by Sylvan Scott
Interstate 90 raced beneath the U-Haul’s tires with Illinois growing nearer. Five hours into the commute, Anthony was anything but bored. Wiste kept him entertained.
“You never told me how fast your people go,” he said. He wasn’t wearing his mask. From where he sat in the passenger seat of the truck, few people would notice his curving horns and no one could see his goat’s legs. “You travel as fast as the birds through the sky!”
“That shouldn’t be so surprising to you. We’ve both flown on sparrows as mounts,” Anthony reminded him. “Remember?”
“Those were kestrels.” Wiste snorted. “We’d been shrunk, and ‘The Underbrush Wars’ were hardly ‘fun’. Besides, this is travel through a whole, new world! You move so quickly and yet still have so much to see. It’s amazing!”
“I guess I’d not thought of it that way before.”
They paused at a rest stop near Madison to stretch their legs and eat the sandwiches Anthony had packed. Wiste got to use his mask. He put it up to his face, tied its black ribbons behind his head, inserted a tiny key, and wound it up. It chattered gently at first before erupting outwards in magical expansion, tiling itself over the satyr to change his appearance. While he still possessed tall, curving horns and thick, shaggy legs ending in hooves, the mask covered those things up with wafer-thin panels and convincing illusions. The mask would eventually wind down but for the hour-or-so it was active, Wiste could mingle freely, ask embarrassingly naive questions about the world, and pass himself off as human.
Anthony loved it.
Through Wiste’s eyes, things like asphalt and planes and plastic and cars were as magical as talking foxes and enchanted cauldrons.
By the time they got back on the road and passed Rockford, Anthony felt as alive as he did walking the paths of NeverEarth. A few hours later, he pulled up to his parents large, red brick home. His father was in the front yard trimming the pear tree. Anthony honked the horn and waved. Wiste had already wound up his mask.
“Hey there, Dad!” He swung down from the truck’s cab and greeted his father. His Dad shook his hand and then, awkwardly, hugged him. Wiste walked up.
Anthony’s father smiled but looked slightly off-guard.
“Dad? This is Wiste; Wiste, this is my father.”
“An honor to finally meet you, Mr. Delleroe,” Wiste said, hand extended. “Tony speaks of his family all the time.”
Anthony’s father took Wiste’s hand. “Good to meet you; any friend of Anthony’s—”
“Anthony!”
His mother barrelled out of the house in the wake of her call. Anthony’s mother was rarely effusive but acted like he’d been raised from the dead whenever he came home from school. Smiling ear to ear, the broad-shouldered woman bore down on him and whisked him up in her arms.
“Yep; great to be home,” he gasped.
After a kiss and long hug, his mother noticed Wiste. “Oh, and, uh, this is...?”
“Mom, this is Wiste; a friend from college.”
“Wiste? That’s a curious name.”
“Is that Ukranian or Russian or something?” his father asked.
“Greek,” Anthony answered.
“I’m headed further East,” Wiste said, repeating the story they’d concocted, “and caught a lift this far.”
“I hope you don’t mind, Mom. I figured he could stay in one of the guest rooms for a few days.”
A flash of relief crossed his parents’ faces.
“Don’t see why not. Your sister won’t be back from her duty station in Germany until next week. I don’t think anyone would mind a full house for a few days.”
Anthony’s mother nodded. “So, you’re not Karl, then,” she said as if making certain she’d heard the name correctly.
“Oh, no; Karl’s Anthony’s boyfriend,” Wiste said plainly. “I’m just a friend.”
“He’s my friend, Mom.” Anthony blushed. “My straight friend...”
Wiste looked at him. “‘Straight’?”
Before Anthony could clarify, his father clapped Wiste on one shoulder and started guiding him to the front door. “Well, let’s get you boys settled. What say we hit the Berkshire, tonight, for a celebratory steak dinner?”
“Sounds great, Dad.”
They retrieved their bags from the car and went inside.
Anthony unpacked immersed beneath a wave of nostalgia. He ran his fingers over the carved notches on his closet door’s frame. Each represented a different adventure he’d had in NeverEarth; a different visit he normally couldn’t recall. He shook his head and smiled at the memories.
Reminded by his reflections, he reached up to the tiny ridge above the door and felt around for the small watch box he’d hid there. It had originally contained a gift from his father: his first real watch when he was eight. It was still where he’d left it. He took it down and held it in his hands. It was black cardboard but made to look like leather. Gently, he opened it.
He frowned: the box was empty.
The locket—the clockwork changeling—was gone.
