by Bre Hall
“It’s alright,” she whispered in his ear.
She reached her free arm up to the window to help her little sister Katherine jump down. She glanced into the back yard, where the rows of cotton began, where dark figures moved beneath the moonlight, firing their guns. A flash of blue shone close. That’s when she noticed the rifle lifting. When she heard the shot. Felt an explosion of pain in her stomach.
With Cyrus still in her arms, she collapsed to the ground and gasped. Cyrus began to wail over her. His fingers sunk into her cheeks. A chill colder than she’d ever felt before washed over her. She shivered, her teeth chattering. She inhaled, but took on no oxygen. With each passing second, Cyrus’ cries grew fainter. Katherine appeared. Mama. They said something, but she couldn’t hear. She couldn’t feel her mother’s tears drip onto her face. Her world became a candle at the end of its life.
She blinked.
Billy hovered over her.
Was he real? Had he ever been? She reached out for him, the last of her energy curling her fingers into his greasy locks of hair.
Everything blurred like smoke. Her family nothing but boxy shapes. Her house a dull, orange glow quivering behind them. She felt the pull of the chasm. The draw of a different life wrap itself around her. She closed her eyes. Then came the freefall and the kaleidoscope of technicolor light and she felt less and less like Charlotte and more and more like Ren.
When the colors faded and the sensation of falling ceased, she adjusted the vision in her good eye. She was staring at squiggles of russet-colored water stains on the ceiling. It seemed as though she had fallen over during the vision, but she could not feel the floor. She could hardly feel anything at all.
“Holy shit,” Peter said.
She lifted her head to look at him. That’s when she realized why she couldn’t feel the floor. She was lying flat, sure, but three feet off the ground. Her heartbeat quickened. Her skin tingled. It was like she was—
“You’re levitating,” Peter said, striding toward her.
She could feel her pulse in her temples, slapping against her wrist. Left over adrenaline from when she was trapped in Charlotte’s body had everything moving a million miles per hour.
“Why?” she asked, looking all around. For wires Peter could have attached while she was lost in the past. For anything that could rationally explain the fact that she was levitating. Levitating. What the—“Why the hell am I levitating?”
“What did you last see?” Peter asked. “In the regression.”
“Why are you so calm?” Ren asked. “Don’t you see me?”
“Ren,” Peter held a hand up as if to silence her. “Just tell me what you saw last.”
“Um,” she said, her eyes blinking rapidly. “Everything was on fire, I—Charlotte, I mean, was pulling her little brother out of the house, and then—”
“Yes?” Peter squatted down close to her, so that his nose was near her cheek. She strained to see him with her good eye.
“The soldier. The gunshot. I think…” She trailed off, a sudden pain in her ribcage taking her back to that moment. Breathing in the smoke. Hearing the far-off cries of guests fleeing the party. The gun went off again in her mind and she flinched. Just like that she crashed to the floor, smacking her head on the dusty linoleum.
Peter slid a hand under her neck—his touch was warm—and helped her sit upright. A curl fell over his dark eyes as he stared at her. He didn’t bother to move it.
“What do you think, Ren?” he asked.
She rubbed the back of her head. “I think I just experienced Charlotte’s death.”
Peter stood up slowly and walked to the corner of the kitchen. He pulled a cigarette out of his fancy case and lit it. He walked to the sink. Turned the water on, then off, filling nothing but the metal basin.
“What?” she asked as she pulled herself to her feet with the help of a chair. “What is it? You’re acting funny.”
“It worked,” Peter whispered.
“What did?”
“Levitation. It was one of Samara’s strongest abilities.” Peter kept his back to her. She could just make out his faint reflection in the window pane. His mouth twisted into a sly smile. “It’s no coincidence your power surfaced right after you experienced Charlotte’s death.”
“It’s not?”
“Your soul is weaving itself back together.” Peter swung around. Closed the space between them in a single stride. He stood over her, his eyes growing wide with satisfaction. “Our experiments are working.”
chapter
10
REN CLIMBED ONTO HER BIKE outside of the Johnson place. The paint-stripped slats of the dilapidated two-story creaked loudly in the wind that blew constantly in Kansas. If there wasn’t at least a light breeze rustling across the flat land, people would start acting as if the world was ending. A windless day meant the calm before the storm. People would fill jugs of water, stock cellars with nonperishables, and clean shot guns. But then, the wind would return and everything would go back to its normal, boring self.
Ren was about to pedal away from the old house when the door swung open. Peter stepped out, zipping up his canvas jacket.
“What now?” she asked. “Did you forget to send homework with me, teacher?”
Peter chuckled. “I’m going to walk you home.”
“I can get there by myself, thank you very much,” she said.
“I’d feel more comfortable if I accompanied you.”
“I’m faster on my bike than on foot,” she said. “I need to get home before Meredith does and perfect my story in case she finds out I skipped school today.”
“Who’s Meredith?”
“The wicked stepmother,” she grumbled. “She’s always poking her nose into my business.”
“Oh,” he said.
She started to pedal over the tall grass of the lawn, but when she turned back to shout goodbye, Peter had vanished. Like he had never been there at all. She turned back around and immediately slammed on the brakes. Peter was right in front of her. Blocking her path. She nearly flew over the handlebars trying not to hit him.
“What the hell,” she said, clasping a hand over her pounding chest. “You scared me.”
“When I said I’d walk you home,” his lips pressed together so hard they turned white, “I meant it.”
“You don’t have to. Really.”
Peter latched onto her handlebars. He grasped her bike the way Kindergarteners cling to loops attached to one, long rope, as if the moment they let go, the link to the rest of the world will be lost to them forever. He made a wide gesture to the driveway with his free arm. “Lead the way.”
“Don’t you have wings?” She craned her neck and nodded to Peter’s back. “Can’t you just whip them out and rocket me home in a flash?”
“But it’s such a nice day for a walk,” Peter said, looking up at the sharp blue sky. He stretched his arms wide, catching the sun rays on his palms, on the fabric of his canvas jacket.
“How about I pedal us both on my bike?”
“Where would I sit?”
“The book rack,” Ren said, jabbing a thumb to the flat metal strip on the back.
Peter eyed the narrow plank of metal. “I don’t think so.”
She thought of Alfie calling it the sissy seat. Boys. She rolled her eyes. “Fine, you can pedal, if it’d make you feel better?”
“I can’t ride a bike,” Peter said.
“No, shit?” She’d never met anyone her age who didn’t know how to ride a bike. There were only a few things worth living for when you were a kid living in small-town Kansas: Learning to ride a bike, getting your driver’s license, and turning eighteen. With eighteen a couple of years away and her blind eye making her fail every driving test she ever took, she was glad, at least, she could pedal her cruiser around town. “How come you never learned?”
“If you could move faster than light, would you ever learn how to pedal a hunk of metal screwed onto two, thin tires?” Pe
ter asked.
“Faster than light, huh?” she asked, thinking of a stream of wind rushing over her hair, her skin sizzling as they flew. “That’d be fun to experience.”
“No,” Peter said.
“But we have to beat Meredith,” she said, her voice edging on little-girl-whiny.
“I move so quickly, humans cannot survive the journey for longer than a few seconds,” Peter said.
“I’m not human.”
“You’re still mostly human,” Peter said.
“It can’t be that bad,” she said.
“Would you like for your lungs to shrivel into raisins? Or your skin to strip off your muscles?” Peter asked.
“Gross. I get it,” she said, twisting up her face. “No wings. But if you won’t ride my bike, then I’m afraid I’ll have to go alone to get home in time.”
“I’m sure a good, country girl like you knows a short cut,” Peter said.
“Good, country girl?” Her voice was flat. “Seriously? Look, I might live on a farm and go to school with a bunch of hillbillies, but that doesn’t mean I am one.”
“If you say so.”
“I’m not. I don’t even like country music,” she said. “Can’t stand the stuff if I’m honest. Makes me want to throw up in my mouth and swallow it back down.”
“You’re wasting time.”
He really wasn’t going to budge, was he? Her jaw clenched and she climbed off the bike. “Fine, but if we get shot at by deranged farmers, I’m blaming you.”
“I think we’ll be okay,” Peter said. He winked.
Her heart puttered. She looked away from him, her good eye tracking a beetle as it trekked over the gravel drive, unaware of how easily it would be for her to lift her shoe and stamp.
She led Peter through the shelter belt on the other side of the Johnson house, across the bridge, and onto the river bank. The water twisted a few yards below a steep embankment, formed from soil eroding away from the fields that butted up against the current. Ren walked along the edge, rolling her bike between her and Peter.
“I’ve got a question for you,” she said. “If you’re part of an ancient race that can only be killed one way, how old does that make you exactly?”
Peter shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“How do you not know?”
“Lost count.”
“Well, what was the last count you remember?” she asked.
“It was somewhere in the millions,” he said.
“Okay, Grandpa,” she teased.
“Age is just a construct,” Peter said. “When you’re practically immortal, why should something like that matter?”
“I see your point,” she said. “So, I guess, asking how old I am is useless?”
“You’re older than time,” Peter said. “Is that good enough?”
“Sure,” she said.
Peter pulled a cigarette from the vintage case he’d pulled out of his pocket and lit it.
“Can I try?” Ren held out her hand.
“How old are you?
“I thought age was a construct?” she asked. “Besides, we’re in the middle of nowhere. Who’s going to see?”
Peter took a drag, flicked the butt of the cigarette once, ash raining over the dirt, and passed it to her. “You tried one before?”
“Of course, I’m a rebel.” She encircled her lips over the filter, filled her mouth with the stuff, and blew it back into the air through pinched lips.
“You’re supposed to inhale it,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
“Sure you do, rebel.”
She steeled herself and tried the cigarette again, this time inhaling deeply. The weight of the smoke moved through her like thick peanut butter. Thick peanut butter with a thousand nails stirred through it. She started to cough.
“Here.” Peter reached for the cigarette, but she pulled it away from him.
“One last time,” she said and took another drag. Everything burned again, but that time she was expecting it. She held it in for a second, then shot the smoke through her lips. It entered the air in a cool, white stream. She handed the cigarette back to Peter.
“You know cigarettes can kill you,” she said.
“Says the girl who was just smoking one.”
“I took three puffs,” she said. “You smoke all the time.”
“Cigarettes won’t kill me,” he said.
“What can kill you?” she asked.
“It’s a secret,” Peter whispered. He put a finger to his lips and winked again. He needed to stop doing that. It was cheesy and every time it happened, it caught ahold of Ren’s breath, trapped it for one second, two, then came out all strangled on the other side.
“Oh, come on, don’t you trust me?”
Peter shook his head. “Some other time.”
“So, you don’t trust me, do you?” she asked.
“What river is this?” Peter nodded to the slow-moving current.
“The Arkansas,” she said. “Come on. Tell me.”
“Why is it so brown?”
“I get it.” She sighed. “You’re afraid I’ll kill you in your sleep if I find out. Fine. That’s just fine. Don’t tell me.”
The steep bank along the river gradually began to lessen and a half-mile closer to Ren’s house, they could finally walk on the sand spits that kissed the water’s edge. In springtime it was impossible to walk that close to the river. The whole thing was flooded by April storms. Then, summer blasted in with its squelching heat and dried up most of the water, leaving perfect places to walk along its murky current.
“Were we ever friends?” she asked. “In one of my past lives?”
“I guess,” he said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Sure. In a few lifetimes we knew each other. We were acquaintances.”
“But not friends?”
“I tried to keep my distance,” Peter said. He stepped around the bike and Ren and bent down to pick up a flat stone. He flicked it out into the middle of the river. It skipped once, twice, three times, rattled in place for a half second, and then was swallowed whole by the current.
“Why?”
“After the war, everything was chaotic,” he said, sending another stone to a watery end. “Humans began to rise up in droves, building civilization and monarchy. They set out to explore every inch of the globe. Drustan had receded into the shadows once again and the Rogue Auxilium were losing whatever foothold they had on the planet. They began to argue amongst themselves about what to do. Some wanted to control the humans, others wanted to leave them alone, while others still desired to help them from the fringes as always. The few of us loyal to Samara and the Discentem clung to the idea of resurrecting your kind. Bringing you back to set the world right. So, I learned to watch for the signs of your dark soul on the move. The whispers of Samara left behind. I followed you when I could, from lifetime to lifetime, waiting for an idea on how to bring you back, and then for the right time to bring you back.”
“Have you tried your experiments before?” she asked, stuttering forward. Peter jumped over a shallow pool that stood between them and caught back up to her in a single bound. She kept her eye fixed on the next bend in the river, not wanting him to think she was impressed by his leap.
“Yes, I’ve tried them before,” Peter said, walking so close his shoulder brushed against hers with every other step.
“Did it ever work?”
“Once, you were killed before I could get you to touch a relic,” he said. “Another time, your body wasn’t strong enough to regress. It was like starting a car with a dead battery.”
“Why do you think it worked this time?” she asked.
“I’m not positive,” he said, “but I think it has something to do with your mind, your personality. You’re very strong-willed, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“I did,” she said proudly.
“And a little bit fearless.”
A blush
moved through her cheeks. She had to bite the inside her lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. She liked that Peter noticed that about her. That he had so much stock in her. It made her feel important, and in a town like Wynn, where nothing interesting ever happened to anyone, it was nice to feel that way.
“Who have I been in the past?” she asked. “Anyone famous or important?”
“You were the son of a tribal chief in the South Pacific,” Peter said. “That was long before the world knew about your people, though.”
“Son?” she asked. “You mean, I haven’t always been a girl?”
Peter playfully bumped her shoulder with his. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“No,” she said.
“Usually,” he said. “You are a girl. I think it has something to do with your original form. You were female then.”
“What was Samara like?”
“You were the most powerful being to ever walk the planet,” he said. “The most beautiful and wise, too. Fierce. I see a lot of Samara in you.”
“Samara.” Her mouth moved slowly over the word. “It’s kind of a funny name. I was expecting some old lady name like Ethel or Dolores.”
“Those names are probably only a hundred years old,” Peter said. “You’re older than time, remember?”
“Is Peter your real name, then?” she asked.
“It’s been my name for a few millennia now, yes,” he said. “But originally, I went by Petros.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Weird.”
“It’s Latin,” he said defensively. “It means stone.”
“I’ll stick to calling you Peter,” she said.
“I’d appreciate it.”
The river bent and curled through fields and tracts of woods before eventually flowing beneath the bridge close to her house. A blue ‘R’ and ‘A’ were still spray-painted on one of the pillars from the time Ren and Alfie decided to leave their mark one weekend in seventh grade.
They cut up the bank, steep beneath the bridge. It was populated with vines and fallen tree limbs and shrubs. Breathing hard, Ren rolled her bike through it all, the chain rattling over the flora. She could feel Peter’s eyes on her back. She tried to keep the pace quick so he wouldn’t have time to ask if he should take the bike instead. The last thing she wanted was him to think her weak. She wasn’t. She was like Samara. Strong.
