by Rob Scott
‘Oh sure, of course, drag me off to prison as well, why don’t you? It’ll be a great opportunity for me to brush up on my spirituals while I’m bashing rocks on a chain-gang with you.’ Mark turned into the pizza restaurant with Steven close behind.
Waiting at the take-out counter, Mark asked, ‘How did you deal with the security camera?’
‘I made a point of finishing my paperwork before Howard left. That way, I could start mopping and dusting the lobby while he was still there. Tomorrow, his security tapes will show me entering Chapman’s old safe with a bucket and a dust rag.’ The pizza arrived and as Steven paid for it with his credit card, he told Mark, ‘Don’t let me forget to write this cheque tonight.’
‘What? Your Visa bill?’
‘Yeah, I can finally get it to zero. I want to send the cheque first thing tomorrow – no, to be sure I’ll put it in the box tonight. I’ll sleep better knowing it’s already on its way.’
Mark shrugged. ‘Congratulations. And I’m thrilled you decided to celebrate by robbing your own bank.’
‘Are you going to be able to lay off that any time soon?’
‘Probably not, but if I do, I’ll let you know.’
Later that evening, the pizza eaten and the kitchen littered with peanut shells and beer cans, Steven and Mark slumped in their living room with Steven’s unopened briefcase on the floor between them. Mark yawned and stretched. ‘Well, let’s open it.’
‘All right.’ Steven lifted the briefcase to the coffee table near the sofa and opened it. ‘Here they are.’ He reached into one side of the bag and pulled out a wooden box.
‘That’s rosewood,’ Mark observed, leaning forward in his chair and reaching for the box. ‘It certainly isn’t native to these hills.’
‘No,’ Steven answered, ‘and I don’t suppose this cylinder is either.’ He held a long cylindrical container aloft for a moment, then placed it on the table. ‘I can’t explain it, but this one makes me feel strange, almost like it wanted me to open the drawer.’ He chose his words carefully as he continued, ‘Like it wants me to open it now.’
‘I think you’ve had one too many.’ Mark came across the room to examine the cylinder. ‘Sheez, it’s heavy,’ he said, surprised, then, looking strangely at Steven, added, ‘You know, you may be getting me a little spooked here, too, because it does feel odd. It’s like I’m compelled to see what’s inside.’ He sat on the edge of the sofa and sighed. ‘Well, there’s no point robbing the bank for nothing. Let’s go.’
Steven reached first for the rosewood box. It was a six-inch cube, with twin gold latches holding the top in place. Looking closely at the hinges, Steven feared he would have to pry them apart, but when he pulled on one, it opened smoothly. He felt his heart race and wiped his hands on his jeans before tugging gently on the lid, holding his breath as he did. It also opened easily, as if it had been oiled every month for the last century. Inside was a piece of velvet-like material over padding, protecting what looked like A rock. An ordinary piece of rock.
‘What is it?’ Mark asked.
‘My best guess,’ Steven said as he reached into the box and removed the stone, ‘is that it’s a rock.’
Mark laughed and said sarcastically, ‘No, officer we left all the cash, but couldn’t part with this rock. Oh, sure, we have a whole bunch out in the yard, but look at this one, a dead miner chose this one.’
‘Knock it off,’ Steven said, irritated. ‘What do we know about geology? This might be an enormous hunk of something really valuable.’
‘Sure,’ Mark answered, ‘and it might be a rock. Haven’t you heard of mercury poisoning? Some of those miners were flat-out bozo. I think one of them came into your bank to give a permanent resting place to his favourite rock, Betsy.’ Despite his sarcasm, Mark could not deny that a curious sensation began to creep along his spine. He looked again at the stone before turning his attention back to his roommate.
‘Well, let’s open the cylinder. Maybe there’s something more exciting in there.’
Steven’s hopes were renewed when he picked up the container and began unscrewing the cap. With his first turn, the mood in the room changed. Something was happening. The cylinder hummed with an energy all its own; the air shimmered, almost as if an industrial-sized humidifier were pumping invisible steam into their living room. Mark’s expression was impenetrable, a grim mask of determination, while Steven’s was guilty, like an eight-year-old who’s regretting stealing a few penny candies. ‘I’m closing it,’ he announced suddenly.
‘No. It’s okay.’ Mark moved a little nearer. Steven changed his mind and continued unscrewing the cap. With each turn, the energy level in the room increased. Mark, uncomfortable, looked for something to do with his hands.
‘I’m afraid to touch anything, it’s like there’s static electricity everywhere.’ The room shimmered and Mark was certain he saw various objects, the fireplace tools, a paper plate with a floral print and a bright silver beer can, moving in and out of focus. ‘It must be something radioactive. I don’t understand it. It’s-’
‘No,’ Steven interrupted, ‘it’s cloth. It’s some sort of strange cloth. Move the coffee table. We’ll unroll it on the floor in front of the fireplace.’ Mark hastily pushed the coffee table against their sofa, then, a little nervously, backed himself across the room to stand on the hearthstone. In the kitchen the telephone rang, but both men ignored it, transfixed by the strange piece of rolled material. Steven knelt down and began spreading the cloth. ‘Look at this, it unfolds lengthwise as well.’
‘Go ahead,’ Mark encouraged, although he didn’t sound completely convinced this was a good idea. His arms were held tightly against his chest, his hands clenched into fists and tucked under his chin. He looked as though he might, at any moment, claw his way up the chimney to safety.
Steven unfolded the long rectangular cloth. It was about ten feet wide.
‘Look at that,’ Mark said in awe as green and yellow flecks of light danced in the air above the tapestry, like fireflies on a humid summer evening.
‘It doesn’t hurt to touch it or be near it,’ Steven said, bewildered, ‘but it must be electric, or maybe radioactive, like you said. It’s really changing the atmosphere in here. Is that smell ozone?’
‘Uh, yeah.’ Now Mark was frightened. ‘We need to call someone. This guy must have come across some plutonium or radium in a mine up there. It might even be in that rock. Maybe over time it worked its way into the fabric of this thing.’
‘I can’t believe how large it is,’ Steven mused. ‘How the hell did it fit in that small container?’ He unfolded the last corner of the tapestry and let it fall from his hand to the hardwood floor. ‘What do you suppose these designs are?’ he asked, considering the series of strange figures and shapes arranged across the expanse of cloth.
‘I have no idea,’ Mark answered. ‘A lot of Asians helped open the west. Maybe this is some sort of Asian scroll, some art form.’
‘I don’t know. They don’t look like Asian characters to me. Look at that one near your foot.’ Steven pointed. ‘Is that a tree?’
‘Tree? Wait a minute-’ Mark cut their analysis short. ‘Steven, if that thing is radioactive, we’re dying, right now. We need to get out of here.’
Steven paused, his mind racing to come up with some way to avoid getting fired for breaking into the safe deposit box. ‘You’re right. Let’s go. We’ll head down to Owen’s and call the School of Mines or the police or someone.’ He started to back away. ‘C’mon, but you’d better not step on it.’
‘Right, right, let’s go.’ Mark started moving around the edge of the tapestry. ‘Grab my coat. It’s on the back of the chair in the hall.’
Steven went to retrieve Mark’s jacket and grab his wallet from the table in the kitchen. When he returned, his roommate was gone.
THE RONAN COAST
Mark’s legs failed and he fell to his knees. Struggling to stand, he found he was outside; the ground was soft, wet sand, givin
g somewhat under his weight.
‘What the hell is this?’ he heard himself ask, but he found little comfort in the flat sound of his own voice. ‘No. This isn’t right. This can’t be right. Where am I? How did I get outside?’ Disoriented, he tried to calm down as he slowly turned a full circle, taking in his surroundings. He was surprised at how bright the night was. He was standing ankle-deep in wet sand on the edge of a small stream that emptied into what appeared to be an ocean.
‘This can’t be.’ He took several deep breaths, then told himself, ‘Wait. Don’t think yet, just look around. This will all make sense when I calm down. Just slow down.’
Feeling the steady motion of cool water against his ankles, soaking down into his boots, Mark began slowly to relax. ‘It has to be the pizza. Maybe I had some bad mushrooms or old cheese or something: this is all a hallucination.’ Finding solace in that possibility, he continued to talk out loud. ‘Wait it out. Just like a bad drunk, just wait it out.’
He stepped from the edge of the stream and wandered out onto the beach. ‘It’s okay, I guess,’ he said, breathing the salty air and feeling a strong breeze blowing in off the water. ‘If I have to be stuck in a delusion, at least this isn’t too bad.’
His dream beach was much warmer than Idaho Springs. Mark pulled off his sweater, then sat down heavily. He dragged his heels back and forth, digging two parallel ruts in the sand, finding the repetitive motion comforting. He lay back and rested his head on the gritty pillow behind him, closing his eyes. The wind from the incoming tide, a sense of something familiar, helped him to relax, and he breathed deeply, remembering long days at the beach when he was young. His parents would load him and his sister into a behemoth Country Squire station wagon and drive out to Jones Beach. While he dragged an array of plastic toys in a brightly coloured bucket, his mother hauled a lunch basket and what seemed like several dozen towels and blankets across the burning sand. His father, looking taller in a swimsuit, always carried a cooler filled with cold beer in one hand and a large yellow beach umbrella, perhaps ten feet in diameter, slung over his opposite shoulder. Together, they would find a spot among a vast sea of colourful beach umbrellas, run up the yellow giant as if to claim a ten-by-ten foot spot of beachfront for a pastel kingdom and begin settling in as though the beach were nothing more than a guest room at Aunt Jenny’s.
Within minutes, every inch of carefully placed blanket or towel would be covered with a light dusting of sand, not enough to merit a complete dismantling of the beach apparatus, but enough to irk his parents, to creep into his sister’s diapers and to add a pleasant grit to everything eaten that afternoon. Mark smiled at the memory until reality crept into his reverie. ‘No!’ he exclaimed, sitting up. ‘This isn’t real. I’m sick. I ate something. I have to wake up now.’ Squeezing handfuls of sand between his fingers, he remembered the large cloth tapestry Steven unrolled on their floor. ‘It‘s got to have something to do with that thing.’
He pulled off his boots and socks and walked towards the water, muttering, ‘If that really was radiation, I might be dead already.’ He rolled up his jeans and stepped into the surf. ‘No, I can’t be dead. If I were dead, I wouldn’t care if I got wet.’ Mark leaned down to taste the ocean water. It was more briny than Long Island Sound. Still feeling the effects of that evening’s beer consumption, he wiped a sleeve across his brow. ‘Sheez, I hope I’m not dead. I’d hate to be half-hammered for eternity.’
Resigning himself to the fact that time would tell what had happened to him, Mark Jenkins began wandering along the beach, his feet ankle-deep in the frothy shallows.
Rounding a point that jutted out from the forest behind him, he stopped suddenly. Just above the horizon was the answer to why the evening was so bright: two moons hung silently in the night sky, like twin eyes of a vigilant sea god. ‘Two moons,’ he mused softly, then cried out, ‘Steven! What was that thing?’ His heart began to race and, feeling dizzy, he knelt in the sand and started repeating, over and over, ‘It can’t be… it can’t be,’ like a mantra.
Then, slowly, as if the truth might dash his hopes for a simple answer, Mark turned his gaze skywards. The constellations were different; he didn’t recognise a single star arrangement.
This was no hallucination; he hadn’t been poisoned and he wasn’t dead.
But no answers presented themselves. He sat down in the sand, his knees pulled up tightly against his chest despite the warm and humid evening.
‘Mark?’ Steven called down the back hall, ‘are you in the bathroom?’ There was no response. The bathroom door was open and the light switched off. There was no way his friend could have gone upstairs; he would have passed through the kitchen, where Steven was.
‘He must be outside already,’ Steven said to himself, hurrying back through the hall and shouting ‘Mark!’, but the door was locked and the deadbolt securely in place.
‘Sheez, didn’t you think I was coming with you?’ he called, finding it odd his roommate would lock the door from the outside without waiting for him. He had unlocked the door and stepped onto their porch before he heard a light jangle coming from the pocket of Mark’s jacket. In his haste to get away from William Higgins’s radioactive tapestry Steven had not realised Mark’s keys were still in the pocket. He checked the coat to confirm his suspicion, then re-entered the house to continue searching for his friend.
‘Mark!’ Steven shouted again, ‘C’mon, let’s get out of here!’
In the kitchen, the telephone rang again; probably Hannah, calling to confirm their date for the following evening. He was tempted to answer it, but right now he needed to find Mark; he’d call her from Owen’s later. He listened for footsteps coming from anywhere in the house: nothing. The air in their front room was still shimmering slightly; Steven could make out the small flecks of yellow and green light glowing dimly against the dark background of the old stone fireplace.
Slowly he turned to stare down at the mysterious tapestry, a swirling cauldron of colour unrolled across the floor. It was simple woven fabric – he guessed wool, but now could not remember exactly how it had felt in his hands. It had peculiar designs stitched in light-coloured thread, each meticulously detailed, but completely foreign to him. A dawning realisation brought a wave of nausea.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ he murmured, ‘not in there… that can’t be.’ Something deep inside told him no matter how impossible, he was right. Somehow, that cloth had taken his roommate. ‘Mark,’ he shouted down at the floor, ‘Mark, can you hear me?’ His voiced echoed off the wood and vibrated the delicate metal chimes in their hall clock. The ringing died away and he heard floorboards creak under his weight as he paced back and forth behind the sofa. No answer.
‘Think,’ he directed himself, ‘think of something, fast.’ But though he was desperate, his mind was blank. Maybe he could experiment. He moved to his desk, shoved the rosewood box containing William Higgins’s precious rock to one side and searched for a pencil, then turned back to the living room floor.
‘I feel okay. It doesn’t seem to be doing any physical damage to me – then again, I’ve never been around anything radioactive before, so I don’t really know.’ He rolled the pencil between his fingers. ‘Either way, it can’t have completely vaporised or disintegrated Mark in the fifteen seconds it took me to get back from the kitchen, especially if I’m standing here just fine ten minutes later.’ He cursed his inability to think straight in stressful situations. ‘So, if he’s not here in the house, he must be-’ Steven gently lofted the pencil towards the tapestry, ‘-in there.’
He watched in awe as the pencil arced towards the floor. Tumbling through the air, its bright blue and orange logo flashed twice: Steven had just enough time to recognise the words Denver Broncos printed below the pink nub of the eraser. It never landed. As soon as it crossed the plane above the shimmering tapestry, the pencil vanished from sight.
‘Holy frothing Christ!’ he exclaimed and immediately reached for something else he could throw into the clot
h.
Paper clips, a balled-up telephone bill, two empty beer cans and a pizza crust later, Steven was truly terrified. Snatching up Mark’s jacket, he ran into the street and down the hill. Sprinting around the corner from Tenth onto Miner Street, he saw Owen’s in the distance, the lights and music a latter-day mirage at the far end of an otherwise silent row of city blocks. Despite tearing through Idaho Springs at a dead run, Steven’s thoughts caught up with him. He slowed to a jog. His story would sound absurd to the police.
He sat for a moment on a bench, contemplating his boots and trying to come up with a reasonable version, something that wouldn’t have them calling the nearest psychiatric unit. He rubbed his fingertips roughly against his temples and burst out angrily, ‘There is no reasonable version, you goddamn coward! You have to figure this out. You have to find him.’
Feeling alone and guilty, Steven Taylor rose and walked back home.
Two hours later found Steven sitting in a patio chair on the porch of 147 Tenth Street, watching the living room through the front window. He had failed to come up with any viable explanation for what had happened; now he was too frightened to re-enter the house. He kept hoping Mark would suddenly appear, unhurt, and he wouldn’t have to come up with some course of action. They would simply turn the tapestry over to someone who would know what to do with it and Steven would prepare himself to receive due punishment when Howard Griffin discovered he had opened Higgins’s safe deposit box.
Steven wondered how many other people were like him. His fear dominated him, broke his spirit; in turn, he could think of nothing to do. He was not brave. He was terrified. It must have been something from long ago that started him down this path, maybe something he’d run from as a child, that had grown, layer by layer, over the course of his life until now, when he was literally paralysed with fear.
He and Mark had often laughed that Steven was no risk taker. Everything had its place: he always needed to know what lay on the horizon, what was on the day’s agenda, in order to feel comfortable. He began planning vacations twelve months in advance so as to leave nothing to chance. Mark was different, a brave soul who charged willingly into risky situations and always seemed to emerge unscathed.
