Oracle--Fire Island

by C. W. Trisef

  “As a matter of fact, she hated it,” Pauline retold, “and she hasn’t stopped whining about it since. But she accepted my terms, even though she told me I need to be more like Mr. Coy: I guess when Paige asked her father, he granted his permission before she even finished asking—no questions asked.”

  “So you’re off to Chile, eh?” Ret said with a sly grin, knowing it wasn’t her cup of tea.

  “The things I do for my children,” she said tiredly. “True, it’s not my thing, but it helps that it’s all paid for. Plus, considering what you just told me about the mark on Miss Carmen’s back, I’m glad I’ll be with them in case anything unusual happens.”

  “I’m shocked you’re still going to go,” Ret admitted. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that her mark is the same as my—”

  “Then it’s a good thing I don’t think much of these scars then, isn’t it?” Stung, Ret left it at that.

  Silence prevailed for a few moments before Ret asked, “So does this mean I can go to Peru with Lionel?”

  “I was wondering when you might ask that,” Pauline confessed with an air of disdain. “I suppose it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t let you, would it?”

  “So I can go?” Ret asked, on the verge of keeling over with joy.

  “I guess,” she smiled.

  Ret burst into cheers. “Oh, thank you, Pauline! Thank you so much!”

  “This whole Oracle thing really means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” she deduced, happy that he was happy and that she had helped make him so.

  “It means the world to me,” he stated, still ecstatic.

  “Well, keep in mind,” she added, “the only reason I’m granting your wish so willingly is because you’ll be with Lionel. He’s a good man with a good head on his shoulders. I trust him, and you would do well to learn from him.”

  “I will,” Ret promised.

  “Now, if this adventure was being headed by Mr. Coy,” she said warily, “then my answer would be a resounding no.”

  As if he heard Pauline say his name, Mr. Coy appeared on the beach, a considerable distance away from where Ret and Pauline were sitting. Seeing something moving in their peripheral vision, the Coopers were both taken back to find the town hermit out in plain sight. In a very small way, they were glad he was walking towards them since they were very curious to learn the reason why he was strolling along the shore.

  “Who’s that other man?” Pauline asked Ret, noticing a second person following Mr. Coy.

  “Ishmael,” Ret answered, recognizing the man. “He’s the groundskeeper at the Manor.”

  Though brimming with anticipation, Ret and Pauline feigned a collected and uninterested façade as Mr. Coy and Ishmael approached them. This was a most unusual meeting, and the Coopers were on pins and needles to find out how Mr. Coy would explain himself or if he might ignore them altogether.

  Finally, he stood before them and asked, “Have either of you, by chance, seen a casserole dish around here?” Pauline unsuccessfully suppressed her shriek of a laugh.

  “Are you joking?” she asked.

  “He’s not,” answered Ishmael.

  “Look, Mr. Coy!” Ret said. “Lionel responded to my letter and sent me this rock.” He presented the sliver to Mr. Coy who took it begrudgingly. “He said it might be identical to the one you have.” A frown formed on Mr. Coy’s face, and it quivered with rage. “He said it’s from the Nazca Desert in southern Peru, and he wants to take me there when school’s out.”

  On account of his own innocence, Ret was unaware of how easily his report was misconstrued as a direct assault against Mr. Coy. Coy knew Ret was privy to his disgust toward Lionel, and now he felt as though Ret was rubbing it in his face.

  “Darn it, Ret!” Mr. Coy shouted. “If I hear one more thing about Lionel, I swear—” Mr. Coy turned and threw the piece of Lionel’s rock out to sea.

  “Mr. Coy!” Ret gasped. He instinctively shot out his hand to stop Mr. Coy’s rash move. Just as the skipping rock had bounced across the water for the third time, it stopped and came rushing back toward them. It flew directly into Ret’s hand, and he clasped his fingers tightly around it. Everyone stood frozen for a moment.

  “I…I knew—figured—that would happen,” Mr. Coy fibbed, floundering for words to explain away his temper. “I was just surprised,” he persisted, trying to appear rational, “by…by how long it took Lionel to come to that conclusion.” He convicted himself of his lies by the way his voice wavered. “I’ve known for weeks that the rock originated in southern Peru.”

  Ishmael chimed in, “No you—”

  “Quiet!” Mr. Coy interrupted for the sake of his rationalization, delivering a hearty punch to his associate’s shoulder. “Even now, my hot-air balloon stands ready to take us there as soon as school lets out for the holidays.”

  “You intend to travel all the way to Peru in a hot-air balloon?” Pauline asked incredulously.

  “Well, after considering a layover in Bogota,” explained Coy with a hint of sarcasm, “we’ve decided to make it a nonstop flight.”

  “I think it’s fine the way Lionel has it planned, Mr. Coy,” Pauline insisted. “I’m sure Ret will tell you all about it when he gets back.”

  Mr. Coy swallowed and dug his feet a bit deeper in the sand, ready to engage in a war of words.

  “You know,” he said, unprovoked, “a mother as sweet and compassionate and understanding as yourself would—”

  “Don’t patronize me, Coy,” she urged.

  Coy blinked a few times before continuing unabated. “I was merely going to point out that you, of all people, ought to sympathize with a fellow parent’s desire to accompany a minor on such an extended, overseas excursion. Remind me again of the ultimatum you gave your daughter Hannah?”

  “Ana,” Ret mumbled.

  “—Right, Ana?” Coy continued.

  “Were you listening to our—” Pauline started.

  “And riddle me this, oh hypocrite,” said Coy, despite Pauline’s hot displeasure. “Why do you think so little of the coincidence between Ret’s scar and pretty-faced Miss Carmen’s body art, but you don’t even bat an eye at a much more alarming and foreboding coincidence—namely, that our dear friend Lionel possesses the same artifact as your bosom buddy, Lester W. Stone?”

  For being such a dopey fellow, he had certainly made a sobering distinction.

  “Fine,” Pauline finally said, throwing up her arms. “What do I know? I’m just the mother, after all.”

  “Don’t let her guilt trip you, Ret,” Mr. Coy whispered to him. “My mother used to tell me the same thing all the time.”

  It was puzzling to Ret that no one bothered to ask his opinion on the matter. Truthfully, he was not opposed to Mr. Coy’s accompaniment on his journey with Lionel; unlike Pauline, Ret found Mr. Coy to be a valuable asset, with his innumerable collection of gadgets and gizmos. Still, Ret’s reservations stemmed from Mr. Coy’s incurable distaste for Lionel. He worried that Mr. Coy’s temper might get the best of him and thus spell the worst for the rest of them. As such, Ret’s only hope was that Mr. Coy and Lionel would work together to foster a spirit of synergy rather than vicious and villainous calumny.

  Not exactly reciprocating the kindest of feelings, the small huddle on the beach dispersed.

  “All my kids are running off to South America,” Pauline summarized as she walked off, clearly dissatisfied with her own approval of it all. Ever since Ret had pointed out the unexpected synchronism of his scar and Miss Carmen’s mark, Pauline had begun to feel a bit uneasy. By the time she reached the house, however, her uneasiness had progressed to full-blown dismay because of the eerie truth that both Lionel and Stone possessed the same rare rock—although she wasn’t sure what made her more aggravated: the coincidence of the rocks or the fact that Mr. Coy was the one who had shrewdly pointed it out.

  At the same time, Mr. Coy and Ishmael had left Ret’s company, striding across the sand toward the Manor. Coy didn’t fret nearly as much
about Miss Carmen as he did about Lionel. He didn’t trust him, and he wasn’t about to let Ret—or the Oracle—go gallivanting to Peru without himself coming along to keep Lionel in check.

  “Make sure to pack all your potions, Ishmael,” Mr. Coy instructed as their silhouettes were swallowed up in the evening shadows, “especially plenty of integritas extract.”

  Chapter 8

  The Lines in the Desert

  The happy day at last had come when school let out for the holidays. With unusual enthusiasm, the Cooper kids hopped off the afternoon bus and hurried home to finish packing in preparation for their trips abroad. Neither of them was envious of the other’s travel plans, as both were perfectly content with their own, each bound for an exotic land at the side of their respective role model. It was like a dream come true—for Ret, and for Ana.

  The first ring of the doorbell came by way of Paige, who rolled her one piece of luggage into the house and refrained from making herself comfortable since her arrival meant it was time for the women to depart for the airport, where they were to meet Miss Carmen.

  “Ana,” Pauline called to her daughter from downstairs, “Paige is here. Time to go!” From Ana’s room came the deep, guttural sound of a strained zipper coming together to enclose a bulging suitcase, followed by the rhythmic thuds of small luggage wheels crashing on each stair. Reaching the bottom floor, Ana dragged her suitcase into the entryway and parked it next to her other three pieces of overstuffed luggage.

  Noticing Paige’s light load, she sighed, “Good,” sounding winded, “you can carry some of mine.”

  Now that it was time to part ways and bid farewell, the awkwardness that Ret and the girls were dreading was beginning to set in. Ana and Paige were still giving Ret the cold shoulder, and Ret wasn’t exactly willing to stoop to groveling in order to rekindle any flames. So it was quite a relief for all of them when the second dingdong of the doorbell revealed Lionel on the porch, ready to accompany Ret to Coy Manor.

  “May I help you ladies with your things?” Lionel offered with smoldering chivalry. Happy to avoid the uncomfortable setting, Ret followed Lionel’s lead. Then, when finished, Ret quickly waved his general goodbye and started for the Manor.

  “What was that all about?” Lionel asked when he had caught up with Ret.

  “What?” Ret wondered defensively, though well aware what Lionel was referring to.

  “Back there,” Lionel explained. “You hardly said goodbye to them.”

  “It’s complicated,” Ret said.

  “I’m a smart guy,” Lionel pressed. “Try me.”

  While rowing the kayak across the creek, Ret described the situation to Lionel. He probably provided a bit more detail than his listener desired, but Ret couldn’t help himself: he loved how Lionel seemed to be so interested in his life.

  “If you ask me,” Lionel observed at the end of Ret’s summary, “it sounds like Paige just wants to know she’s not invisible to you. I remember watching her in Sunken Earth: terribly shy—always in Ana’s shadow. Why not tell her how you feel about her?”

  “Why does everyone keep saying that?” Ret wondered with a tinge of annoyance. “What if I don’t feel anything towards her?” They had secured the boat and commenced their climb up the hill. “I don’t want to think about that stuff right now. All I want to concentrate on is finding the five remaining elements and filling the Oracle. Once I’ve done that, then I’ll worry about my ‘feelings’ for Paige.”

  Lionel opened his mouth to respond but held his tongue, unsure if now was the right time or if Ret was yet ready for what he wanted to tell him. Personally, Lionel was growing a bit leery of what he perceived was Ret’s gradual preoccupation with the Oracle.

  Approaching the entrance to the Manor, Ret could see Mr. Coy and Ishmael out on the front lawn, not far from the main gate. Ishmael was handing different items to Mr. Coy who, standing on a ladder, was then loading them into a sort of raised basket.

  Ret recalled Mr. Coy’s plan to ferry him and Lionel to Peru via hot-air balloon. It seemed that such an airship lay before him, but, as with most of Coy’s creations, Ret had to literally stop and intently focus on the situation in front of him in order to better understand (and believe) what he was seeing.

  The raised basket was actually floating a few dozen feet above the lawn, held down by a couple of cables that were staked into the ground. It was a typical wicker basket, the most common breed of gondola for hot-air balloons, and it looked as though it might accommodate quite a few riders. Attached at the base of the basket was a sort of engine, the kind you’d expect to see on a jet airplane. Still, what puzzled Ret was the apparent absence of the actual balloon—the envelope in the shape of an inverted teardrop.

  “They are here, sir,” said Ishmael, informing Mr. Coy that Ret and Lionel had arrived.

  “Let them in,” said Coy, taking a handful of provisions from his assistant.

  Remotely controlled, Ret heard the gate unlock and pushed it open. As they walked toward the scene, Ret noticed how there was a huge piece—in the shape of a balloon—missing from the background, replaced by the partly cloudy, afternoon sky. Something was up, and Ret secretly loved getting to the bottom of Mr. Coy’s, well, coyness.

  “Greetings, Ret,” Mr. Coy said cheerily, jumping down from the ladder. Then, with dead seriousness, he and Lionel forced salutations by uneasily exchanging surnames.

  Said Coy, “Zarbock.”

  “Coy,” Lionel replied, employing a more pleasant tone. “I must say,” Lionel continued, hoping a compliment would foster friendship, “I am intrigued by your balloon.”

  “As you should be,” said Coy, turning to ascend the ladder into the basket. “Not only is it stealthily disguisable but also fully self-sustainable. Instead of the traditional envelope of rainbow-colored gores and annoyingly-cutesy designs, my balloon is covered in hundreds of lightweight solar panels.” Climbing inside the basket, Mr. Coy reached high above his head and tapped on the balloon, producing a sound as if he were rapping on plastic. “The energy garnered from the sun is stored in this battery.” He pointed to a large, blackened brick, hanging above the basket and half-concealed within the throat of the balloon. “Atop the battery is a hot plate, which not only keeps the cabin warm and toasty but also heats the air inside the balloon, allowing the craft to rise amid the colder air around it—just like any other balloon. But unlike any other balloon,” he said with visible self-gratification, “mine traps the hot air enough for condensation to build up inside the balloon, then water drips down onto the hot plate, thus becoming steam and keeping the hot air flowing.” He pried the base of the envelope away from the battery just enough to release several streams of water and a few puffs of steam in an effort to illustrate his lecture.

  “Also unlike other balloons,” he pressed on, “this baby can travel at speeds up to ten times faster, thanks to my repurposed jet engine—also powered by solar energy.” He leaned over the side of the basket to take an admiring look at his handiwork.

  “Why not just travel by plane?” Lionel inquired, asking the question that had been on his mind ever since Ret informed him of Mr. Coy’s intention to go by balloon.

  “Because public transit just doesn’t fly with me,” Coy explained, wincing, “and even if I wanted to take one of my planes, there’s the hassle of clearance and registering—you know, the legal way of things. Besides,” he shrugged, “then everyone would know what we’re up to, and that makes me terribly uncomfortable.”

  “Hence the camouflage,” Ret stated, ready for some answers in this regard.

  “Right, Cooper,” said Coy. “The silicon mixture inside the solar cells is a special solution that reflects its surroundings like a mirror while still absorbing the photons from the sun. In this way, the entire balloon takes on the appearance of whatever it is near. Blue during the day and black at night, we’ll be as difficult to spot as a tiny basket, floating in the endless sky.”

  After mulling it over for several secon
ds, Lionel concluded, “It seems a bit risky, if you ask me.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re full of hot air,” Coy teased. Lionel rolled his eyes. “Besides,” he continued, motioning to Ret, “we’ll have a human sparkplug onboard.”

  “I know he’s nuts,” Ret whispered to Lionel, “but his work is actually quite genius.”

  “If you say so,” he obliged, his reluctance succumbing to his trust in his teenage friend.

  When every bag, bundle, and body had been brought aboard, Ishmael reeled in the guy-lines, and the balloon bobbed free. Mr. Coy increased the heat available to the hot plate, which appeared to behave much like a pot of simmering water. The condensed water collected in a shallow pool at the bottom of the envelope; thus, by turning up the heat, Mr. Coy was able to burn off a greater proportion of the water and funnel hotter air into the system.

  Higher and higher, they rose above the island until clearly discernible features had been reduced to mere specks on a checkered landscape. In Ret’s limited estimation, the wind didn’t seem to be blowing them in the southern direction he knew they needed to take.

  “Fire up the engine, Ish,” Coy ordered.

  “Right away, sir.”

  Expecting a deafening roar and a sudden jolt, Ret was surprised to find that the engine hummed quietly and propelled gently. Standing in the center of the basket, Mr. Coy gripped a wheel that rose up from the floor and allowed him to control the position of the engine.

  “Good thing we added that extra dampener,” he remarked to Ishmael, pleased to find the engine’s roar not altogether unpleasant. He maneuvered the engine until it was taking in air from the direction they needed to go, expelling it behind them in the ever-increasing distance from Tybee.

  In an effort to keep from being spotted from the ground (especially since their shadow was not as easy to camouflage), Mr. Coy bent their course out to sea. Soon, the only thing to look at was open ocean, though such a view was not too bland or boring for Ret, even in the waning daylight. However, as they started to pass over the Caribbean islands, Ret’s heart began to sicken at the memory of Sunken Earth. He retired from his sightseeing, slunk into one of the corners of the basket, and drifted off to sleep.