Lightbringer

by K. D. McEntire

  Stripping off the packaging, Wendy turned the calculator in her hands, stunned at the giving weight of it. “I wonder if I need ghostly batteries now,” she joked, pressing the ON button. Slowly, unbelievably, the calculator powered on.

  “Net, it is solar powered,” Piotr said, grinning. “High tech. But which sun to work? Yours or mine?”

  “This is absolutely insane,” Wendy mused, turning the calculator under the light. “I thought there had to be some sort of emotional attachment for an object to pass over.”

  “Emotions help the process, but are not necessary. It is, what is the phrase…a crap shoot? Pass the cardboard please,” Piotr said, holding up a hand until Wendy, still marveling over the gift, threw him the leftover packaging. He held it between his hands a moment, staring darkly down at the remnants, until the packaging wavered, shivered, and faded away.

  “How'd you do that?” Wendy set down the calculator to examine Piotr's hands, turning them over in hers to make sure it wasn't some sort of trick.

  “It takes practice,” he said. “But flimsy things, you can make them—POOF—vanish.” He shrugged. “Keeps the Never clean.”

  “Dead hippies,” Wendy laughed. “Now I've seen everything. But thanks. I bet I can't just throw the packaging away, anyway. It'd go right through the garbage sack.”

  “It was no problem,” he said and then lapsed into silence. They sat together, neither willing to speak, for several minutes, glancing at one another as the silence stretched longer and longer between them.

  Finally Wendy cleared her throat and nervously ran her new barbell against the back of her teeth. “Look, Piotr, I'm sorry that I snapped at you. I've just been extra tired and—”

  Seeming glad that Wendy had made the first move, Piotr waved his free hand. “Bah, Wendy! Go, finish your work. I will wait.”

  She took his hand and squeezed his fingers gratefully. “Thank you.”

  With the new calculator, Wendy was able to finish up her homework in less than fifteen minutes. It turned off as easily as a real calculator and stayed exactly where she put it.

  Hopefully, she thought to herself, I won't look like an absolute idiot using it in class.

  “So,” Piotr said, as she joined him on the bed. “Last night I learned about the vagaries of the Internet. Tonight is your night for questions. What about the Never do you wish to learn? Pick my brain.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything at all.” He relaxed against her pillows. “Go.”

  “Okay.” Wendy curled her fingers in her bedspread. “Well, uh, you did promise to tell me about the Riders.”

  “The Riders?” Piotr smirked. “What is it you wish to know?”

  “Everything.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Ask for something difficult next time?”

  Wendy ducked her head, disappointed. It had taken a lot of nerve to finally work up to this subject, this deep and intricate part of Piotr's life that he constantly hinted about but never outright explained. “We could start with something else, I guess.”

  Shifting in place, Piotr shook his head. “Net, net, this is fine. It's just…it's fine.” He cleared his throat. “The easiest explanation sounds bad, do you understand? But it is a good word to use. The Riders are like a gang. A sort of posse?”

  “A sort of posse.” Wendy raised one eyebrow and settled herself in for the explanation.

  Sighing, Piotr adjusted his angle against her headboard and held his hands up, grasping for an eloquent explanation. “A group. A crew…people.” He sagged. “It is complicated.”

  “It can't be that complicated. You all hang out, right? So what else? Who's the leader? Why do you call yourself Riders? I'm not asking you to solve the mystery of pi here, Piotr, just give me some background on where you go when you're not, you know, here.”

  “You speak…” he smothered a smile. “You are a strange one.”

  “Stalling,” she replied with a wide grin. “Ahem. So, you all hang out, right?”

  “Da,” he laughed. “We ‘hang out.’ Infrequently. Often, though, it is a Rider and a few Lost, like a family, but there are times when we congregate. Now, for example.” He smiled and his gaze was far away. “Once, before Lily and I had our time together, the Lost and Riders for miles around would gather every decade. Take trips together. Lily called these meetings tu'wanasaapi.”

  “Tu'wanasaapi,” Wendy repeated, liking the way the word rolled off her tongue. “Fancy stuff. What was that all about?”

  He shrugged. “It was a meeting of elders, I suppose. A time when we gathered and spoke, shared news and gossiped like old women. Now it would be considered…what was that word you used before? About flower children?”

  “Hippies? New age?”

  “New age! That is right! Our meeting for the tu'wanasaapi would be considered very spiritual; sitting in a circle and centering ourselves.”

  Wendy snorted. “Centering, huh?”

  “You laugh,” he replied seriously. “But many of the Lost were visited by the Light during those meetings. Many souls went on.”

  “I wouldn't dream of laughing at you,” Wendy said, holding up her hands placatingly. “Not when it comes to the Light. That stuff is serious business.” Moody now, Piotr had withdrawn and Wendy didn't want him to be in a huff. “Okay, so that's it then? You all just find a bunch of kids to hang out with—”

  “To protect.”

  “To protect,” she amended, “and then what? You just hang around until all the Lost have entered the Light? What then, do you get a prize? Maybe a cookie?”

  He scowled. “If you cannot take this seriously—”

  “Piotr, come on, please. You know me. I'm sorry. It's just…I don't understand why you guys would throw away your afterlives watching a bunch of kids you're not related to. Don't get me wrong, I think it's awesome; more people should take care of each other that way. But what do you guys get out of it? There has to be something, right?”

  “You are not wrong. There is a reason.” Piotr crossed his arms over his chest and, sliding off the bed, began pacing tight ovals around her room, stepping over Jabber as he paced. “But first, there is something you must grasp: Riders are not common. This may seem strange to you, but teenagers are new. Historically speaking.”

  Slightly annoyed that he was treating her like a child, Wendy rolled her eyes. “Well, duh. In the Middle Ages a girl became a woman as soon as she had her first period. You bleed, you breed, 'nuff said. No spot in between kid and adult.”

  “Exactly!” Momentarily taken aback at her fast understanding, it took a second for Piotr to smile appreciatively at her quick mind. “It was the same thing for boys. There was a rite of manhood—jump a horse, kill a deer and you are a man.” He clapped his hands sharply, trying to explain without words the abrupt nature of the concept.

  “And that ‘Monday you're a kid, Tuesday you're an adult’ idea bled over into the Never?”

  “In a way.” Piotr ceased pacing and knelt near her, the cadence of his words increasing as he warmed to the subject. “To clarify: Lily has been around many centuries. She is fond of saying that, for most people, there is defining moment when they grow up.”

  “Like…?”

  “Your heart is broken for the first time. Or perhaps you learn there is no Easter Bunny. You wake up one morning and decide there's no God. But one day, child; the next, adult. It is like a switch. In your head.”

  Convincing Jabber to slink near with a wiggle of his fingers, Piotr stole a few quick pets off the back of Jabber's head before the cat tired of the attention and hissed, darting away. “Elle calls it the real loss of innocence.”

  “How so?”

  “Once you have had it, there is no returning. A seed of doubt begins to grow. You are corrupted.”

  Wendy could see where he was going, and thoughtfully tapped her tongue ring. “But not for everyone?”

  “Not for all.” He shrugged. “With some people, that switch isn't set to ‘c
hild’ and ‘adult,’ ‘on’ or ‘off.’ There is a period of wonder…a middle space.”

  “Like a gradient?”

  “You understand. These gradient-people, maybe they don't believe in Easter Bunny anymore, but they still believe in the Tooth Fairy. Or their first love burned but they are completely able to trust the next person just as much. They can separate the bad things and not grow cynical. There is still some innocence.” Clasping his hands together, Piotr smiled to himself and rocked back and forth on his toes, getting into the subject now.

  Wendy laughed and Piotr looked at her strangely. “This is funny?”

  “No, it's not that. I was just remembering…when I was a kid, you could just go up to another kid on the playground and say ‘Want to be my friend?’ and play. Within a week, you'd have a new best friend. No worrying if they thought you were weird, you just ran off and had fun.” She grinned. “I can't imagine doing that now.” Wendy leaned back and thought briefly of Eddie. She couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been a part of her life.

  Piotr ran his hands through his hair, pushing the long hanks off his face. “You know this, but many adults pass into the Light with no fuss. Children are the same—most of them go into the Light easily, the remaining become the Lost. But those like me…” Piotr's hands curled into loose fists. “We died when we were in-between child and adult. Those like me become the Riders, the protectors.”

  “Eternally seventeen,” Wendy murmured. “Wow, suck.”

  “It is not so bad.” He winked. “I eternally look this good.”

  Wendy snorted and buried her face into a pillow to keep Jon or Chel from hearing her laughter. Finally, when her chuckles had subsided, she sat up and wiped the tears streaming from her eyes. “Well how many Riders are there, anyway? Just to know what your competition is, understand.”

  He ignored the last. “In all the city? Perhaps ten of us, watching fifty or so Lost. Then there are hundreds if not thousands of Walkers, the White Lady, and now the Lightbringer.” Piotr grimaced. “These challenges that face us…it is difficult to stay upbeat these days. Even together we are outnumbered.”

  Slowly, wanting to make sure she had all her facts straight, Wendy turned the conversation away from the Lightbringer and toward the Lost. This was a conversation she'd always wanted to have with her mother, but it had never been the right time. Piotr was filling some rather large holes in her knowledge. “If they need protection so badly, how can the Lost exist so long? Especially with the Walkers hunting them?”

  Piotr gave her a look that said come on, you're smarter than that. “They died with much life ahead of them. The unused years sustain them, give them strength. And should they choose to share some of this life, to strengthen the will to keep going…”

  “Share…oh!” Wendy understood. “You guys take care of the Lost and they take care of you. Quid pro quo.”

  Smiling crookedly, Piotr shrugged. “As I have said before, protecting the Lost has its benefits. Shaking hands in greeting will tide an older ghost over for weeks. It is a contact high. It's why the Walkers need them to exist. That energy, that will to keep going on, is what stops the Walkers from fading away. Even those completely rotten from within.” He frowned. “I tire of this subject. It is distasteful. I don't wish to discuss this anymore.”

  “Okay.” Wendy stretched out beside him and Piotr, face grave, absently took her hand. Feverish and excited after learning so much about the world she brushed only peripherally, Wendy welcomed the electric chill of his touch. It soothed her and, despite his attempt to hide it, she noted his initial wince quickly smoothed away.

  “Still burns, huh?”

  “Always a little,” he murmured, running his thumb over her knuckles. “The calm surety of you is enough to make the pain worthwhile.”

  “Why do you think this is?” Without releasing his hand, Wendy indicated their joined fingers. “I mean, there's got to be some reason, right?”

  “I do not know.” Stretching, Piotr laid beside her, still holding her, and wrapped his other hand around their joined fists so that he was cupping her hand in his. His eyes strayed to the intricate Celtic knots tattooed across her collarbone and he winced, glancing away. “I wish I could describe what it is like.”

  “You could try.”

  Piotr's lips quirked. “I would fail. This is…this is different. It hurts, but it's not insistent. When I touch you everything is brighter. The grey isn't so grey.” Absently Piotr ran his thumb over the base of her thumb, tracing the line there. “What's it like for you?”

  Sleepily, Wendy yawned. She could never explain it, the comfort she got when she and Piotr lay on her bed and held hands like this, how the electric chill subsided into soothing, numbing cool. She was thrilled by the paradox of his touch, since holding his hand inevitably sent her to sleep before long. With the White Lady regularly haunting her dreams, Wendy knew she needed every second of sleep she could get.

  Adjusting until she was comfortable, Wendy curled on her side and switched hands, letting Piotr caress her other hand so she could tuck her arm under her head. “It's nice,” she murmured, eyes slowly closing. “I need to turn off the light.”

  “It's not harming anything,” he said. “Stay.”

  “Mmm,” she sighed and nodded, sinking deeper into her bed as tightly wound muscles relaxed and her light breathing finally steadied, slowed as she drifted towards sleep. “Okay.”

  “So this is just ‘nice’ then?” Piotr's voice was low, almost indistinguishable from the steady rush of blood in her veins, the soft whoosh of her own breath. She could have dreamed it; could have imagined the soft, cool press of his fingertips brushing along her cheekbone, the gentle feathering of his hair against her forehead as his lips faintly followed the line his fingers had taken. He was a perfect gentleman.

  “Piotr?” she murmured, nearly asleep, not wholly conscious. “Stay?”

  “Net, Wendy, dorogaya. Not tonight,” he replied, as he had done every night for the past month, disentangling his hands from hers. She heard the real regret in Piotr's tone, the subtle desire to heed her wishes indicated only by a slight thickening of his accent. Piotr, she knew, rarely showed regret. “Not tonight,” he repeated, “but someday.”

  On the edge of dreams, Wendy frowned. “Spoilsport.”

  The last thing she heard as she drifted into dreams was his laughter as he slid through the door and walked away.

  In her dreams Wendy walked and walked.

  This time she found herself not at the beach or the park but standing in the woods outside the house of her first reap. The house had begun to fall apart, the back porch spongy with rot, the lawn overgrown with grass and weeds that brushed Wendy mid-thigh. Wendy drifted closer to the house, running tentative fingers over the rusted legs of the swingset, and wondered why her dream had brought her here.

  “Maybe it wasn't your mind that brought you,” said the White Lady, stepping through the shattered patio door of the house. “Ability to blast ghosts into the afterlife notwithstanding, you don't rule the dreamspace, you know.”

  “You again.” Wendy scowled, eyeing the backyard for potential Walker hiding spots. “Didn't I tell you that I wasn't going to call a truce?”

  “I remember.” She looked around the porch and tsked. “This place used to be so nice.”

  “Right,” Wendy drawled. “I'm sure you even have a clue where this place is in real life.”

  “Near Middlefield and San Antonio Road,” the White Lady rapped out. “Though, in the living world, I'm told those trees were torn down some time ago. Not that I'd know. I haven't been back here in a while.” She rested one hand on the porch rail.

  “What, did you live out here?” Wendy rolled her eyes. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “‘When we are dreaming alone it is only a dream. When we are dreaming with others, it is the beginning of reality.’ Camara. Not quite apt for this discussion, but close enough for government work, I suppose.”

  “
You're talking crazy again. Or are you just trying to creep me out again or something?”

  “I've found that ‘creeping you out’ is rarely worth the bother unless I want to make a point. Much to my chagrin, I see that quite clearly now. I shouldn't have bothered trying to scare you the last time we spoke. All that effort for nothing.” The White Lady squeezed and the railing beneath her hand disintegrated.

  “Why are you even bothering with me? I mean, come on. I know you're dead and all, but don't you have some sort of life?”

  “Let's say that I have a habit of following the antics of your kind and keeping an eye on their whereabouts. It's good policy, after all, to know what your enemy is up to.” The White Lady touched her throat with one hand, plucking at her stitches. “Your sort is a big deal here. You're like Bigfoot, but real.” She chuckled. “You don't think about the effect what you do has on the Never, do you? How large an impact you make? Or how the Never affects the real world.”

  “I was taught that the Never can't influence the living,” Wendy said. “The whole lot of you are just ghosts.”

  The White Lady chuckled. “Just ghosts. That's rich.” She pointed to the swingset. “Do you remember the woman you reaped here? What was she doing when you found her?”

  Wendy stiffened. “How did you know about that?”

  “Answer the question. What was she doing?”

  Shrugging, Wendy glanced at the swingset. “Pushing her granddaughter on the swing.” She stopped. “Wait, that can't be right. She was dead. That can't happen.” Wendy chewed her lower lip and tried to remember more about that day. Surely she'd imagined the old woman pushing the girl. To think otherwise was to start entertaining ideas she wasn't prepared to handle, especially without her mother to answer the questions that were bullying their way to the forefront of Wendy's mind. “Can it?”

  “You tell me.” The White Lady sounded as if she were smirking, but the heavy shadow of her cloak hid her face. She gestured back toward the house. “Don't you ever wonder what happened to the mother of that little girl? What sort of mother would leave her child to an abusive stepfather and a sick grandmother? Especially after that grandmother had kicked the bucket?”