Silver Shard

by Betsy Streeter

  Kate pulls her motorcycle off of the two-lane road in the redwoods and parks on the damp gravel next to the Clown Diner, a trailer-sized establishment wedged between two redwood trees not far from where Kate and her family have been camping. A sign decorated with a faded fat clown and outlined with non-functional neon tubes rusts out front. In the corner of her eye Kate picks out a figure near the door and knows immediately it is Anna.

  The two women, members of the same clan and distant cousins, embrace; they have not laid eyes on each other in a very long time.

  “I wish I could say I was thrilled to see you,” Kate says into Anna’s shoulder. They release each other.

  “You look good, cousin,” Anna says, her eyes intent on Kate’s face. She reaches up and brushes Kate’s bangs off her forehead. “How are you?”

  “Worse for the wear, I’m sure,” Kate says as the two of them walk inside. Tiny bells tinkle on top of the door to announce their arrival. “But then, aren’t we all.”

  The pair sits down opposite each other on red vinyl benches in a window booth. Coffee appears unbidden at their elbows.

  “How is life on dry land?” Kate asks.

  “Life on dry land is…unanticipated,” Anna says. “I expected to be gone much longer. I had gotten used to the idea. I was good at keeping myself occupied. I was teaching myself Mandarin and getting really good at sea navigation.”

  Kate smiles. “You’re the only person I know who could make the best of self-imposed exile.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” Anna says. “It gave me time to think, too. How is Helen?”

  “Helen is adjusting,” Kate replies. “I took that kid for a wild ride. Her brother, too. Pulled the rug out from under both of them, over and over. We’ve moved so much and gone on the run so many times. And the process by which they learned about the Silverwood clan and the Guild and who they each are was…messy. I think they are still deciding whether they can believe anything I say ever again.”

  “What are they, ten and fifteen?” Anna asks.

  Kate nods and takes a sip of bitter coffee. Before even lowering the mug she’s already groping around for the tiny milk pitcher with her other hand.

  “Given their ages I suppose they wouldn’t believe you most of the time, anyway,” Anna says. “It’s the nature of being where they are in life.”

  “Maybe,” Kate says, “but I think it’s also the fact that I waited and kept information from them for too long.” Kate dumps milk into her mug. “Their lineage, their genetics, their responsibilities—it’s a lot to have thrown at you all at once. I took too long to do it. I over-thought the process when I should have been more honest with them sooner.”

  “I’m sure you did your best, Kate. We all do our best,” Anna says. She signals to the waitress by the counter, a hundred-year-old woman in a ruffled apron who will require several minutes to shuffle over to their table. “It’s the Silverwood way, dear. ‘Hi, welcome to the clan, let us familiarize you with the bizarre and treacherous things you will now be dealing with for the rest of your life…’”

  Kate smiles. She wonders how Anna can be so calm.

  “So…” Anna begins.

  “I know,” Kate says. “I gather that it’s my turn to be the fragment bearer.”

  “I’m afraid it is, dear,” Anna says, touching the pendant hanging around her neck. “Not by my choice, believe me. I would have kept this chunk of metal out of your life for much, much longer if I possibly could have. At least until your children were grown…or better yet, I would have found a way to obliterate it once and for all.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” Kate says. “Trust me, if anyone could find a way to destroy that thing, that person would be a hero to the whole clan. I appreciate you being the bearer for as long as you were. Remember back when we didn’t have to do this? When we had no fragments, no running around, when the clan was more…organized?”

  “When we had briefings before we jumped in time so we knew what to expect?” Anna says.

  “Yeah!” Kate says. “I remember you worked in Briefings for a while, when you were just a kid.”

  “I was good at it,” Anna says. “I’d go in and say, welcome to such-and-such time frame, here are the vital facts you need to be aware of before entering society, etcetera.”

  “Those were the days,” Kate says, absentmindedly pulling a napkin from the dispenser and folding it into a square on the table in front of her. “Now we’re this crazy mob, on the run all the time, hiding a piece of metal. It’s not the same.”

  “Oh Kate, you know there are reasons,” Anna says. “You know that you and Gabriel had to escape with Helen when you did. You had no choice.”

  “We left behind a disaster,” Kate says. “We abandoned the clan when you needed us. I created chaos, destroyed people’s lives, and then I left.”

  Anna leans in. “But if you had not, there would be no clan and we would not be having this conversation. There would be Tromindox sitting here instead. Trust me on that.”

  Anna lifts the chain from around her neck, frees it from her thick braid of hair, and sets the half-portal on the table with a clunk!. Somewhere in the kitchen the grill hisses with a new batch of hash browns.

  “This all happened much too fast,” Anna says. “When I learned that the ‘toms had found me and my ship, I had to bail out quick. No one was supposed to be able to detect me, or the ship, or the fragment. I don’t know what went wrong.”

  “I don’t know either,” Kate says, shaking her head. “You should have had more time. Much more time. Something changed; we just don’t know what it is.”

  The old waitress has made it about half the distance to Anna and Kate’s table. Along the way she sets a fresh bottle of ketchup on the counter and straightens a salt and pepper shaker. Her knees whir and clank as she comes.

  “I swear,” Anna says, “I will take the first chance I get to melt down this stupid necklace.”

  “I know, we all will,” Kate says. She leans down slowly and bonks her forehead on the table a few times. “I can’t believe it’s my turn already.”

  “I’m sorry,” Anna says. “But let me offer you some hope. I know this is probably a crazy notion, but I might have some clues as to the location of the Silver Shard.”

  “You mean the mythical axe made from a branch of the Silverwood tree and metal from portals?” Kate says. “How do you know that relic even exists? I heard a story once—somebody thought they saw it mounted on the wall in a pawnshop in Boston. Someone else swore it was in the Metropolitan Museum. Those leads never amount to anything. I’m convinced the axe, if there ever was one, got turned into scrap a hundred years ago. It was probably just a story.”

  “But Kate, if there is an axe,” Anna says, “and it’s capable of destroying portals, as the story goes, then it’s the one thing that can rid us of this fragment and close this particular portal forever. And that makes the Shard worth looking for, even if finding it is exceedingly unlikely. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I suppose,” Kate says. “Anything we could do to rid ourselves of this burden would be met with my undying gratitude.”

  “And the gratitude of whoever is supposed to be the fragment bearer after you,” Anna adds.

  “True. Here’s to the future,” Kate says, holding up her coffee mug. “And Anna, you know how much I owe you. I still don’t know how you can even talk to me.”

  Anna just smiles. “The future,” she says, and their mugs clink together.

  The old waitress pivots her head at a weird angle, her pupils focusing and refocusing; a recorder clicks inside.

  “Now! Jump!” Gabriel calls to his son.

  Henry vaults over a heating duct and skids with the soles of his sneakers into a crouching position. He picks up a metal throwing star in each hand and flings them up above his head. He somersaults, and when he comes up he catches the stars again and hurls them forward. The stars whiz through the air and embed with two thunks! into the center of a wooden targ
et, which Helen has embellished with a smiley face in black spray paint. Cars honk and tires squeal down in the street far below their training ground on this urban rooftop.

  Gabriel’s brother Christopher sits with his legs dangling over the side of the building, noodling on a beat-up bass guitar. He plays a few bars, stops, rummages in his pocket and extracts a pick, then goes on playing. Christopher is taller than Gabriel, and his black Mohawk needs a trim; the front is flopping down into his face. He’s got on a black T-shirt and dark gray jeans that end at high-top boots. When he moves, the assortment of chains and cords he wears around his arms clank together. He’s got a large silver ring on each index finger and these catch the sunlight as he plays.

  “That was better,” Gabriel says to Henry. “Just make sure you come to a full stop after the somersault or you’ll go flying off the roof and your uncle will have to come down there and peel you off the sidewalk. Okay Helen, your turn.”

  Helen jumps over the duct as well, but her technique more resembles hurdling. She scoops up a crowbar from the ground, rolls over, jumps up and wields it over her head like a sword.

  “Good,” Gabriel says, “although your head is too high when you’re jumping. Keep that head down. You don’t want to create too much movement or catch the eye. Blend with the skyline.”

  “Okay,” Helen says. “I am the skyline.”

  The traffic far below them continues to hum along, drivers at odds with one another in every direction. The space on the roof is tight; the edge and a fall of ten stories is never far away. This is a good space to practice stopping and control.

  Gabriel has a seat next to his brother while the kids go on practicing. A dumpster lid slams below.

  “How’s your head?” Gabriel asks.

  “Hurts,” Christopher says without looking up from the bass.

  “Sorry about that. Maybe it’s that haircut you got. I know it pains me to look at it.”

  “That’s real mature,” Christopher says.

  Christopher plays some more. “Seriously though,” he says, “it hurts all the time. And I see things and hear things. People talking. Screaming. Gibberish. It feels like there are people walking around with me all the time, man. I feel like…I’m never alone.”

  “You know what?” Gabriel says. “I think you are the only person I’ve ever been around for any length of time who got digested by a Tromindox and managed to come back. I mean, there were the people who came to Helen when she was small, the ones who the Tromindox had almost totally absorbed but who managed to get to her while there was still some of their human consciousness left. And the contact with Helen’s antivenom blood healed those people at the very last second. But those people always left right away once the process was done. They didn’t stick around. That was the deal – they could not disrupt Helen’s development. And she was supposed to believe she was dreaming. So they had to make themselves scarce. You, however, are still here.”

  “I feel special,” Christopher says, rubbing his forehead.

  “You are special,” Gabriel says, punching Christopher in the arm. “Special enough that we need to spend some quality time studying the after effects of Tromindox digestion. Maybe we can disrupt the headaches or get those voices to shut up.”

  “Man, I hope so,” Christopher says.

  Henry executes another somersault, leaps to his feet, and skids to a stop a few feet away.

  “This was easier in the woods,” Henry says, brushing bits of roof gravel from the back of his shirt.

  “Yes, it’s nice to have a soft carpet of pine needles to fall on,” Gabriel says, “but unfortunately, we don’t get to choose where we fall. Or don’t fall, since I’m teaching you such magnificent skills that hopefully you won’t need to.” He turns to his brother. “Christopher, you got any pointers?”

  “No, brother, your instruction, as always, is the finest in the land,” Christopher grins.

  “Okay, let’s try again…” Gabriel begins to say, but trails off. The Silverwoods have company.

  A brittle-looking man in a knee-length black coat, slicked-back hair and a fancy trimmed goatee has appeared at the door leading into the stairwell.

  “Howdy,” Gabriel says, wondering how long the stranger has been standing there.

  “How are you, Mr. Silverwood?” the man asks, extending his hand.

  “I’m just fine, Mister…” Gabriel shakes the man’s hand and peers at his face.

  “Goode,” the man says. “Frederick Goode. Guild representative.”

  “Ah! I see,” Gabriel says. But he doesn’t see. Since when do unknown Guild people pop in for visits out of nowhere?

  “Well, if you’re here to check on how Henry is doing, the news is that he’s doing fine,” Gabriel says. “I’m sure you’re already aware that he’s got a Mentor, so we’re all good here. No pun intended.”

  A motorcycle engine revs in the street below.

  The visitor steps around Gabriel and approaches Henry. Henry has pried a throwing star back out of the target and holds it in his hand. The boy has grown wiry and his shoulders are the square shape of a young boy about to grow much taller. His white-blond hair sticks to his forehead. He shakes his bangs to one side and puts on a defiant face as the stranger looks him over.

  “How are you, Henry?” Mr. Goode asks, putting his hands on his knees. The man’s tiny pupils focus on Henry’s face a little too sharply.

  “Fine,” Henry answers, his expression cold. Who is this guy to bend down and talk to him like a toddler? Does he not see the throwing star?

  “I hear you are progressing very quickly,” Mr. Goode says. “I’ve seen some samples. You’re making some very interesting drawings, aren’t you? And not all of places or things, are they?”

  “Says who?” Henry demands.

  “Your Mentor,” Mr. Goode says. “Rose speaks so highly of you. She says you began to draw…certain notations…at an earlier age than is usual. Is that true?”

  “What notations?” Henry asks.

  “Well, perhaps you haven’t been told yet,” Mr. Goode says. “I’m sure Rose brings you along at a pace you can handle.”

  “I can handle any pace,” Henry says. “What notations?”

  “I’m confident that you’ll learn when you are ready,” Mr. Goode says.

  “What are you talking about? What notations?” Henry’s voice rises. It is not in Henry’s nature, or the nature of any ten-year-old kid, to allow questions to go unanswered.

  Mr. Goode reaches into the breast pocket of his coat and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He opens it and holds it out so Henry can see it.

  “This is mine!” Henry says. “Where did you get this? Rose keeps all my drawings.”

  Intricate lines and shapes cover the paper, arranged in clusters at the top and bottom and with tiny arrows and notes filled in between them. The drawing resembles a strange map, very unlike Henry’s usual depictions of places and events.

  “That, my friend, is the type of notations that I am talking about,” Mr. Goode says. He snatches the drawing back and folds it, tucking it into his breast pocket. “Thank you, Henry. That’s all I need for now.” He turns to leave.

  “Hang on,” Helen says, stepping in front of Mr. Goode and blocking his path to the stairs. She’s tall for her age and can almost look the man straight in the eye. “Henry asked you a question. Where did you get that drawing?”

  “I also asked what the notations are,” Henry points out.

  The door to the roof has opened, and Kate emerges. She steps up behind Helen and places her hands on her shoulders. “My daughter asked you a question,” Kate says. “My son did, too.”

  “I’m not here to answer your questions, I have the information I need. Thank you for your time.” Frederick Goode sidesteps Kate and Helen and exits down the stairs. His quick, even footsteps recede into the stairwell.

  “Mom! Do you know that guy?” Henry asks.

  “No, I don’t,” Kate says. “Where is your dad?”


  “He was right here,” Henry answers. “We were practicing.”

  “Gabriel?” Kate calls. No answer.

  “Dad? Uncle?” Helen says. But the two brothers have left the roof.

  The three of them find Gabriel and Christopher downstairs in the apartment, two long angular bodies folded into cross-legged positions and facing away from each other at either end of a worn Oriental rug. They each sit in a nest of wires and electronic components and wear black earphones. They look like two large kids playing with walkie-talkies.

  The loft lacks furniture. It has only bare brick walls, beat up wooden floors, and multi-paned windows stuck shut with many layers of white paint. Cardboard boxes of varying shapes and sizes sit stacked against one wall.

  Gabriel talks rapidly into a hand-held microphone plugged into a boxy contraption that looks like an old radio. On the rug next to him lies a hand mirror with a tangle of wires snaking out of the frame.

  “Did you get that?” Gabriel says into the machine. “Is it there?”

  At the opposite end of the rug, Christopher punches buttons into a makeshift keyboard and a small monitor in front of him lights up. Gabriel’s speaker emits static, and then Christopher’s voice comes through. “Yes, I got it. No match, though.”

  “No match? Darn,” Gabriel says.

  “Hi, Uncle Christopher,” Henry says, leaning into his dad’s microphone.

  “Hey kid,” Christopher says without looking up at Henry at the other end of the rug. “I saw you had a friend drop by.”

  “Yeah, a weird person I don’t know, if that’s what you consider a friend,” Henry says.

  “Hang on…” Gabriel says, typing on a keyboard in front of him. “Hey Chris, what about this?” He hits the enter key.

  An image appears on Christopher’s screen. He punches more buttons. A few seconds pass.

  “Nope, no dice,” Christopher says.

  “Darn,” Gabriel says. “Well, thanks for playing.” He turns off the box and the static noise cuts off. He turns and looks at his brother across the rug. “That’s disappointing.”