“Thanks Clarence.”
He turned without saying another word.
Emmy ran out of the shop, got on her bike and pedalled down the hill towards downtown and The Cracker Barrel.
Biking through the hub of activity in the downtown dining district was time consuming. The place was never as busy as it was then. All of the drama surrounding the missing Blue Moon had amplified traffic, just like in the black market. The restaurant was on the main street and Emmy needed to get off her bike and walk it next to her.
She parked her bike and walked in, only to be met by something she’d never seen before. The strange sight made her stop in her tracks. There was a small green frog in front of her. The small green frog seemed to be standing on two legs, wearing a purple and gold suit, and staring Emmy straight in the eyes.
As Emmy stood at the door, her mouth agape, a tiny ball whizzed past her head, brushing her silver hair. The ball flew into the hands of the frog blocking her path.
The frog said, “Come inside and close the door quickly.”
Emmy instinctively knew to listen, and closed the door and entered the dimly lit, empty restaurant.
When the door closed, the frog asked, “Is your name Emmy Whitewood?”
Not sure what to do or say, she asked, “Are you a frog?”
The frog raised his small hand as if to say, wait a minute. He looked into the ball that had flown into his hands and said, “Detective Shankar, I’ve found the girl. She’s too surprised by my appearance to confirm her identity, but I’m sure it’s her. My camera picked her up in the market and followed her here. Would you like me to lead her to you?”
Emmy couldn’t hear any response, but she could tell the frog was hearing one. The frog looked at her and said, “He’ll be right over.”
“Who’ll be right over? Who are you? How is it you’re a frog who can talk, and who did you just speak with?”
“I can talk because I was created this way. Don’t worry about it. The person I spoke with is a detective from Earth. He just arrived here on St. John’s. He was offering top dollar for anyone who found you, plus a paid flight off of this space-island. A good deal. I sent out a few of these camera balls and they tracked you down when you were in the black market. Looks like I just found my ticket outa here.”
“But you’re a frog who can talk?”
“Hahaha. You silly, insular people. No one on St. John’s knows anything about the Solar System. I’m a creation.”
“What’s a creation?”
“You’ll see if you spend any more time here at this restaurant. I’ve got some animal DNA, and some human DNA. A human created me to work for him, but a few years ago, I decided I wanted to work for myself, so I started out on my own. Don’t ask me how I ended up on this dump of a space-island.”
Emmy was about to ask him just that, but a strange looking person entered the restaurant and said, “Felicitations. You have done the needful thing for me. Here is your reward and your ticket. Thank you for your services to me.”
The tall man handed over a piece of paper and a small purse to the frog. The man spoke in a melodic accent Emmy could understand, but was so different from the common accent of her homeland.
“Thanks,” the frog said, looking in the purse, counting the money. He looked up and added, “Nice doing business with you. Let me know if you need to find anyone on Earth.”
“Hopefully, I’m back on the same flight as you,” the tall man said, smiling at the little frog. They said goodbye and the frog left the restaurant without giving any salutation to Emmy.
The tall man turned to Emmy, smiling as he said, “Is your good name Emmy Whitewood?”
The beam of the man’s smile made Emmy feel unsure. She mustered a belligerent tone and said, “And who’s asking?”
“My good name is Shankar, Detective Shankar.”
He took off a glove and put out a hand for Emmy to shake. Emmy noticed that the color of his skin was dark — darker than the skin on his face and much darker than the skin of any person from St. John’s, where people all had either grey or bleach-white skin. Emmy shook his hand, but the smiling and the color of his skin left her without a clue as to what to say. She blurted, “I’m fine, thanks for asking. How are you?” even though Shankar had never asked how she was.
Shankar took no notice of her agitation; he simply smiled and said, “I’m great. Glad to be here. It was a long trip.”
He took a step closer to Emmy, who could now see that Shankar’s eyes were not grey, as they were with most people from St. John’s. His eyes were bright blue.
Shankar noticed that Emmy was staring at his dark hands again. “Oh yes, my hands. I didn’t have time to get a high quality disguise. Plus, I had to take what my travel agent arranged for me. I was in a rush to get here and I was only given a mask and this hat. Who cares though, I need to take this thing off soon — it’s itchy.”
“A mask? I don’t understand,” Emmy said.
“I’m from Earth. I’ll stick out here in St. John’s if I don’t wear a mask. My skin is dark, as my ancestral DNA is mostly Indian. I was born in Toronto, in Canada, but I grew up in India, specifically in Bombay.”
“What are you doing here? And why were you looking for me?”
“I can tell you all the information you are wanting, but we need to be somewhere private. This restaurant will be opening in just a few minutes, so we can’t stay here.”
Emmy looked Shankar over. She didn’t have a choice but to trust him for now. “There aren’t many places where you can be private on St. John’s. People are nosy and there are lots of tattle-tales and gossipers. We should head back to my cottage.”
“I’ll follow you.”
“I’ve only got my bicycle. We’ll need to walk.”
“Walk? We don’t have time.” The tall Indian man motioned for Emmy to move outside. She followed, and when they walked onto the street, Shankar called, “Taxi!”
Emmy stared in disbelief. She’d read about people doing such a thing in some comic books — she’d even read a book where the main character was a taxi driver. But, she’d never heard it spoken aloud before. Of course, no such service existed on St. John’s. People were self-sufficient and looked after themselves.
“We don’t have those on St. John’s,” she said, but to her surprise a small electric powered truck drove up beside them. Its door was marked, St. John’s Maintenance.
“Oh great,” Shankar said. “Emmy, please tell this good man where you need for him to take us.”
Emmy looked at the driver and could tell he was wearing a mask just like Shankar. The driver said, “Where are you headed?”
“Whiterose Road, near 10th line,” Emmy said.
“Put the bike in the back, let’s go,” the driver said.
Shankar grabbed Emmy’s bicycle and put it in the truck. They both got into the backseats and they were off.
Inside the cab, Emmy asked the driver, “How did you get this truck? It’s property of the government.”
“I just lease it off this guy who works for the government. I drive cab for off-worlders on St. John’s at night when he’s not working. These days, he ain’t even going into work, not since the Blue Moon disappeared. So, I been putting in extra time, making money. Gonna leave this place when I can.”
Emmy settled into a comfortable seat in the truck. It was better than biking. While the cab sped along, Shankar continued to itch at his mask. “I can’t take it anymore,” he said. “I can’t live with this mask. I mean, it’s crazy in the first place. What kind of a society bans foreigners? Why should I have to wear a mask when I travel here? It’s absurd. I’m taking it off.”
Shankar peeled the mask from his face, chuckling like he was letting Emmy in on a mischievous prank. With his mask off, he revealed a brown skin color that Emmy recognized from pictures she had seen in her copy of the Traveler’s Guide to the Solar System. The mask had also made him look younger than he really was. He was an old man.
Emmy could
also see what he was wearing under his grey cloak — a dark black suit with dark trim — many shades past the darkness limit for clothes on St. John’s. She’d also seen clothes like this in her guidebook — a hard thing to miss when you come from a colony where almost everyone dressed in the same utilitarian fitting, same-shade-of-grey clothing.
Then, Shankar took off his hat. Beneath was a bush of bright red hair that he’d tried to comb back, but this style seemed difficult to hold in place, given his hair’s wiry texture.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Emmy said, staring at the wild ball of bright red hair.
The truck began to slow as they arrived at Emmy’s cottage. They got out, Shankar picked the bike up from the back of the truck, then paid the driver. The truck turned around and left.
Emmy led Shankar into the cottage and sat him down at the kitchen table. “Would you like some tea?” Emmy said.
“Thank you kindly. On Earth, of course, St. John’s silver leaf tea is a delicacy. I love it.”
“Did you know that everyone on St. John’s drinks this tea?” she said and began to boil water.
“I read the plant was engineered when your space-island was first terraformed. The tea was the first lifeform designed specifically for St. John’s. It’s considered the original St. John’s DNA. But more importantly, it’s a bright and cheerful drink.”
“It’s the building block of St. John’s. You know a bit about this place, don’t you,” Emmy said, her eyes widened.
“I am a detective. These days, I am inquiring about St. John’s. It’s my job to know as much as there is to know about this place.”
“And how do your investigations find you looking for me?” Emmy said.
“That’s an interesting story. Where to start?” Shankar paused to think.
Emmy felt a rush of vitality in her veins that had been dammed up inside since her mother and the Blue Moon disappeared. Finally, some movement. Some news.
“Just start,” she said.
Shankar said, “I’ll begin on Earth a few weeks ago. I heard voices.”
“What?! Say that again! You heard voices?”
“Wait a second — ah, I see. No, it’s not like that. The voices weren’t in my head — no, I actually heard voices.”
“How do you know they weren’t in your head? Where were the voices coming from?” Emmy was no longer having trouble harnessing her belligerent tone.
“First of all, I wasn’t the only one to hear them — other people were there too. The voices themselves — I suppose they were coming from the Blue Moon. One of the voices was your mother’s.”
Emmy paused her skepticism at the mention of her mother. Shankar once again had her attention.
“I still don’t know how she did it, but one day, with plenty of people around, her voice sounded out of nowhere.”
“How did you know it was my mother’s voice?”
“Well, she told me who she was, of course. You cannot be thinking I recognized some lady’s voice even though I’ve never met her before and she lives half-a-solar-system away? I’m a good detective — some people consider me the best on Earth — but that would be a stretch, even for me. I heard your mother’s voice, through thin air, on a number of occasions.
“She didn’t get to her name the first time she spoke to us. I was with my investigative team. We were on the sight of what had once been a popular tourist attraction on Earth. Before being a tourist attraction, in an ancient time, it was a spiritual site. A place called Stonehenge.”
The kettle whistled and Emmy motioned for Shankar to pause his story. She poured the boiling water into the dried leaves of the silver tea bush. The concoction glowed while the water was hot, and lost its glow as it cooled.
Shankar took a sip. “This is what is needed in such a cold place. It is incredible. All northern cities on Earth drink it. It helps in the long winters. I’ve lived in Toronto, I am telling you, I know.”
“So, you were saying about Stonehenge,” Emmy said.
Shankar continued, “Stonehenge is a series of rocks arranged so that they measure and track the movement of the stars. Because it was erected so early in human history, Stonehenge speaks to one of evolution’s first distinctly human expressions: the questioning of — and interest in — what’s out there. What is happening beyond, where things can’t be seen? Beyond the valley, through the forest, over the seas, in the stars.
“This ancient site had just been destroyed. Its rocks obliterated. There was an outcry at first, and some people were scandalized. Then, a brilliant materials manipulator showed that he could recreate an exact replica of the original Stonehenge. He finished his video bulletin by reminding everyone that no travel plans need to be changed — Stonehenge could be rematerialized, just as it was, down to the nanodetail, and every one could visit again just as soon as could be.
“It was rebuilt that same day and the story faded from the news. The ancient site was as empty of visitors as ever. We went to the new Stonehenge, to gather evidence of how it had been obliterated in the first place.
“Video showed a young schoolboy with a nervous twitch and mad eyes. People on Earth had only ever seen such behavior in horror movies. Gnashing teeth, frothing at the mouth, his red eyes wide open. He had a gravity gun and he was shooting beams all over the place.
“He grabbed one of the upright rocks with a gravity beam. He lifted the rock into the air and threw it up even higher. The rock fell from the sky, slamming into other rocks. The crazy bugger reduced the entire place to rubble in a matter of minutes, then ran off.
“Someone found the boy’s body a few kilometers away that same day. He’d shot himself in the head with an old fashioned gun. The entire story had made global headlines for a few hours, but the narrative seemed complete; Stonehenge was rebuilt, and the crazy vandal-boy dead by suicide. No one was looking for any more news.
“I was there because I was certain the destruction of Stonehenge was the latest in a line of acts of terrorism targeted against places of historical significance on Earth. Museums, churches, temples, art galleries, old buildings... so many had been erased from the map over the last few months. Cave paintings in Europe graffitied, the Brooklyn Bridge collapsing, the Sphinx, the Smithsonian. The list goes on and on.
“Most people on Earth are too busy and self-centered to worry about a few old places burning or falling to the ground. Most people just believe old engineering is at fault. Old things don’t last, of course. No one sees conspiracy; no one suspects this is an attack. But I do.
“I was sure these attacks had some connection and some meaning to them. There were too many to just be a coincidence. So, we were at the site of the latest destruction, looking for a clue to help our investigation. And, as I was saying, I heard a voice — we all heard a voice, your mother’s voice.”
“Well, what did she say?”
“It was the first time she spoke to us, so she didn’t get much out. She said, The person you are looking for is named Jinn. He changes his body, but he’s the person attacking Earth’s history. And that was it. The voice was loud enough so that we all heard it.”
“So, what did you do?”
“We thought God was speaking to us, or something. We were standing in the middle of a recently-destroyed-then-rebuilt Stonehenge, and suddenly, some loud voice tears through the air without any discernible source. We didn’t know what to do.
“Then, we started discussing what we’d heard, and we all became excited about the investigation. The idea of our suspect being a body-changer fit and we knew it. It was a huge break and it had me humbled for missing the obvious. The twitching — we’d seen recordings of the people who’d committed acts of destruction. Body-changers often have nervous twitches — an unfortunate byproduct of the brain, eyeball and nervous system transplant that makes up the body-changing procedure. Almost no one body-changes because of this. It’s impossible for medicine to repair the damage done to the nervous system in these procedures. It’s a su
b-atomic problem.”
“When did you find out it was my mother?”
“The next time your mother spoke to us, a few days later, at Stonehenge again. She told us her name and where she was from. She was never able to speak with us for long. Whatever force she was manipulating in order to speak over such a great distance — she didn’t seem to have complete control over it. She always seemed rushed and her voice would fade away eventually.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“We kept tents pitched at Stonehenge for days while we waited for your mother to speak again. In the end, the story she told me went something like this:
“A Martian spy had been living in the Blue Moon, unknown to your mother. He was from St. John’s, but had made a deal with the Martians and worked for them.
“This spy had recently fled the Blue Moon. The timing of his defection was what alarmed your mother.” Shankar paused, then continued, “She said miraculous things were happening on the Blue Moon.”
“Miraculous?”
Shankar nodded and said, “It’s what we’ve all been waiting for; the cure to all the Solar System’s problems. She said the miracle of life was back in the Blue Moon. There was an entire ecosystem there, everything was procreating the natural way — babies and pregnancy and fertility and seeds — she was witnessing the miracle of life happen on its own.
“Your mother and I also agreed on what the Martians would do if they found out this was happening. Competition in the life-creation markets. Competition from an unseen and powerful force. Mars would never allow it. The Creator of Mars would come for the Blue Moon.”
“What business is it of Mars? Why should they care? Wouldn’t they welcome the return of natural life creation? Doesn’t everyone want that?”
Shankar shook his head slowly back and forth, giving a solemn no.
“The man who controls Mars is a dangerous person. He’s extremely old. He invented the terraformation processes that made Mars habitable, that made all of these space-islands habitable. He was also the first person to mass produce DNA calibrated for life on these new places. In his mind, he is the creator of planets and people, like God. It may have taken him more time than the seven days the Bible said it took God, but who was counting? When the miracle of life ended, he was happy. He said it was a natural continuation of the maturity of the human race — that we were growing up and gaining responsibility.
The Blue Moon - Part 1 - Into the Forest Page 5
