Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars

by Melisse Aires

  I don’t argue. Right now I’m just a sideshow at this carnival, and trying to get any control of myself or the situation only confounds me further. He was right. It’s a precarious edge, and if I don’t sit back and enjoy the ride, it can easily become a prison. Any thoughts of our dilemma are too much for me to handle and send my head in a downward spiral, so I do my best to ignore the fact we’re currently stranded. For tonight, at least. Tomorrow, I can pick up the stress right back where we left off.

  Til then, though, I’m game to follow Tristan’s lead—a lead he seems suited for and contented with. And on a lighter note, everything’s hilarious—not just funny, but hysterically outrageous to the point my abs ache from laughing. And once I get started, I can’t stop. Before long, I don’t know whether I’m from the future, or living in the present, haunted by dreams of time strings and DOT agents.

  By nightfall the crowd has thinned to only a few dirty hippies and a small number of tents. The once-blaring speakers are now gone from their posts, but music still hangs in the air from scattered groups playing acoustic guitars and bongo drums. There’s even the occasional audio of old school radios broadcasting retro rock from inside distant tents. Together with our newfound friends, we stretch out on the tattered red blanket, laugh at random music-loving leftovers slogging through mud, sifting through trash for anything of value.

  “Wouldn’t wanna be on the road home right now,” Bryan says again for the sixth time.

  Not that I’m counting. He may as well come out and announce what a genius he is for having the sense to wait til the traffic’s lightened. But still we chuckle with him and his spacey girlfriend, Rosy, til we’re laughing so hard again, we can’t remember what it is that tickled us. And this is how the evening continues, in ebbs and flows of alarming quiet and hysterical pleasure. As a group, we don’t have much to say, but we share the absurdity of it all—of Woodstock, nature, life, and new acquaintances.

  They’re nice enough people, even though I’m not too sure why we’re sticking around. It’s as if we can’t bring ourselves to break away, now that we’ve bonded through hallucinogenics—all on the same ride, one can’t get off without the other. When I mention this to Tristan, he says they dosed us and now we have to hang. Guess I somehow managed to waltz through life and miss the universal drug etiquette memo.

  Seems as soon as I get distracted with the trace of a nagging thought like the time port or Garth, some minor event like the snapping of a twig happens, and I take it in with sudden interest. Just a second ago, I was considering the strength of Essence’s acoustic signal, when Bryan and a new guy with a dark afro produced a fire out of the blue. Now I’m filled with fresh awe.

  We all move in toward its vivid colors as if it’s some bold new discovery. Flames part the sticky night air like dragon tongues, entrancing me for minutes at a time. When my vision starts to burn from the brightness, I shift my gaze to the cool night sky, where the stars are giant fuzzy orbs crowding into one another.

  Time has no concept. Yet my mind can’t fully release the frayed memory of all of this being a CI.

  I don’t want to think of that right now. It hurts my brain.

  A can of beer is passed to me and I take a swig, let the barley flavor rush over my tongue. I pass it back to Tristan and we share it. He and Bryan and Rosy talk about all the performances from the first two days. Next thing I know, a joint is lit, and although I don’t smoke any, the stench is enough to make my senses roar to life, my head spin. As if I’m on board Essence, I find a focal point and concentrate, become stabilized by the glowing embers of the fire, til Boris Butterman invades my thoughts. How can I possibly think it’s okay to meet my great, great grandfather tomorrow?

  “Tristan, what was I thinking?” My voice is weak, wounded. “We can’t meet Boris tomorrow. What if it alters our timeline?”

  He lays a hand on my arm. “You’re letting your thoughts take over. Stop.” He hands me the beer again. “Finish this off. It’ll loosen you up so you can get some sleep. Sun will be up before you know it, then you can get your thoughts together.”

  I stare at the beer can. I really don’t want to intoxicate my judgment further.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” Tristan says. “I’ll be right here.”

  The idea of sleep is enticing. Before I can dwell on the idea for long, I drain the rest of the beer and let out a deep belch.

  “There you go. Soak it in. Like butter, Butterman.”

  Entranced by the fire, I let the burning embers coax me to a nice lethargic state. Within what feels like minutes, the reeling sensation from the back of my brain vanishes, and when my eyes can take no more stimulation, I let them close. My body falls back on the blanket like a lead weight.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been dozing when the silky sounds of music stirs me again. I prop myself up, open my eyes. My head wobbles, my vision blurs, but through it, I’m steadied by a voice so pure and rich, I wonder if I’ve woken in heaven. It’s serenading the night in sweet, but heavy tones. Crisp, and distinctly soulful. Vibrantly dense with emotion.

  Tossed on the tides of time

  Where nothing true can ever hide

  Eternity would still end too soon

  If I can’t find, feel you.

  And my arms will stay open wide

  When you fall, I will catch you every time.

  The lyrics haunt me. But that voice …

  I lock onto its source finally and have to blink a few times. Tristan has a pale brown acoustic guitar propped on his knee, strumming with some difficulty, but making the notes work in an easy, honest melody.

  It’s his voice that makes me shiver. Nothing like his U-Turn songs. This is a raw, gritty harmony, grating and powerful; unique and real. I can’t believe it’s coming from a guy like Tristan. Sounds like the voice of a mythical god.

  Bryan’s hands cup a harmonica and he produces an almost-right melody that complements Tristan’s guitar—a blend, that with some practice, would no doubt sound magic one day. Tristan croons another stanza, skipping over words and notes his mind probably can’t recall, then repeats the same lyrics as before, which must be the chorus. He sings them again and again with slight variations each time. I’m baffled, and it’s not because my brain is peppered with shroom toxins.

  I’m astonished he ever doubted his talent.

  How long has he been concealing this secret weapon—this commanding timbre to his voice? Rough in some places, refined in others. A gentle strength in a brazen lullaby.

  Holy hell, I must be blitzed beyond recognition right now. Mind, heart, and soul.

  Once Tristan sets the guitar down, stops singing, it takes a few minutes for my brain to register it’s over. The sound waves still echo his voice, caressing my ears. But once I’m aware, I’m very aware, and I reach out for his thigh, clutch it. “Where did you learn to sing like that?”

  His blue-gray eyes dance with firelight. “You liked it?”

  “Um, yeah. Like isn’t even the right word. That is so far from U-Turn style, I don’t even know if you’re the same person.”

  He chuckles, airy and agreeable, his cheeks coloring. “Guess that’s good then.” He shrugs. “Or you’re just wasted. But I have been working on finding the right pitch and style over the last few months. Trying some things out.”

  “That song … what is it? Is that the one—?”

  “My song. Yeah.” He averts his eyes with what must be a dash of modesty, then changes the subject. “Thought you were passed out? Looked like it.”

  “Maybe I was. I don’t even know. But I heard you singing … and … Tristan, sing it again. The whole thing. Please.” I don’t even care if I’m begging. I need to hear that again.

  Tristan shakes his head. “Naw, I need a break. Throat’s dry.”

  Anxious for another dose of his voice, I attempt a splash of flattery. “I had no idea you could sing like that. If you performed that as a single, in the same slo-mo mellow campfire style you
just did, I guarantee you will have a whole new fan base.” I realize I’m still gripping his thigh and release it, sit back. My passion is coming to a head inside me. I might explode.

  “Really, Butterman? We were just messin’ around. And I’m pretty fucked up right now.” He chuckles, but maintains eye contact, as if my praise means a hell of a lot more to him than he’s letting on.

  I’m silent for a few seconds that seem like forever and I can’t unlock the stare. Don’t want to.

  “Those lyrics,” I say, then hesitate. How can I find the right words without embarrassing myself? “You said, ‘Tossed on the tides of time.’ Like a time traveler, you know?”

  “Where nothing true can ever hide,” he repeats the rest of the lyric. “Didn’t think about that. Weird.”

  We stare at each other, robbed of any sense or articulation.

  I shrug it off, feign indifference. “Well, I’m telling you, you sounded great. I’d buy that single.”

  Tristan’s still silent, searching my face, then grins. “Means a lot coming from a tough customer like you.”

  “What else you got, man?” Bryan interrupts, slapping Tristan’s knee. “That was far out. We were working out the harmony—”

  “How ‘bout a Joan Baez song,” Rosy says sloppily, her lids heavy.

  “Here, somebody else have a turn.” Tristan holds out the guitar til Bryan’s afro buddy who looked like he was about to pass out, sits upright and takes it, lays it across his lap.

  Tristan looks empty now. The guitar suited him, but I don’t tell him so. That’s enough flattery for one night. He’s still Tristan Helms, even if he did sound like a rock idol.

  I catch him watching me and am about to look away, when he says, “You never know, Butterman. Maybe I’ll be there to catch you if you fall.”

  I recognize the reference to his song lyric and for some reason a deep pitted laughter wants to escape from my lips. I hold it back. “Did you just …” Chuckles slip through now, “ … say what I think you said? Want any crackers to go with that cheese?”

  I expect him to share my amusement like every other time we’ve joked tonight, but he doesn’t. His pointed stare and dilated eyes are thoughtful. He’s serious. My posture stiffens, my enjoyment dissipating til I find myself breathless. I could so dive into his cool blue irises and swim around right now.

  But I can’t think of a single response … which is probably why I surrender to the swirl of dizziness now stirring inside my head, and collapse into the inviting darkness.

  ***

  Voices and birdsong rouse me, and eventually, regrettably, I open my eyes. I’m drenched in soft daylight. Must be morning. My mouth is parched, the air around me stale with odors of sweat and dirty feet. Where am I?

  I sit up. I’m inside an obnoxiously orange, two-person tent with another body beside me. From a closer look, I see it’s Rosy gently snoring with a tee shirt as a makeshift cover for her arms. My belly rumbles with hunger. I haven’t eaten since … when? I don’t even know. Last I remember is the campfire, Tristan singing, a beer, and …

  I check my watch. 0724 EST. I need to power up Essence and try to reschedule a new time window. Where the hell is Tristan? I clamber out of the tent, stumble sideways as the rising sunlight hits me head on.

  The red blanket from last night is crumpled and empty next to a still-smoking fire pit.

  “Tristan?” I call. He isn’t anywhere. “Tristan!”

  Nothing but open fields and a sea of garbage and mud, a few people in the clearing, picking up trash.

  He wouldn’t be at the time-craft, would he? He couldn’t get inside. Maybe nature was calling and he found a private bush somewhere. But why didn’t he wake me and let me know where he was going? He said he wouldn’t leave me. Last night is a little blurry, but my Butterman steel-trap memory rarely lets me down, and I know he said he’d stay with me.

  And that he’d catch me if I fell …

  I check my watch again. Time to get a move on. Yesterday’s discovery of the CI and Boris Butterman flood my brain, dousing me with clarity. If I’m meant to be here, then I’m also meant to find Boris. Right now it makes more sense to me than anything else.

  Bryan appears, bare-chested and loose-bellied, his hair dripping wet. “Mornin’, Sunshine.”

  “Have you seen Tristan?”

  He chuckles. “He had to walk what’s-her-name back to her pop-up. She got a little toasty if you know what I mean.”

  “What’s-her-name?” I repeat. “Who?”

  He shakes his hair out, then crouches to enter the tent. “You know—Blondie. Uh, Nancy … that’s her name. Well, Nighty-night.” He grins, then disappears inside the tent.

  My chest caves inward. Nancy’s still around? And Tristan left with her? I smack my lips together, dry and crusty. I need water, but it hardly seems important at this very moment when my gut feels like it’s been kicked.

  Chapter

  19

  I return from washing my face at the lake to find Tristan approaching the tent. I watch him while he doesn’t notice me, letting him slip inside to find Bryan and Rosy, then backing out and scanning the area.

  He must be looking for me. Good, let him look. Let him be worried.

  He spots me, throws his open palms up in the air and grins. “There you are. Morning.”

  All I respond with is a half-nod. No smile. No eye contact. Then finally say, “We’ve gotta move out, find Butterman Farms.”

  “Yeah, and some food and water. I’m starving. So do you know where it is?”

  I tap my watch. “Got it programmed right here. No GPS, but I mapped it out manually yesterday. Should take about 75 minutes walking time if we keep a steady pace.”

  I have one water pack left, but I don’t tell him yet. We need to ration it wisely.

  Tristan blocks my path, reaching for my arm, but I pull away, sidestep around him.

  “What’s going on, Butterman? You pissed?” he asks, surprised.

  I can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m hurt. “Nope. Just ready to get moving.”

  “There’s the Butter-dud we know so well,” he says, a mock pouty face on. “Come on, I thought we had a great time last night. It’ll start coming back to you, then you’ll be in a better mood.”

  Men. What goes through their heads? As if it really helps to minimize our moods by assuring us it’ll pass. I don’t want it to pass. I’m moody for a reason.

  “I don’t really care to discuss last night.” I step up my pace.

  He wraps his fingers around my right hand. “Just trying to cheer you up.” He lingers like he’s waiting for my approval.

  He’ll be waiting awhile.

  I pull my hand away. “Maybe you shoulda thought of that before. Before you—” I stop. He can’t know I’m jealous, and I don’t want to give into these irrational feelings. I need to attack this from another direction.

  “Before what?” he asks, beside me.

  My tone changes, softens. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  The sun is rising quickly, the air already sticky with heat. Sweat forms on my neck and chest. What I wouldn’t give for a change of clothes.

  “Yesterday was epic. And last night was the cherry to top it off.” Tristan trails just behind me. “Come on, you know you had fun.”

  “No, you had fun. Now it’s time to work.” I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. Doesn’t help that I haven’t had my usual morning latte, or that my head’s fuzzier than usual.

  Tristan forces me to stop just before the trampled fence, his hands on my shoulders. “You gonna tell me what’s bothering you? Or we gonna continue to play games all day?”

  “Hmm, let’s see,” I start. “It could be the fact you disappeared without telling me you were leaving. Or maybe, it’s ‘cause you kissed me, then left me when a better option came along.”

  I hadn’t planned to spill it quite like that, but now that it’s done, the tension in my shoulders slides right down my back and off
my ass. Good riddance.

  “That’s what you’re upset over? Nancy Cloud-Kisser, or whatever her spirit name is?” Tristan’s brows are arched and he looks ridiculously homeless in the leftover tatters of his black turtleneck and mud-stained pants.

  I only pause for a minute, then shimmy away from him and traipse over the broken wire fence. Truth is, I’m embarrassed by my own jealousy—if that’s what it even is.

  “It wasn’t like that,” he calls after me, then appears at my side. “Look, you and I come from different worlds. What’s norm for me, may not be standard for you.”

  I glare at him now, adrenaline quickening my breath. “Norm? You’re saying it’s normal to mess around with more than one girl in a night?”

  “In my world, yeah it is.” He shrugs. “But that’s not—”

  I grimace, glancing at my watch’s compass, then veering right toward what should be the main road. This conversation is about to take a dump, and I can’t stomach it any longer.

  “Bianca, that’s not what I meant. I feel like you and I really bonded last night. You were amazing—you let loose and had fun.” Breathless now, he struggles to mimic my pace. “Can you please slow down? I haven’t slept. I’m operating on last night’s fumes.”

  I keep my pace.

  “Nancy came along after you passed out. I couldn’t blow her off. This place is all about friendship, you know? Biggest love fest ever. I was being nice.”

  Does he even remember that look he gave me last night? Or that he said he’d catch me if I fell? I’m not about to remind him. We were high, that’s all—which is probably why I feel so crummy right now. I was naïve to believe him. “You left me. How could you do that?”

  “You were fine—totally safe and passed out. I carried you inside the tent, then Bryan and Danny and me hung out, played more music. More people came by, and it turned into a party. Once Nancy showed up, it was almost dawn and I walked her back to her trailer to be polite. We started chatting about the performances and next thing I knew the day was getting brighter. That’s it.”