Packing the car

Even before departure, in theory this is the worst part, Michael and I can't figure out how to properly pack the car. It's coming down to whether we take the things that we really should have in case of emergency OR blankets and pillows for sleeping in a tent in Wyoming in September OR large quantities of pre-made granola OR clothes. Of course we both understand that technically we should take all of these things. I've already sacrificed my plants, they will be living in Montrose for a little while. The Alaskan Pumpkin Porter and some Tim Burton on IFC are making it easier -- except for the mid-day, during the week, generic commercials. But panic mode has set in and Michael made another trip into town. I'm ready to get on the road and only worry about rearranging the trunk/bar/kitchen tomorrow

. We leave in about an hour and a half to go over a weather ridden Red Mountain pass, but oh well today is the day and we will make it happen!

The River and Roads

The journey was long, but he knew that it needed to happen. His mother kept saying, “You have to take her. She has to go and you are by far the most capable, also the strongest.” She kept telling him that he would need physical and emotional strength. Michael knew that what she said was true, but was skeptical that his mother’s claim – that he was the only one was capable.

It couldn't have been anyone else. Grandma knew it too, but she wasn't in any condition to argue with anyone.  See Michael’s beloved grandmother had passed from her earthly existence a while back and now she had to be delivered from this existence to the next.

“You get to take her. I left everything you should need on the bed side table. The map will get here tomorrow. Get a good night’s sleep.” Michael’s mom had decided he was the one to go yesterday. He wasn't sure it was a “get to go” situation, but he wasn't sure what he was getting himself into. So the hesitation was understandable. This was a unique opportunity that holds more weight with those who never have the chance to go.

He went to his room and crawled in bed, hopeful to get more sleep than he had the night before.

The directions arrived in his mailbox first thing on the day of his adventure. Michael read these through once and put them aside until after he ate breakfast. The LIFE cereal helped nourish his childhood side before this overwhelming journey. He grabbed the directions and the small container of grandma’s ashes he had to take with him and stashed them in his pocket. He walked out the front door of his childhood home.

He was heavy with the task in front of him and unsure of what to expect. Normally he was pretty confident in the decisions he makes when on adventures. The only thing he feared was the large hungry critters, but according to the directions he wouldn't find too many on this trek.

His directions were oddly detailed. It went like this:

Exit childhood home via the front door.

Walk until you reach the main highway via the residential dirt roads.

Continue to walk east-ish along the highway past the storage units.

Take a right on the next dirt road.

Do not look back.

Walk until you pass the large desert shrub with the worn green tag hanging from the top branch.

Take a right off the road that is no longer a road and not much more than a foot path.

Do not look back; you will not see what you are looking for.

Walk into the desert.

You will reach a large-ish rock with a circle engraved on its surface.

If you make this stretch of the journey before noon, your local time, the rock will shimmer making it easier to find from a distance.

Step over the rock.

Follow the path.

Do not look back.

You won’t have to go too far, epically speaking.

That was it. That was all the directions had to guide him.

He followed all of the directions outlined keeping an eye on the time as he found the shrub. It was still before noon. He turned right and kept walking. As soon as he leveled his focus he could see a glint of light what it seemed like a mile away. It was flat. He could see pretty far. He did not look back. He kept walking. 

Michael considered the difference between attractive and unattractive sports reporters, the dynamics used to calibrate the internet, and the perks of having a pet monkey (one of which is punching chavs in the balls) and the meaning behind a glimmering rock in the middle of the desert.

He kept walking and thinking. Walking and thinking. This was way more than a mile. Eventually the rock was getting closer. He picked up the pace and ran the last 200 or so yards to the rock with the circle engraved on the top. It was polished marble with the tiniest of yellow crystals embedded on the surface. He was tall enough to step over the rock, as instructed.

The desert landscape was gone.

There was a path under his feet. It lead him along the edge on a volcano on what seemed to be a deserted Hawaiian island. It was humid, hot, and nothing beyond the small island his feet resided on, but ocean for miles. He walked with the path as it curved around the volcano and down a small steep hill. He found his place in line.

Most of the people waiting were dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt. Every few people there were someone in obviously traditional religious garb, some of it excessively ornate for this climate. Michael was happy with his choice of yellow button down and dark plaid red shorts.

“What are you doing here?” He asked curiously as recognition of the presence he hadn't been able to shake, since he stepped over the rock, clicked.

She said nothing. He turned around to face her. Michael relaxed his shoulders as his grandmother reached for his hand. It was his job to take her. He understood why now. She had no words and they needed none. He was afraid, but she was comforted by the line they were in. They walked hand in hand as the line got shorter and shorter.

A giant tree stood on the bank of the river. Michael would consider giant an understatement as he slowly moved his glance upward in an attempt to see the color of its leaves, but they were well beyond the sunset rose clouds. As he walked closer he could see ragged boots sticking out from behind one of the roots. He approached who he assumed was the boatman.

"Excuse me." He knocked on the tree trunk. It made an intrusive gong sound and almost knocked Michael out of his own ragged boots.

"Really?" A grave and resonant voice came from the being inhabiting the boots. "You weren't expecting that were you? It’s a good way to remind people of where they are."

"Excuse me?" Michael was curious of how someone could not remember that they are standing on the bank of the river Styx.

"You think that everyone who comes to see me is the only one who could accompany their dead?" There was a pause. "Let’s just say that your grandmother is very lucky to have you escort her here. There are others who would have done it, if you hadn't and they aren't as unassuming."

"Sir, I’m not…what are you talking about?” Michael wasn't sure he wanted to ask for clarification, but it was too late now.

“Not all of the folks who die in your world have loved ones to bring them to me. I have a log of those who die so I know who to expect. We have to keep diligent records. For those who don’t have someone dear to them to bring them to me, I send a taxi, if you will. We had to set up a back-up plan since when we miss someone things get unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant?” He had to ask.

“Let’s just say more people end up dead than were in the first place. Anyway, she,” he pointed at the graceful old woman behind Michael, “is lucky she has you to watch over her.”

“Yeah, I wasn't sure what I was getting into bringing her. It’s cool that there is a whole process, but where do they go?”

“Wow, you are just full of questions.” He inhaled patiently like he had this part well-rehearsed centuries ago and the answer has gotten old. “Everyone goes to the same place. There is no heaven or hell. Folks have a way of finding their kind even on our side. Heaven is just used to reassure those who believe in righteousness. They believe in it so much that they don’t even ask me that question anymore, but they also aren’t the ones who bring their dead.”

Michael considered that last statement and assumed it was because they didn't believe in this afterlife, so why would they even concern themselves with the journey. “That sounds like a good process; it’s neat to know that nothing changes too much.”

“It is nice to know that a kid approves of our policies and procedures that have worked for centuries.” Talking to himself. “Thank you. Now we must get on with it. That is a line." He pointed behind Michael and there was definitely a longer line than when he was at the front of it.

"Oh right." Michael moved his grandmother to lie on the crude wooden raft tethered to the bank. He finally noticed how inky black the water was on this bank, while the other side of the river looked remarkably clear.

"Now place the coins on her eyes." Charon gracefully gestured to where her head now lay.

"About that, what does it cost?" He pulled two of each from his pocket, everything from pennies to Sacajawea dollars. He had even scrounged up two Kennedy half dollars.

He looked toward the clear water bank, "oh my, you weren't kidding. Okay, this is a penny ride.” Charon gestured toward a wooden raft .  “Nickels come with a feather pillow." He snapped his fingers with a false enthusiastic face and a fluffy pillow appeared under her head. "Dimes will get you an inflatable kayak, instead of this reliable raft, reminiscent of my good friend Mark Twain's iconic work. He talked us though how to build it more sturdy, but the kayak will help prevent her from sliding overboard if the waters get rough. Of the two, I would vote for the raft. We still believe in solid craftsmanship and we don't build the kayaks "A snap and the kayak appeared. “Now, if you want to spend quarters we can make it a Viking longboat. I know the mythology is wrong, but it is a customer favorite, if they sacrifice parking meter money." When he saw it, the longboat became a strong contender and totally worth 50¢. "It isn't very often that JFK graces my humble banks, so those who chose him get a black sail pirate ship with a busty figurehead." That was an intriguing option as well. "Now, for the dollar, the vote was to go with the theme. I think it’s a bit racist, but the Sacajawea dollar gets you a 'genuine' Native American canoe. Between you and me, those who bring me American coins get the most generic and offensive options. So what is your choice?" The boatman put his hands on his hips and waited.

"Pirate ship, for sure. She would've been a pirate. Will she know?" Michael had a feeling that this decision was for his comfort, not hers.

"Yes, she will know, but I've heard that it doesn't matter that much to most people. Those it matters too are more likely to be too much of a pain that their families didn't bring them anyway. Go ahead and place the coins on her eyes. We gotta keep this train a moving." Charon nods to how many people have been standing in line.

Michael leaned in and placed the half dollars on her eyes. He kissed her forehead and stepped away.

The boatman snapped his fingers and the ship appeared. Michael could see his grandmother finally at rest. 

"Can I ask one last question?"

"A quick one." Charon liked him and appreciated his love for his grandmother.

"Do you know who will bring me?"

"I don't have that foresight, but you will instill your love in all of your family and the person who is meant to bring you will. I have no doubt of that."

“Thank you.” Michael turned around to face the ever growing line and started his walk home.

A novel in the works!

So, I've taken on the daunting task of trying to put all of this together. For a bit of back story to the upcoming novel check out the following posts!

42. Uncompromising

31. Papaw

22. Kayak

37. Superstitious

21. Klick

There are more short stories to come too! Next up...27. Nettle

21. Klick

Definition

Noun: A kilometer.

Story

The second rule of being a scout is that you must have a keen understanding of direction and distance. We teach where you go and how to get back. We will teach you the trails and paths, but you are the ones who have to make it back. There is and intuition to it. We have lost more than a few tenderfoots because they lost their way. You have always that with being a part of this community you must be caring a watchful. We, the scouts, are the tested ones. If you are not confident in your own abilities to get back home, don't go. It is easier to have a scout step down than to never see them come home again. When you are lost there, you never return. The only ones who ever had were The Originals. They did not have targets on their backs.

You, you will have a target on your back. The hunters know what you look like, you have to know where they will be next. You have to understand the field before you even trespass into it. We will teach you the layout, but you must be able to lay it in front of you at a moment's notice. We call them hunters. They will hunt you. We will train you for spatial awareness. We will train you on where to hide and where the food is. We will train you on where the hunters hide. But they, like you, are trained to understand "the other". They only know you as the people that steal their food. You mean nothing else to them. They have an uncanny way of know where you are at all times. It is difficult to outsmart them. Their communication with each other is almost cerebral. Since this is our community's only source of food, you must also be that connected with your partner.

We will teach you, but you are not The Originals, you are the tenderfoots. We will teach you the way, but you must learn it.

37. Superstitious

Definition

a : a belief or practice resulting from ignorance, fear of the unknown, trust in magic or chance, or a false conception of causation

b : an irrational abject attitude of mind toward thesupernatural, nature, or God resulting from superstition

 

Story

They find me in the streets at night. No one really pays attention most of the time. When they take notice of me, I hear a wretched "you don't belong here" or "you haven't left yet? There isn't anything here for you", they know better than anyone that I have nowhere to go. A young girl came across me the other day and wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation. She was too young to understand my presence here. The girl hadn't learned her role yet in this world, let alone mine. She tried to approach me. She wanted to learn for herself; I could see it in her eyes. But she could feel my place, the fibers of her skin, built from the people who understand, pulled her away. She will grow up to be a wife, mother, and then a widow. I wish they would be smarter than the adults, smarter than the ones who keep me from having a warm home at night.

Yes, the adults criticize and question my presence in their town, but they understand that my role is to show the value of what they are given. They get food from the door and they have the technology and the knowledge to build homes from the resources around them. But they leave me on the street to rot; or at least to dig through their trash to fend for myself. They don't even invite me into the Great Hall for community dinner, but alas there isn't much I can do. I'll let you in on a few secrets. This is a beautiful place to live. The community here has built a remarkable utopia of love and trust among its people. There are rules that are understood and go unquestioned. The children are not taught the rules until they learn about themselves and their role. They are taught by the adults who follow the rules blindly. When they get older they are taught to treat me poorly. Taught that the lives they lead in happiness and peace are only possible due to my suffering.

One thing they are never taught, that only the scouts know, is that they can live because of beings like me. What they acquire on the other side of the door is not what they bring home. Their lives are sustained on creatures that they butcher and kill between the doors. They keep the people protected from these truths. They can't even look in the eyes of a gaunt black cat as they pass it on the street.

22. Kayak

Definition

A canoe of a type used originally by the Inuit, made of a light frame with a watertight covering having a small opening in the top to sit in

Story

"I started telling Vallie about what lives behind the door. I haven't told her the secrets. She doesn't know about the hunters or where the food comes from, but I told her about the...terrain, I guess. She knows about the water that has to be traversed, the plains and the woods. She understands that it is dangerous, but I guess she would've know that because of the conditions Graves and Forrest when they return from missions. I was tracking her the other day for Nell. He wanted to know where she was going without giving away our what we know about the fringes. We were at the lake and she kept trying to ignore me, like she didn't know I was there, but the way she walked...she knew. I couldn't be ignored anymore. There is something about her that intrigues me. She asks more questions than she should. She explores more than her father feels comfortable with. She has an adventuring spirit that I... appreciate? Maybe, sometimes it worries me. So, we were at the lake. She found the fruit trees there. We aren't supposed to tell the teenagers who haven't reached the age of exordium about what lies beyond the community. But she found it. Vallie explores. She wants to know what exists in this world. She has heard the stories of what came before us and what we have developed since our supposed isolation. And now I've started to tell her of our future or at least what I think it should be. I'm not sure if anyone realizes the potential of what lies beyond the door. If we could eliminate the hunters we could take what we need and wouldn't have to worry about our lives being taken. I'm probably not supposed to tell you that either. Have you ever been a scout?"

"No. I haven't."

"I didn't think so. You don't seem like the type to volunteer for that job. Staring Sullivan in the eyes would make anybody a little nervous. There is a 2 part malice, 1 part foolish to his eyes, his soul. I've only seen it a few times, but he was trying to explode the tail end of my kayak. I made it back to the door both times...barely. I tried to tell Willow about it before bed last night, but she doesn't understand how these mission's stick. It is hard to shake the reality of it all. Their world is so different than ours."

"That is what I've heard."

"Speaking of, did you hear that Nell is considering Vallie and Pettal for recruitment, or "suggestive volunteering" as he likes to call it, for next year's training. Aren't they too young for that? I mean I know that he likes to get them started at 15, but those girls are strong and adventurous...physically. Not mentally. He wants his daughter to succeed like his sons, even her mom was training to be a scout at one point. That got stopped real quick didn't it...ha. That is what he gets for having relations with one of the trainees. One thing I'll enjoy taking Vallie out for her first mission, she has a tenacity that I have yet to see in a female volunteer."

"I think she will do quite well. Vallie, and Pettal too, both have intuitions about where to go and what the community needs. Even if Pettal can't focus on much outside potential husbands."

"Yeah, that will be interesting. Whoever these hunters are, they know how to prevent the female scouts from coming back after 2 or 3 missions. What time is it?"

"Noon and 15°."

"Shit, I have a mission with Forrest at Noon and 30°. Gotta go, thanks man."

#20 Jet-setting

Definition

To be of the rich and fashionable social set the members of which travel widely for pleasure

Story

Jack was late for this flight again. This would be a moment of frustration and turmoil for most. For jack this was not unusual, at this point in his years of traveling it almost felt familiar. So Jack went up to the counter and spoke to the attendant to get on the next flight. It was less than an hour later than his previous departure. He flew from metropolis to metropolis and international concourse to world capitals and villages. For weeks on end, Jack traveled alone and in peace.

This instance was no different than the last. He had been to Hawaii before and he enjoyed spending his time in LAX people watching. It was amusing people watching to say the least. He sat and wondered about everyone's reason for flying that day. Those wearing oversized sunglasses inside going to movie sets, or at least wanting people to think they were. Those in suits had transcontinental meetings. The rest looked like him wearing light travel clothes traveling for leisure and perhaps with no destination in mind. Some people appeared frantic while others knew how travel worked and took hold of the reigns of LAX and held on tight. It was going to be a bumpy ride.

As Jack sat and waited for them to call this section to board he noticed a young man running down the terminal in quite a hurry. He watched as he was forced to stop by running into gate B17, Jack's gate. He then realized that the young man was dressed as a pilot and didn't look well. He looked flushed and sickly. He was barely 25 years old and greeted by a hesitant, "Hello, how ya feeling?" by the airline staff.

Jack put little thought toward this once he was seated. He knew that pilots flew when they were sick, that's why there are co-pilots, right? He stowed his things and waited. The flight attendants explained the proper safety procedures and precautions. Jack had heard this thousands of times. Then the pilot came over the intercom, probably not the best decision in his condition. He sounded under the weather, but not alarmingly so, just slight coughing as he closed his greeting. And they took off for their journey.

Not long into the flight he looked out the window and saw the vibrant blue of the Pacific Ocean. It was his favorite ocean to travel in or over. He knew all of the creatures that lived in it, he envisioned them going about their lives in the blue in peace. This is how he found serenity on long boring flights. At that moment, as he found his safe space, Jack heard an odd growling erupting from the cockpit. Then screams.

A flight attendant then burst from the front of the cabin bleeding from the neck. Her screaming stopped as she collapsed on the floor. No one moved. No one spoke a word for what seemed a ridiculous amount of time. Then they came for us. All of the passengers soon became a bottle of food for whatever it was that erupted from the cockpit. Jack had never seen anything like it. For the first and only time in his life he saw men and women sacrifice their consciousness for flesh.

All of this transpired faster than Jack could process; the plane started to nose dive. As it plummeted to its fate all of the occupants were thrown to the front of the plane turning a peaceful flight from LA to Hawaii into a soon to be sinking tube of flesh eating monsters and their soon to be decaying food source.

Jack and the other passengers never arrived at the tropical destination. No one ever dared to recover the remainder of the flight. There was no telling what they would've found.