rising and climbing, but generally seemed to be tracking along the coast, rather than inland. It was cold, but he found the wind fresh and invigorating – overall, the scenery was stark, cold, and stunning. After some time, they entered a cave, and continued inwards.
He was unable to keep track of the direction they followed, with all light extinguished beyond the sunlight entering the cavern. He attempted keeping count in his head, but gave up after what he estimated to be 10 minutes of twisting and turning in the underground. He closed his eyes to attempt sleep, and felt himself being lowered to the ground. Several small, rough hands untied his bounds, and moved away, footsteps echoing softly in the cavern. Jack blinked a few times, and slowly found his eyes had adjusting to the dark.
He sat up and looked around, and saw a cavern. One of the cloaked men watched him. He was startled to see that his eyes were glowing blue, the strange light inside of them swirling and creating images on the eyeball – this effect made the light emanating from his eyes swirl and flutter in the cavern. After staring for some time, he realized that this must be their way of communicating – the images seemed to change as the little man shifted his weight and moved and thought of different things. After several seconds he realized that Jack was staring, and his eyes stopped swirling, the light glowing directly in Jack’s direction.
The man stepped forward, his cloak flapping behind his ankles as he did so. Jack could not see much but what the being’s eyes illuminated. He had to look down to meet the little man’s eyes, but the feeling Jack had was one of being in the presence of an elder, someone with authority in the strange tribe. He waited as the eyes regarded him. After several moments the tribesman spoke.
“I am the Dream-Speak. Words are sacred here, we do not say much.” He waited then, eyeing Jack as if waiting for a response. Jack shifted his weight, uncertain of whether he was required to respond or not. The Dream-Speak waited, and when it was clear Jack was not going to respond, he spoke again. “Your mind is strong here. Save your words. I will show you how to create from your dreams. Rest now.” He motioned towards a pallet made on the floor, and turned away and left the cavern.
*
The cold water ran smoothly over Irik’s shaven head and down his back, forcing him to make a concerted effort not to gasp or react. He could feel his energy building, his eyes growing heavy and his mind filling with Create-Seeds as the Dreamers cupped and splashed the water over his head. His eyes itched as the Create-Light flowed and swirled in them, and he longed for the release of sleep to let his Create-Seeds go. He stood unmoving until the Dreamers finished their duty, bowed in the manner befitting Dreamers when they had finished, and then lifted himself out of the Dream-Lake. He did not dry himself when he replaced his cloak around his shoulders.
The Tribe-Speak stood at the rear of the Dream-Lake Cavern where the Dream-Mats lay. He made his way through the darkness to where he waited. He stood in front of the Tribe-Speak and bowed appropriately, then stood back and waited to be addressed. The Tribe-Speak stood silent for a moment, looking Irik up and down, and then signalled for him to sit on the nearest Dream-Mat. Irik did so, and the Tribe-Speak knelt beside him.
He watched intently as the Tribe-Speak performed the sigil warding against nightmares then turned to look into Irik’s eyes. The colours swirled and the images grew, and Irik watched and understood. After a time, the silent instruction ended, and the Tribe-Speak spoke aloud. “It is time for the ritual. Irik. This one is powerful, but he knows not. We must capture him. Lay. It is time.” Irik nodded and lay down, closing his eyes. He drifted into sleep as the Tribe-Speak left the cavern.
*
Jack awoke in silence and complete darkness. He rubbed his eyes and found them adjusting quickly to the darkness. When he could see, he stood up. A cloak lay on the floor of the cavern at the pallet’s side, and he found it fit his frame perfectly when he put it on. The Dream-Speak entered the cavern then, and with a flick of his hand signalled for Jack to follow. He led Jack to a large antechamber via a series of tunnels and entrances that seemed entirely natural. The antechamber was dimly lit, the eerie light seeming to rise up from a lake at the far end of the cavern.
Groups of the little men sat in circles on the floor, their legs crossed, drinking out of bowls in their hands. It was evident he should join a circle, and so Jack sat in with the nearest circle. He was handed a bowl from the circle’s centre, and made to drink. He sipped the strangely filling brew, which appeared to be a watery soup with spices he could not recognise. He finished the bowl, and drank the jug of fresh water offered to him.
Jack rose with the circle when the meal had ended, and was led by a member of the group to the back of the antechamber where the Dream-Speak waited. He said nothing, but motioned for Jack to follow again. After another twisting walk through caverns, tunnels and doorways, they came to a cavern with a lake at its centre and a large pallet at the back of the hall. The light emanating from the water was stronger and more direct in this cavern, the shimmery light swirling with the same effect that was created by the tribes’ people’s eyes.
The Dream-Speak led him to the pallet at the back of the room, where a young boy lay. He knelt next to the boy and looked into his eyes, communicating with him in that manner that still eluded Jack. When they had finished, the Dream-Speak walked into the middle of the lake, and motioned for Jack to follow. He waded into the water, and found himself waist deep. The Dream-Speak stood underwater up to his shoulders. He removed his coat, and Jack did the same when motioned to.
The water was cold, cold as the sea he had come from, surely, but refreshing and relaxing in a manner he could not establish. The water seemed thick; when he dipped his hand in and raised it, the water flowed smoothly and slowly down his skin, leaving traces of the strange blue light on his hand. He looked at the Dream-Speak for an indication of what was going on, but the man simply stood in the water with his eyes closed. He looked to the back of the room, but the boy lay on the pallet, his eyes closed and twitching as if in sleep.
After standing still for several moments, he grew agitated, and was about to open his mouth and speak when a humming sound began filling the cavern. He remained still, listening, trying to find an indication of where the sound came from. He looked to the Dream-Speak and to the boy, but they both remained motionless. The humming sound grew louder and began echoing off the rock in the cavern, bouncing around the hall and his head in growing clamour. The water around him began rippling, concentric circles of tiny waves rolling outwards all around him and the Dream-Speak, as if invisible drops of water were raining down.
The light grew brighter as the sound grew, the swirling effect heightened by the ripples. Jack began to feel disoriented, his ears ringing with noise and the light distorting everything he saw. His eyes grew heavy, and he felt the need to lie down and sleep. Alarmed, he began wading towards the shore of the lake, needing to escape the light, water and sound. The water seemed incredibly thick, and he struggled to walk, as if he were running in a dream. He stumbled, and fell down onto his knees. The Dream-Speak and the boy remained still, unmoving amidst the chaos.
He put his hands onto the floor of the lake to push himself up, and found himself looking at his reflection. His eyes were glowing blue, and the edges of him seemed to be opaque and misty, as if in a dream. He raised his hand, and was shocked to find he could see through the tips of his fingers. He cried out in fear, his voice piercing the humming sound, shrill and painful in his ears, and he immediately clamped his mouth shut. The surface of the lake had begun rippling violently, the light being thrown off in all directions, completely disorienting him. He could no longer tell in which direction he should turn to find the lake shore, and he found it increasingly difficult to move through the rippling waves.
Again he stumbled, this time unable to stop himself with his hands, and he fell under the water. He opened his eyes to lift himself up and found himself looking at a face right in front of him. The face belonged to a little girl, pale and unwavering. Her hair flowed out around her, making it difficult for him to make out much more than her neck and shoulders below her. He was sure that she was nothing more than just a face. The girl simply stared at him, her mouth open as if shouting. He backed away, and thrust himself free of the surface when his hands found purchase. He gasped the air, realising he had been underwater almost longer than he could hold his breath for.
He again began wading through the water, pushing violently forward, not knowing whether he walked to the edge or back to the centre. The humming had increased in pitch while he had been underwater, and his skull began to ache with the noise. The ripples splashed violently now, the water thick and sticky on him as it splashed up. More faces had begun appearing below the surface and in the droplets splashed up by the ripples, but he ignored them and pushed harder still. The sound became unbearable. He dived under the water and began swimming. The humming had become the whispering of voices under the water, and he found himself pushing through open mouthed faces, his knees and feet banging on the floor as he thrashed forward.
He barely managed to stop himself from gasping underwater when a rough hand grabbed his ankle. The skin was rough and calloused, the grip cutting into his ankle and stopping the blood supply. He turned to pry open the hand and saw his foot becoming opaque and almost no longer visible. He could not stand up, and could only hold his breath for a little longer. He stopped struggling to save oxygen and looked upwards to the owner of the hand, the Dream-Speak. He saw the man standing immobile, shoulder deep in the lake, his head and shoulders serene and sleep-like above the surface.
He tried to kick out at the dream speak, but found his strength flagging and his will leaving him. He tried to kick out again, this time aiming above the water at the Dream-Speak’s head, and saw that his whole foot had become opaque, the emptiness creeping up into his ankles and calves like a gangrenous infection. His hand was invisible on the Dream-Speak’s hand too, his forearms following suit as their reality drained before his eyes. His lungs were burning now, and the noise had become too much. His will drained completely, Jack closed his eyes.
*
Irik stood tall in his dream, his shoulders square and his chin thrust upwards as he screamed the words of power as loud as his dream would allow. His thoughts flowed from his eyes, blue and bright into the cavern, taking flight as they took form. He dreamt he stood atop a large rock rising out of the Dream-Lake, filling the hall with his thoughts and words. His body lay still on the Dream-Mat and the Dream-Speak stood rooted to the centre of the lake, holding tight onto the sea-creature’s ankle.
When the sea-creature finally stopped resisting, and let his body collapse, Irik stopped screaming. He took a deep breath, and began speaking out loud, shaping his thoughts with his words, commanding them, sculpting them, directing them into action. The cacophony in the cavern had subsided, a subtle din hushing through the cavern as he formed his thoughts with words.
The blue light above him in the cavern contracted, swirling brightly but closer together as his words compacted the thoughts into a smaller shape. He commanded his dream downwards, until all the blue light in the cavern swirled and flowed towards a concentrated spot above the water under which the sea-creature lay unmoving. He made sure to speak into the water – even though this was his dream, he needed the sea-creature alive. A man shaped spectre began taking shape above the water as the last of his thoughts flowed into the concentrated light.
Irik continued speaking, urging his thoughts to take the sea-creature’s form through his dream. He pushed and prodded at the edges of his light creation, coaxing, whispering, demanding that they abide. His voice strained, his eyes bulging and his palms clammy. He looked to the Dream-Speak for assurance, but he stood unmoving, clenching the sea-creature’s ankle, arresting the water’s burbling with his own thoughts and words. The water needed to be mirror-smooth for Irik to capture the sea-creature; it needed to look into its own eyes to feel the change.
When the light-spectre stood fully formed next to the Dream-Speak, Irik shut his mouth. He waited for the Dream-Speak to finish his part of the ritual. When the water lay still and smooth, he opened his eyes and let go of the sea-creature’s ankle. The movement had no effect on the water’s surface, his wrist slid slickly out of the lake leaving behind no ripples. He covered his eyes with his hands, and spoke the word to awaken the creature. The light-spectre sunk into the water, and the sea-creature opened its eyes.
*
Jack found himself being wrenched from dreamless sleep, his body cold and wet. He lay still, trying to recall his whereabouts. It hit him, and he opened his eyes and made ready to wrench himself from the water and breathe deeply. He stood up, gasping for air. The Dream-Speak stood still, covering his eyes, and the cavern had gone silent. The lake surface was smooth as glass, the water ignorant of his movement. He looked down, and saw a man-shaped figure of shimmering blue light. Terror choking his thumping heart, he watched the figure thrust its hands up into the mirror surface of the lake, through the water and grab Jack’s wrists. He looked into its eyes, and felt his body fade as his mind flashed through the surface of the water into the figure submerged below.
He stared up into the cavern through the surface of the water. He thrashed against it, trying to rise out, but he could not. His hands were ethereal, his feet almost invisible. He had no sensation of touch, and could not speak. He thrashed and thumped against the water’s surface, but he could no more enter the air outside than he could enter the world behind a mirror. He was trapped, and when he looked around to find other souls like him gaping open-mouthed at him, he understood.
*
The Dream-Speak shook Irik’s shoulder to wake him. He opened his eyes and sat up, brought himself to his feet, shaking the sleep from his eyes and the dream from his head. He looked at the Dream-Speak questioningly; he saw him nodding and motioning towards the water surface. Irik walked to the edge of the Dream-Lake, and saw his sea-creature staring up at him from under the water. The older creatures were swimming around it, trying to get a feel for its strength. Irik opened his mouth in shock; this creature was a beautiful one. Unlike the older creatures, almost its whole body was fully formed, only it’s feet and hands shimmering see-through. This was a powerful one, and would serve the tribe well against the thrashing sea-thoughts. He looked to the Dream-Speak.
“Irik. You have done well. This capture is our best. We will dream away strong storms with it. You must eat. Go.”
Irik smiled to himself, bowed in the manner befitting, and hurried away to the food-cavern to replenish his lost words. He was proud of himself, he had won a great capture for his tribe.
*
Irik watched the dark sea crashing against the rocks below, the moonlight shining up off its surface as it waved and convulsed in the night. He saw thoughts attempting to crawl onshore, but his sea-creature brushed them backwards, holding the storm in check. Irik smiled and fingered the sigil for protection from the ocean-beast, though he was not afraid. He looked seawards hoping for the next sea-creature, his next capture. His sea-creature smoothed down another swell, fighting the violence of the storm and the sea, and its thoughts. Irik smiled again, and waited.
* * * * *
FLIGHT OF FANCY
Metallic thunder resounded through the hangar as he pulled the rolling door open. The smells of oil and avgas escaped the building as newly risen sun rays crept in, glinting on shiny propellers and metal pitot tubes. With a loud clang signalling the extent of its exit, the door was open. James stood back.
An array of planes filled the space, arranged in a seemingly haphazard formation. A tri-pacer stood at an angle off to the left and a recently restored North American T-6 Harvard in the foremost front. To the right, and this was where he was headed, waited a Piper Cherokee 140. The windshield gleamed in the sunlight as if winking at him and her low wings stood proudly in the cold hangar. He placed the tow in the nose wheel hooks and pulled the beauty out of her parking spot, imagining he could sense the jealousy of the other birds. Only one would get a flight today.
It was a cold morning, but bright and clear. Smoke rose in the distant horizon, signalling the presence of the not-so-far away residential area, and James’ one time home. The wind was steady at 11 knots, scooting gently along in a northerly direction.
Coming to a stop at the paint-marked T on the airfield apron, he removed the tow and stuck it behind the co-pilot’s seat. Removing the fuel-check, he began the pre-flight inspection.
When that was completed, James pulled the canopy shut and clicked the seat belt in. Checking the gauges and instruments, he set the clock time and air pressure, and continued with the start up procedure. Engine primed, he leaned towards the air hatch and yelled “CLEAR PROP!”, and brought her roaring to life. The air pressure rose as expected, and once the mixture was leaned, he made the radio call: “Brakpan traffic, this is echo x-ray india taxiing to the holding point, runway one eight.”
While taxiing, he changed tanks to the fullest one, and made sure the time was recorded. He whistled softly to himself, surveying the fields around him as he made his way to the runway threshold. At the entrance point, he did the power checks, made the radio call, and entered the runway.
Sitting tight in the centreline, he did the final checks and pushed the throttle fully inwards. Hurtling down the runway, he prepared for takeoff.
*
“Special Rules traffic, this is echo x-ray india in a piper 140, currently seven tousand foot abeam the Rustic Dam to the East, heading to the old military airfield for some low-level flying. Any conflicting traffic?” With the silence of the radio confirming his solitude, James opened the carburettor heat and eased the nose forward.
He watched the needle on the air speed indicator rising progressively out of the corner of his eye as the ground slowly rose up to meet him. After he was satisfied that he was going fast enough, he quickly but steadily pulled the control yoke towards him. The nose rose up and cut through the clear blue sky. Pushing hard on the rudder and counter controlling with the ailerons, he brought the 140 swinging sideways and watched the ground swing round gleefully as it did a vertical 180 in the air. He relished the rush, the freedom, and the push of the force weighting him down into his seat.
Smiling, he sought the gleam of water, and after bringing her out of the dive, he took the plane on a descent to low level.
*
“Brakpan traffic, this is echo x-ray india, on final approach for runway one eight, full stop.” He pulled upwards on the flap lever. The downward pitch brought about by the extra flap made his view of the runway numbers clearer. Checking speed he adjusted his position to be in the centre of the runway, neither too steep, nor too shallow. He adjusted for the wind, and waited for the ground to rush up and meet him.
*
The steady rhythm of the heart monitor beep lulled her to sleep. The smell of ammonia didn’t help, and neither did the otherwise deathly hush of the white hospital room. A side lamp lent enough light to the room so that Christy could see her husband’s face. The constant rise and fall of his chest was a comfort to her, yet she knew it would not be long. She could hear him muttering in his sleep, and longed to have him speak with her coherently for the first time in weeks, and for this reason alone she struggled to keep her eyes open.
Christy watched her husband as he mumbled through his dream, and realized how much he had meant to her. They had had their hard times, it was never easy, but it had been good. She regretted none of it, and only wished that he had gone out more gracefully. He had always boasted of flames and glory for his final moment, and she couldn’t help thinking that it may have been easier that way.
Lost in thought about what could have been, the quick bleeping of the heart monitor broke her reverie. The rate had gone up, and was reaching peak levels. She put her hand on his hand and whispered softly to him to ease his tension and slow his heart rate. The bleeping didn’t slow down, and her husband began to mumble loudly and twitch in his death bed. The bleeping raced along too quickly, and the emergency alarm began to sound.
Tears streaming down her face, Christy leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, telling him how much she loved him. His eyes sprang open, shining blue and clear of the illness he had been subdued by in recent weeks. James looked at his wife and said “I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you too Jim.” The words tumbled out, and tears streamed furiously down her face. “I hope you had a nice dream.”
He lay back in his bed and closed his eyes, ignoring the alarms and the rushing steps of nurses and doctors coming to his aid. It was over. “I did. I’m flying.”
* * * * *
LOVE STORY
There once was a young boy named Ben, and he was blessed with an energetic canine friend named Bugsy. They were the best of friends, and would spend countless hours running and playing and getting dirty. Ben loved Bugsy more than anything in the world, and as you can imagine, his heart was broken when little Bugsy passed on. An unfortunate hitch-hiking accident left Bugsy in the big field in the sky, and Ben without his best friend in the world.
Ben spent an entire week curled up on his bed crying big tears, unable and unwilling to carry on living without Bugsy. It was precisely a week after Bugsy’s unfortunate passing when Ben began hearing the music. It was soft, not quite real at first, but eventually grew to a constant, melodic background track to everything Ben did. He tried to find its source on several occasions over the next week, but was never quite able to ferret it out. He still missed Bugsy, but little Ben was happy to know that the music was with him.
Ben grew up to be a talented, intelligent, quiet young man. He read extensively, played a solid game of tennis, and could hold a note in his Baritone voice. College beckoned, and Ben still had yet to experience his first kiss. The music stayed with him, and he remained a rather quiet, melancholic young man.
One day, whilst studying under a tree, the music stopped. Without a trace, or any suggestion of leaving, it simply stopped. Ben’s world was quiet, and empty. He felt broken inside, like he had lost Bugsy for a second time. He gathered his things, and began running back to his dorm room. He rushed past fields of flowers and young couples lazing around, past the great library, past the football fields. He was running so fast, he almost ran straight past it.
But he didn’t; he stopped dead in his tracks, stunned. Sitting on the steps of the amphitheatre was the most beautiful girl Ben had ever seen. Her black hair glistened in the sun, set straight up with thick gel. Her blue eyes sparkled invitingly at him, lined with thick black eyeliner. Her red, sensuous lips were humming a deep melody that spilled out into the warm air as she strummed menacingly on an acoustic guitar.
Her tattoos and rings fascinated Ben, her torn jeans and tank top thrilled Ben, but most of all, her song was what drew him to her. It was the song Ben had been hearing in his head for the last 10 years. He stumbled over, stopped awkwardly in front of her.
“Hi,” he said. “My name’s Ben.”
The girl shrugged, and continued playing. He hummed along until the song was finished. She then responded, “hey Ben. My parents named me Brian.”
He looked strangely at her. She continued.
“Yeah, I know. But everyone calls me Bugsy.”
* * * * *
NOTE TO THE READER:
This is the first collection of short stories released by Cape Town author Brett James Irvine. You can find out more about Brett at his WordPress blog:
http://brettjamesirvine.wordpress.com
Or on twitter:
http://twitter.com/brettjirvine
Check his Smashwords profile for forthcoming fiction, in both short story and novel form:
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BrettJamesIrvine