Ancient, Strange, and Lovely

by Susan Fletcher

  A sudden wind gust shook the little cabin and ruffled Anna’s hair. She went inside, shut the door behind her. She moved to the table by the wall, moistened a cloth in the basin of water, then sat down on the bed beside the woman and stroked the cloth across her face. The room was cool, but beads of sweat stood out on the woman’s upper lip. Her odd, frizzy hair clung damply to her scalp.

  Anna hadn’t asked for this, this woman. This woman and whoever was coming after her. Those foolish boys should have left her at a hospital, not carried her all the way here. Anna didn’t like bringing strangers into the fragile balance of the village. Not at all.

  But what is given to you to care for, you must take.

  21

  STEP AWAY FROM THE LIZARD

  EUGENE, OREGON

  A quick burst of blue flame, and then it was over—leaving me gaping, half-blind, with black spots floating in front of my eyes. I blinked until my eyes started working again, and the critter reappeared.

  A little lower now. Just a foot or two above me.

  “What the hell,” Sasha said. “What the phaging hell.”

  I felt for him with my mind. Sleeping. Somehow, I knew. He was floating in his sleep.

  I stretched up on tiptoe. Couldn’t reach him. I jumped, trying to snag his tail or maybe a claw. Missed.

  “Watch out,” Sasha said. “That guy is lethal!”

  It wasn’t just the roof burning now, I saw. A bright bloom of flame had appeared on the back wall.

  “Better get the fire extinguisher,” I said. “It’s by the door.”

  The critter was rising now, drifting slowly into the air. I climbed up onto the potter’s wheel seat.

  Tippy. Seismic tippy. And way smokier up here. My throat burned; my eyes were tearing up. I reached toward the critter. My fingers brushed a talon. He twitched, drew his foot up tight against his belly, out of reach.

  The sudden hiss of the extinguisher startled me; a stream of foam arced up toward the ceiling; I nearly slipped off the seat. The critter spewed out a bluish gout of fire and plummeted into my arms. I clasped him tight, squatted down, and stepped carefully to the floor.

  One entire side of the shed had burst into flames. A loud crack, and the shelves did a slo-mo crumble—wood, pottery, glazes, tumbling to the floor. A scorching wall of dust and ash and sparks billowed into the room. I ducked, bolted for the door, and reached the outside air just as a section of roof gave way and collapsed, flaming, behind me.

  Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.

  I coughed, hacked up a blackish gob of phlegm and smoke.

  “Are you okay?” Sasha asked.

  “Yeah. You?”

  She nodded. Frowned at the critter. “Just point that thing away from me, would you?”

  He was awake but sleepy, fuddled. What’s going on? he seemed to ask. As if he personally had nothing to do with any of this. The last bits of skin/fur had come loose from his back, and I could see now what he’d been hiding. Wings. Little papery wings, so fragile, they looked like a stiff breeze could tear them to shreds.

  The siren wailed—louder.

  “We better get out of here,” Sasha said. “Unless you want to turn him over to somebody. Which might not be such a bad idea, considering. Think about it, Bryn. We could have been, like, flambé.”

  The fire roared, spewing sheets of flames and clouds of dense black smoke. All that pottery—Dad’s hard work—gone.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  I stumbled after Sasha. But wait. Two cars now, side by side in the driveway. Someone was climbing out of Sasha’s car. Gandalf: clutching the box with the egg.

  He turned to run, then stopped. Stared at us.

  “Give it back!” Sasha said. She tucked the fire extinguisher under one arm and wrested the box from him. He let it go.

  “What is that?” he said, pointing at the critter.

  “Scram. I mean it, Ralph.”

  “No—what is it? Is it …?”

  The critter stiffened in my arms. I backed away, but Gandalf followed.

  “I’m warning you,” Sasha said. “Leave us alone.”

  He ignored her. “I only want to look at it.”

  The critter snorted out a cloud of sparks and blue smoke.

  Gandalf yelled. Ducked. Looked up.

  Sasha held out the fire extinguisher, threatening. “Step away from the lizard.”

  He came nearer. “I just want to see it, I prom—”

  Sasha got him in the eye with a jet of spray. He cried out, covered his face. I dodged past him, yanked open the door, and flung myself into the car.

  Sasha jumped in. Slammed her door. Gunned the motor. We lurched backward down the driveway.

  People were running toward the shed with buckets and hoses. Sasha ground the gears; the car jolted forward, swerving to miss the fire truck, which blared and honked, barreling down the street.

  I looked back. The fire truck stopped at the end of the driveway, blocking Gandalf’s car. Smoke still churned up from the shed. A crowd had gathered in the street. I watched my house as it shrank behind us. Something pressed down on my heart. What would Piper do? How could she bear it, with all three of us gone?

  And Stella—who would take care of her? Who would ken with her?

  “Where to?” Sasha asked. “Any bright ideas?”

  I looked down at the critter, curled against my chest. Trembling. Kenning me in terrified little fizzy bursts.

  How could I possibly choose?

  “Bryn! Get with the program,” Sasha said. “Where to?”

  “Anchorage,” I said. “I’ve got to get to Anchorage.”

  Cap of bottle, tooth of comb,

  Packing peanut, dead cell phone,

  Grocery bag, used battery,

  Tire of truck, old CRT.

  Double, double toil and trouble,

  Toss in ocean, gyre and bubble.

  Up the food chain it doth go.

  In human blood it soon will flow.

  —from “Witches’ Brew,” by Mutant Tide

  I salute you

  With my phalangeal mutation—

  Genetic alienation

  From your contamination—

  I salute you

  And all your phaging generation.

  —from “Phalange Web Salute,” by Radioactive Fish

  22

  FUGITIVE, ON THE LAM

  EUGENE, OREGON

  I-5 CORRIDOR, OREGON AND WASHINGTON

  Sasha turned left on Harris, then zigged into an alley, rumbling way too fast along the rutted pavement. She gunned it straight across Potter to University, cutting off a herd of cars. She shrugged off the angry horn blasts and the one guy who gave her the finger. “Aw, get over it,” she said. She flashed him the Vulcan live-long-and-prosper salute. With the skweb between her fingers, it looked seriously weird.

  I glanced back to see if anyone was following—Gandalf, maybe. Or the cops.

  Nope. So far, so good.

  She turned onto 18th, then zoomed across two lanes of oncoming traffic, bearing left on Agate. All the loose debris on the floor migrated to the right. I set the critter on my lap, clutched him around the middle with one hand and hung on to the grab bar with the other. Tires: screeching. Other drivers: honking. Sasha: totally unfazed.

  Right on Franklin, and it was almost a straight shot now to the freeway. The critter crouched, all tensed up on my lap. I was afraid he was going to do the thing again. The fire-breathing thing. I put my hand on his back between his wings, tried to ken him calming vibes.

  And he did calm down a little. Surprisingly. I felt him ease down into my lap, tucking in his feet and tail. I scratched beneath his jawbone, and he began to thrum, kneading my legs with his talons.

  Once we hit the freeway, Sasha put it to the metal. She zipped into the fast lane, cutting off a red Beemer.

  The finger again.

  Live-long-and-prosper.

  Her little car was shaking, rattling so loud, it felt lik
e it might fly apart. I kept my eye on the rearview mirror, scanning for flashing lights. We’d whipped right past that fire truck. Failing to pull over and stop. Leaving the scene.

  Pretty soon, though, Sasha let up. “Speed trap,” she said. Sure enough, I saw lights on the side of the freeway a little way ahead. “That sweatshirt’s on the floor behind you,” Sasha said. I reached back, felt sweatshirt cloth, and draped it over the critter. Still relaxed. Still thrumming. As we passed the cops, I turned my head away, in case they had like an APB out on me. Five foot six, dark hair, one hundred fifteen pounds. Fugitive, on the lam.

  By the time we got to Albany, I’d started to breathe normally again. But a dark, sour dread weighed down in the pit of my stomach. I’d abandoned Piper and Stella. I couldn’t bear to think of them waiting for me.

  Waiting and hoping.

  What had I done?

  Sasha had grown more and more quiet. The adrenaline rush had peaked. She glanced at me. “We need to talk,” she said.

  I sighed. Yeah, we really did.

  She cut off at the North Albany exit and turned into a Thrift Mart parking lot. The back of the lot was nearly empty, screened off from the road by a row of shrubs and trees. She pulled into a slot. Cut the engine.

  “Okay, so what are we doing?” she asked. “What’s your plan?”

  I didn’t have an actual plan—just a destination. Anchorage. That’s where that professor was, that Dr. Jones. He’d wanted Mom to go up there in the first place, and he’d e-mailed Dad just a few days ago. Call me. With all due haste. He might know what to do. Maybe he’d take care of the critter himself. Maybe he’d help me find Dad.

  I told Sasha my idea. She looked doubtful. “Kind of a stretch, don’t you think?”

  “I’m open to ideas.”

  She blew out through her lips. “Well, not so many options, unless you want to turn over Mr. Lizard to the cops or like the SPCA.”

  I shook my head. Beneath my hand, I could feel the critter thrumming. Asleep.

  Sasha made a face. “Didn’t think so. Hmm. It might be good if you could text this professor right now. But I’m not sure you want to use your phone. Or even mine, at this point. Your aunt might be looking for you and our phones are traceable. I think the cops could maybe actually track us by GPS. Better not chance it. Sooner or later, though, they’re going to get involved. We should power down our phones and pop out the batteries.”

  “Okay.” We did.

  “And also,” Sasha went on, “that professor might side with your aunt. Adults tend to do that. Close ranks. Or he might just string you along, or try to off-load your issues to someone else unless you were standing right there on his doorstep.”

  I nodded.

  “With your baby dragon.”

  The word hung there. Dragon. Because that’s what the critter really was, wasn’t he? Whatever scientific name for him they eventually came up with, whatever DNA connections they made, whatever evolutionary pathways they constructed for him.

  Looks like a reptile. Has wings. Breathes fire. Whatever else you want to say about it, that’s a dragon.

  Sasha was shaking her head. She heaved out a sigh. “Nobody has problems like you, Bryn. You are the queen.”

  Sasha ran into the Thrift Mart and came back with two six-packs of ReliaVite, a plastic cup, a turkey baster, a box of plastic trash bags, some leather shoelaces (“to tie up its snout”), a package of disposable diapers (“in case it pees”), and two silicone oven mitts (“in case it flames”). She also bought two hoagie sandwiches, two Cokes, and a package of Oreos.

  The critter woke up, started sniffing at the food bag. Sasha shook her finger at him. “Not for you, Mr. Lizard,” she said. “For us.” The critter hissed at her, looking fierce. Sasha ducked. “Yikes! Muzzle him with the laces, would you!”

  “I don’t think he’s going to do it. I think we’re good for now.”

  “How do you know?” Sasha demanded.

  I could feel it when I kenned him. A happyish fizzy tingle. I shrugged.

  She cocked an eyebrow at me. “You’re doing a thing with him, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I said. Lying.

  She looked at me. Didn’t believe me, I could tell. I waited, dreading. If she really knew me, if she knew about my family … would she be creeped out? Would she leave?

  “Whatever,” she said. “I just have this thing about barbecue. I’d rather eat it than be it.”

  Next we hit the ATMs. Which we so should have thought of in Eugene. Now we’d leave an electronic trail; they could find out we’d headed north. We went to different banks, though, so we wouldn’t both show up on the same security-camera feed. I had twelve hundred in babysitting and birthday money that I’d been saving forever, maybe for a car. I pulled most of it out, stuffed the thick wad in my purse. If I didn’t use it, I could always put it back.

  We fueled up, then took off north on I-5.

  By the time we passed Salem, it was just after five. On a normal Friday, Aunt Pen would be picking up Piper from the after-school program. But today, Aunt Pen would be home. Someone would have called about the fire. Right around now was when she’d know for sure that I’d gone missing.

  And Piper would know it too.

  If only I’d had time to leave a message. I knew how she must be feeling. Raw. Lonely. Ripped-away.

  Full-out seismic mad at me.

  And Stella …

  I was everything to her. I was her world.

  Even after I fed him, the critter was way too interested in my food. He kept poking his snout into my sandwich, sniffing at it, trying to nip it. I tore off a tiny piece of turkey and let him taste. He gulped it down, then licked his snout with his tongue—his seriously weird, forky tongue. Then he burrowed into my sandwich again.

  “Watch out,” Sasha said. “He could get diarrhea or something. Constipation. He could barf.”

  I checked the diaper, unfolded on my lap underneath the critter. “We’ll try just a little,” I said. I pulled off another bit of turkey. If he could eat solid food, it would be way easier than the whole messy production with the ReliaVite.

  What he really liked, it turned out, was cheese. I let him try a piece, and that was the end of my sandwich. He lunged for it, snapping those pointy teeth of his. I held the sandwich over my head, but he stretched up, put his claws on my shoulders, and nipped at it until it fell completely apart. Then he rooted around in my lap and on the floor until he’d gobbled up all the cheese.

  So much for dinner.

  We hit Portland in a massive clog of rush-hour traffic, which maybe was a good thing because it would be hard to search for Sasha’s car in that mess. If anybody was searching for her car. She didn’t think they would be, not yet. “Not that many people know we know each other,” she said.

  “What about Gandalf?”

  She shrugged. “He won’t call Mom. She’s not exactly a fan of his. And he sure won’t call the cops.”

  “What about the people who saw us leaving my house?”

  “How would they know who I am?”

  You’re kind of distinctive-looking, I thought. Though I didn’t say it. “What happens when you don’t come home tonight?”

  “Confession: I left a message when you were at the ATM. I told Mom I was going to spend the weekend with Jen. I do it all the time. She’ll be fine with it for now.”

  For now. I wondered how far she’d go with me. I felt a sudden stab of loneliness at the thought of going on without her.

  Was this what it was like to have a friend? A real friend—not just a Net friend or someone to hang out with at lunch.

  We crossed the bridge into Washington. I tried to keep the critter on my lap, but he got wigglier and wigglier. He tried to clamber up onto the dashboard. He lunged at passing cars, climbing halfway up the window. When Sasha told him to chill, he hissed at her and snorted out sparks. Finally I dumped him into the backseat, let him explore.

  He snuffled around a bit, then dived headfirst
into the sack of supplies and started poking around in there, doing I don’t know what-all, making the bag bulge and twist and scoot across the seat. He emerged with one of the oven mitts, shaking it between his teeth, looking proud of himself, like he’d heroically killed a rat.

  “Hey, give me that,” I said. He bounced away from me, to the floor behind Sasha’s seat. I reached for the mitt, tried to pull it away from him. But he wouldn’t let go.

  Sasha glanced back, then laid on the horn. The critter jumped, startled, dropping the mitt. I grabbed it and stuffed it into the glove compartment.

  But now the critter was shoulder-deep in Sasha’s purse. “Hey!” I said. “Bad boy!” I undid my seat belt, twisted around between the seats, and pulled him out of there. He was chewing on a pink plastic hairbrush.

  “Uh, Sasha?” I said. “How attached are you to your hairbrush?”

  “Why?” she asked. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  Tooth marks pitted the handle. The bristles were all mashed down and slimy.

  “I’ll buy you a new one,” I offered.

  “Whatever. That’s the least of our problems.”

  Gradually, it grew dark. The critter climbed into my lap with his hairbrush and sleepily chewed. Traffic thinned; soon we were out of the city, passing through rolling farmland, dark groves of trees, wind farms, and photovoltaic arrays.

  Sasha’s car had zero audiotech, unless you counted the ancient AM/FM radio. Fiddling with it, we occasionally managed to tap into some faint, staticky eco-rock frequencies: White Raven, Mutant Tide, Ghost Meridian.

  The stars came glimmering out. The critter thrummed against me—asleep, I knew—and somehow, I didn’t feel quite so lonely. I touched one of his wings, unfolded it. It reminded me of an umbrella, with thin, flexible ribs and a membrane between them—tissue papery, translucent, with tiny, branching veins.

  He sighed, snorted out a puff of warm breath.

  Burnt toast.

  We pulled in at a rest stop about halfway to Seattle. When it was my turn to go to the bathroom, Sasha stayed in the car with the critter, not looking too happy about it.