by D. B. Magee
Stacy strolled up slowly next to Ryan. “What?”
With a tilt of his head, Ryan indicated the sign attached to the building. “I reckon this’ll explain the reason for this-here festival.”
Looking up at the sign, Stacy read:
CENTER FOR ZOOLOGICAL STUDIES – DESIGN AND CREATION
After pondering the sign’s meaning for a minute, Stacy said, “Everything we saw in the festival was just models and holograms. You don’t think they create real animals here, do you?”
“We certainly do,” a voice said from behind.
Ryan and Stacy turned to find a tall man with wavy black hair, who looked about thirty years of age looking at them. His eyes, however, suggested wisdom beyond his years. The bright glow emanating from his inner light indicated a highly progressed soul, and his formal, full-length purple robe denoted intellect and academia.
The man smiled heartily and put out his hand in greeting. “Welcome,” he said. “Forgive the intrusion. My name is Brian. I am the custodian here.”
Ryan thrust forth an arm and firmly shook Brian’s hand. “I’m Ryan, and this here’s my friend Stacy.”
Brian, using two hands, shook Stacy’s hand graciously, and then cupped his hands behind his back. His stance and mannerisms resembled deity more than authority. “I’m pleased to meet you both,” he said cordially. Then, noticing their clothes, he added, “I take it you two are new arrivals.”
“I reckon that depends on what ya mean by new arrivals,” Ryan said with a chortle. “We’re new here, all right, but we ain’t what you’d call permanent.”
“We’re just visiting,” Stacy clarified.
“Ah, I see. You’re astral visitors then,” Brian said, both delighted and surprised.
“That’s about the size of it,” Ryan said, with a hardy nod and a wide grin.
“I’m always fascinated by the methods that allow a person to astral travel,” Brian said. “I think, though, that this is the first time I’ve ever seen two people traveling together. Can you tell me how you both managed . . .?”
Unable to contain her excitement any further, Stacy interrupted Brian. “So,” she said, fidgeting with excitement, “can kids truly create REAL animals here?”
Brian chuckled at Stacy’s exhilaration. “They learn to design real animals here,” he clarified. “Some of our top achievers are selected to have real animals created from their designs. Those specimens live here in Summerland for the enjoyment of the children. The marine animals are housed in that large body of water referred to as the Aquarium, over on that side of the property.” He pointed to the lake that Stacy and Ryan had noticed upon arrival. “The land animals reside in the Zoo on the other side of the property.” He indicated the wilderness area, off in the other direction.
“Sometimes, a few of our animals,” Brian continued, “are specially selected to help populate other worlds. How that happens, however, is too advanced for this school. The main purpose here is to begin the education of those students who wish to grow up to be designers and populators of developing new worlds.”
Brian paused, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly and his eyes sparkling as he reflected on something. “When I first created this animal park,” he said, “it was intended to be a therapeutic aid for new arrivals. It still is, mind you, but with the addition of the learning center, the main focus, now, is on the education for animal life creation.”
Brian put a hand forward. “How would you two like to accompany me around the Student Park? You can tell me all about yourselves.”
The kids agreed, and as Brian led them out onto a new path, he put his arms around their shoulders. “So, tell me,” he said, with a curious smile, “how did you two manage to astral travel simultaneously?”
With the musical sounds of birds in the trees and the aromatic scents of the park’s flowers wafting through the air, Ryan and Stacy related their story.
Brian listened intently, and on the completion of the tale he rubbed his chin. “So, you kids found ol’ Davy’s magic spectacles, did you?”
Ryan and Stacy shot surprised looks at each other, and then at Brian.
“You, you – know about the Frequency Glasses?” Stacy stammered.
“Indeed, I do,” Brian exclaimed. “You see, David Finch, the inventor of the glasses, is my oldest and dearest friend. We have been friends ever since we were kids, around your age,” he said, looking at Stacy. “After I died in a scuba diving accident, he invented the Frequency Glasses in order to see me again. And, through that wonderful invention of his, I was not only able to stay in touch with him, but also my wife and daughter.”
“Brian,” Ryan said, “since you and Mr. Finch were best friends, I don’t suppose, then, that you’d know anything about a ship’s wheel that was stored in his safe.”
“Ah!” Brian breathed. “The old ship’s wheel; I had nearly forgotten about that. We found it diving off of Key West, Florida when we were youngsters.” He smiled as he reminisced. “I remember the news media did a story on us. Everyone thought it came from some famous pirate ship. For years, people seemed to come out of the woodwork, looking for the rest of the ship and any treasure that it might have carried. As far as I know, nothing of the ship that that wheel belonged to has ever been found.”
Ryan, now ready to jump out of his skin with excitement, said, “There’s a sketch of a place called Blood Island engraved on the hub. Do you know anything about it?”
“Yes,” Brian replied. “We tried to research it. We checked all of the maps that we could get our hands on for an island with that name, without success. We even tried to match its shape to the shape of other islands, but finally gave up. I suppose with today’s computer technology and that thing you call the internet, you might have better luck finding it, if it actually exists.”
Brian regarded Ryan earnestly. “Be careful, though,” he warned. “If the public finds out you have that wheel, they’ll hound you for a glimpse of it.”
Stacy stood silently off to the side, letting her mind wander, and taking in the sights while Brian and Ryan talked treasure. Something began to occur to her. She looked back at the learning center, and then around the Student Park at all the different mock animals. She then considered the lake and the wilderness area where they kept the live animals. The realization hit her like a blast of cold air to the face.
She yanked Ryan’s arm, pulling him off to the side. “Ryan! Do you know what this is?” she whispered. “This is the real-life version of your grandmother’s game!”
Ryan tilted his hat back with a finger. “What’re you going on about, Stacy?”
“Look,” she said, indicating the grounds in front of them. “This is the Spirit Park.”
“You mean, Student Park,” Ryan corrects, remembering what Brian had called it.
“Student Park – Spirit Park, same thing,” she huffed impatiently. “They both start with SP.” Stacy pointed off to the left. “Over there is the Aquarium. And over that way,” she added, pointing to the right, “is the Zoo.” She looked intently at Ryan. “Don’t you see?” she said, her face all aglow. “This is the real SPAZ!”
“That is the same name my daughter gave for this place when she would visit as a young girl.” Brian said, overhearing Stacy. He stepped closer. “She liked to use this park as inspiration for some computer project she was working on at the time.”
“Wait!” Stacy said, suddenly losing her smile as her mind struggled to make sense of something. “Did her computer project happen to be a 3D game?”
“Yes, I believe it was,” Brian answered thoughtfully.
“Oh, my gosh!” Stacy cried, staring at Ryan, who being a little slow to grasp things simply stared blankly at his overexcited friend. “Don’t you know what this means, Ryan?”
“Uh, no, I can’t rightly say as I do,” he utters.
Stacy leaned in close and whispered something in his ear.
Ryan stumbled back. “What!?” he exploded, quickly turning
his gaze on Brian, and then back to Stacy. “You’re saying that Brian is my – my great-granddad?”
The Return Home
With the joyous sounds of SPAZ fading off behind Ryan and Stacy as they headed toward the other side of the island, to where they’d left William and Lisa, they decided to take a slow, low-altitude, scenic route back, in order to reminisce about their most recent experiences and discoveries.
“Well, it certainly makes sense now,” Stacy said as she and Ryan, in a carefree manner, followed a babbling brook as it ran between two opposing hillsides covered with soft velvety green grass and interspersed with decorative patches of variegated wildflowers. They approached a small group of children flying in the opposite direction and waving merrily. Stacy waved back as the children passed by.
“What makes sense?” Ryan asked, being pulled from his thoughts and the pleasant memory of meeting his great-grandfather for the first time.
“The reason that your grandmother’s journal was in the safe,” Stacy replied. “And the connection that she has with David Finch—that, of course, being Brian, your great-grandfather.” Stacy looked over warmly at Ryan. “I also think I know why she made a game mimicking her father’s park,” she added, thinking about her own deceased parents. “I bet she was trying to honor him.”
Ryan remained silent as he considered Stacy’s comments, and the remainder of their trip across the island was peaceful and quiet as both children, individually, reflected on their adventures thus far.
At the edge of a woodsy area a boy flew a zigzag pattern through the trees. Quickly, he ducked behind a large, leafy one, when at the same instant, SMASH! A spherical object hit the tree, sending sparks flying in all directions. Taking advantage of the pause between attacks, the boy raced off once again into the forest.
A moment later, William’s wispy form flashed onto the scene of the attack. Yanking the ball from the tree, he darted a few feet into the forest, cocked his arm back, and launched it after a different unsuspecting target whose head and back weren’t quite protected by the bush he was hiding behind. The aim was wide and SWISH was the sound the ball made as it nearly grazed the boy’s ear. The youngster gasped and quickly zipped off.
Noticing Ryan and Stacy arrive, William zipped up next to them. “Hi, guys,” he said, holding an open hand out at his side.
Ryan and Stacy returned the greeting and then watched, with great interest, as a glimmering translucent ball far ahead made a U-turn around a clump of trees and returned on its own to William’s outstretched hand.
Just as Ryan was about to inquire, of William, as to the nature of this fascinating game the astral links of himself, Stacy, and William were broken by the sound of someone yelling.
“Dinnertime!” Lisa shouted from the hallway. “Mom says wash up and come downstairs!”
Ryan, Stacy and William returned to their physical bodies with such an abrupt and unpleasant force that it felt like it might knock them out of their chairs. Groans, moans and sounds of shock were heard from each of them.
“Welcome back,” Lisa said, as she entered Stacy’s room.
Stacy rubbed her dry eyes and then looked at Lisa. “Oof! I feel so heavy,” she said, trying to stand.
Lisa sat down on the corner of Stacy’s bed, holding her dead arm on her lap and remembering her own unpleasant return, and also thinking how wonderful it was to be free of her disabled body for a while. “Don’t worry, it passes quickly,” she said reassuringly. “So, how was your trip to see the animals?”
“Great!” Stacy said, stretching her stiff body. “You’re not going to believe what Ryan and I found out.”
“Kids!” Mrs. Walborg called from the stairway. “Supper’s on the table!”
Lisa sprang off the bed. “Come on,” she said, heading for the door. “Let’s go eat. We can swap stories later.”
In an old, Western-style tavern, where the local riffraff hung out playing pool and ignoring the no-smoking sign that doubled as a dart board, Mr. Smith and Bubba sat at a booth in a dimly lit corner of the smoke-filled pub. This particular and most-desired table, away from eavesdropping, had been graciously surrendered by a couple of lovebirds with minimal persuasion from Mr. Smith and the ivory-handled knife that was normally concealed in the top of his walking stick.
Now on his third pitcher of beer, Mr. Smith once again chugged directly from the serving vessel. Upon setting the pitcher back down on the table he wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“When I was a young cuss,” he slurred gruffly, “I was a hustler and very street-smart. I could always get what I wanted.” His speech trailed off unintelligibly.
Bubba sat quietly on the other side of the table, slowly sipping his beer from a bottle and listening intently to his otherwise tightlipped and secretive employer. Having been with Mr. Smith for only three months, Bubba still hadn’t been given a clue as to what they were after.
His head wobbling, Mr. Smith returned his gaze to his henchman. “As a lad, I used to go to the shipyards,” he said, rather abruptly. “I’d help the dockhands for spare change.” He pointed a shaky finger at Bubba. “That’s where I heard stories about it.”
This is what I’ve been waiting for, Bubba thought, leaning in a little closer and hoping that the belly full of beer would loosen his boss’s lips. “Really?” he said, feigning casual interest so as not to raise suspicions about his probing. “What did the dockhands say about it?”
“Not the dockhands, you fool,” Mr. Smith slurred, “the sailors. They said they saw pictures of it in the US newspapers.” He slammed his fist on the table. “I knew right then I had to have it!”
Bubba took a slug of his beer, sighting raptly down the bottle at his employer as if it were a gun barrel. “What did they say it was?”
Mr. Smith stammered, “They—said—it was . . .” but suddenly realizing that he was about to give away his secret, he caught himself and paused. Then, with blurry vision and an inebriated slouch he once again pointed unsteadily at Bubba. “They said it was—none of your business!” He laughed drunkenly and fell back against his seat, his hand dropping beside him with a thud.
Bubba leaned back slowly against his seat, resigned to the probability that his companion wouldn’t be revealing his secrets any time soon. Taking another sip of his beer, he stared at the slumped-over, pathetic excuse for a human being sitting across from him. I may be a thug, Bubba thought, but at least I’m a classy thug. He tugged absentmindedly at the lapels of his sports jacket.
Mr. Smith snapped upright, like a man suddenly possessed. “I t-taught myself English,” he stuttered. “And then—then—stowed away on a cargo ship for America.” He took another swig from his half-full pitcher of beer. “But—every time,” he continued, his head drooping as he held the pitcher of beer in the air in front of him, “that—that—I made it to this blessed country . . .” His arm instantly gave way, causing the pitcher to land with a bang on the table. Without further interruption, he proceeded with his drunken ramblings, “Homeland—S’curity—s-sent me back.” He began to lift the pitcher once again, but stopped and stared, blurry-eyed, into the golden effervescent liquid. Suddenly the thought of another drink repulsed him. He pushed it away and sank into the corner of the booth.
Bubba ordered two coffees, and watched silently as his boss tried to regain his composure.
“Finally,” Mr. Smith said, after a lengthy silence and a full cup of coffee, “after all these years, hundreds of newspaper articles, and that photo,” (he pointed loosely toward the car outside), “the trail ends here. So, this is where we start.”
Having finished supper and the cleanup chores, Lisa, Stacy, William, and Ryan retired to the game room, where they lounged about playing video games and discussing their escapades of the day, which they decided had been absolutely and undeniably the most wondrous adventure anyone, on earth, could ever undertake.
Stacy recounted, for the most part, hers and Ryan’s discovery of the real SPAZ, with Ry
an weighing in from time to time about Brian, its originator, being his great-grandfather. Lisa told of her visit with Aphelia, and William, being in the middle of a racing game with Ryan, related a spotty account of his tour by the Nabiyali, Felicity.
Eventually the conversation turned melancholy as the topic changed from their celestial recreations to the sad and suffering victims of life’s transition process, called death.
“Did you know,” William said, matter-of-factly, while trying to catch Ryan’s car on a straightaway, “that approximately twenty thousand kids die per day?”
“Hogwash!” Ryan blurted out, leading William’s car over a series of whoop-de-dos. “There’s no way that many kids die in one day.”
With his face twisted tight in concentration, William fiercely worked the controls in his hands. “Felicity told me so,” he declared, overtaking Ryan around a bend. “And I saw the nonstop stream of kids entering Summerland, myself.”
“How sad,” Lisa said, somberly. “If that many kids die per day, can you imagine how many people there are that are heartbroken, and mourn the loss of those kids.”
Stacy shifted in her seat. “Not to mention the kids themselves. They go through a mourning process also,” she shared. “In fact, Ryan’s great-grandfather told us that a lot of spirit children, when they first arrive in Summerland, miss their family so badly that they won’t play or talk with anyone for a long time.”
Hey, no cheating,” Ryan shouted, shoving Willy over on the couch.
“All right, guys,” Mrs. Walborg’s voice resonated up the stairs, “bedtime!”
A Plan is Hatched
Sunlight glared into the dining room, and the front door wavered slightly in the warm dusty breeze that blew in through the new screen door. An occasional chirp was heard from the few birds that had yet to take shelter from the blazing sun.
