Oracle--Fire Island

by C. W. Trisef

  “I apologize for the way I mistreated you,” spoke Mr. Coy to Ishmael in sober tones, “back there, at the top of the volcano.” His speech was low, almost inaudible over the hum of the engine, and he frequently glanced over at Pauline to make sure she couldn’t hear his confession. “I jumped to conclusions and overreacted, and I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted,” Ishmael smiled with frank forgiveness.

  “I have to admit,” Coy continued in lighter spirits, as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders, “I wasn’t expecting you to come back so soon, let alone with the balloon—and full of lake people, too!” Ishmael chuckled. “Very impressive; very—coy.”

  “I learned from the best,” Ishmael said tenderly.

  “How did you woo Bubba?” Coy queried.

  “With the extract,” Ishmael described. “It was easy, really. And as soon as the natives at Lake Titicaca saw Bubba—or, I should say, the ‘man with flaming hair’—they wanted to put an end to him right then and there. It was all I could do to hold them off until we got back to Easter Island.”

  “And his shoes?”

  “I thought we’d keep them—as a souvenir, of course,” Ishmael smirked. “And who knows? They might come in handy someday. There were a few additional stops on my way back to the lake.”

  “So you’re not the one who tipped off Lye then, hmm?” Coy asked.

  “Definitely not, sir,” Ishmael answered truthfully.

  “Curious,” Coy mumbled pensively, “very curious, indeed.” His gaze naturally fell on Ret.

  But Ret’s mind was elsewhere. With his back toward the interior of the basket, he was leaning over its side, staring back at what used to be Fire Island. It was now a gaping void—a black hole—bent on swallowing everything around it. The land had long since been sucked in, leaving not so much as a hint that solid ground had once existed there. Under such unsupported weight, the ceiling of the colossal magma chamber had given way, with gravity pushing a huge swath of the Pacific Ocean to rush in and fill the empty space. With agonizing familiarity, Ret looked on.

  His only comfort came when Paige silently strode to his side and passed her arm around his back. Their eyes met, and Ret smiled briefly. Paige rested her head on his shoulder and joined Ret’s gaze. For several moments, not a word was exchanged, for something greater than speech was at work. It was a silent conversation between his soul and hers. Spurred by Paige’s concerted effort to think what Ret was thinking and feel what he was feeling, their hearts harmonized in a profound way. She ached at his pain; she mourned for his loss. And so, with psyches in sync and auras in alignment, more of their differences disappeared while more of their natures became one—all without speaking a single word.

  “So let’s see this element,” Mr. Coy interrupted with a clap, trying to spread some cheer amid the dreary mood in the basket.

  Ret reached in his pocket and pulled out the Oracle. He held it up for all to see. The radiant beauty of the Oracle stood in striking contrast to the dismal scene of destruction behind them. Like a chandelier with a thousand jewels, it caught and reflected the waning sunlight with perfect beauty. The red flame of the fire element danced in its compartment, happy to be home, while its neighbor, the shining earth element, seemed overjoyed at the return of a friend. In a manner that almost seemed to mock the great sacrifices rendered on their behalf, the blissful elements in the pristine Oracle exuded emotions of peace, security, and contentment. In the face of such pervasive havoc and hardship, the Oracle seemed to promise that, in the end, everything would be okay.

  “Two down,” Ret summarized, his stricken voice void of any celebration, “four to go.”

  “We’re on fire!” Mr. Coy applauded, pleased by his pun.

  No one moved to respond. The conversation died as its members dispersed, preferring instead to rest their weary hearts and exhausted frames. Ret and Paige retreated to one of the basket’s unoccupied corners, where they hunkered down amid the cooling air of the approaching evening. Mr. Coy returned to Ishmael’s side to oversee the steering.

  Finding a lull in things, Pauline approached her daughter, who was still moping in her chosen corner.

  “Now, dear” she addressed Ana, whose lingering frustration was finally lessening now that she had at last gained her mother’s attention, “what was it you were trying to tell me? Something about a man helping Lye back there?”

  “Mom,” Ana stated with unrivaled soberness, “I think it was Dad.”