Rippler

by Cidney Swanson

  Geology. Right! That was where I’d seen a map marked up like this. I’d actually made a map highlighting these locations. “Not meteorites, Will—gold. These are all places where significant gold mining has taken place.”

  Will walked toward us. “I did a report on those meteorites. The red dots mark places they were found.” He extended an avocado–smeared finger towards the map.

  “Respect the research, man!” Mickie slapped Will’s messy hand away. “Don’t you have things to finish up in the kitchen?”

  Will shrugged and walked back, licking his fingers clean like a cat. I swallowed and looked away from him, concentrating on not thinking about his mouth, his lips.

  “I did a report on gold mining. For the same class. And I’m sure about these locations,” I said.

  “Maybe.” Will didn’t sound convinced. “I still say it’s meteorites. Except they missed Las Abs.”

  “We have meteorites?” I asked.

  “We had one. That’s why I did the report. It was found over by Bella Fria. In the hot springs.”

  “So why isn’t Las Abuelitas lit up on this map?” I asked. “We have both: gold and the meteor.”

  “Are you for sure about the gold mining, Sam?” asked Mickie. “Will showed me his tobiasite meteor map. It matched up pretty well.”

  I flushed. “I’m sure. I didn’t save my map, but you can google it.”

  “No, I believe you,” Mickie said.

  “So this messes with my theory that people with Helmann’s are like magnets for meteorites,” Will said.

  “That’s not a theory, Will. That’s a load of crap. You think astrophysicists would have failed to notice if meteors started veering off their trajectories in order to hit certain people?”

  Will smiled, shrugged. “I have a theory. You got nada, Mick.”

  Mickie rolled her eyes and muttered something unintelligible except for the words idiot and theory. “Is dinner done?”

  “Two minutes,” said Will.

  “And the maps are identical?” I asked.

  “Nearly,” said Mickie. “I’ll grab the other one.” She crossed to the hall and kicked her bedroom door open.

  The maps looked the same. Except for coffee stains, I couldn’t find any differences at first. Then I noticed a list of locations penned in at the bottom of both maps, numerous towns listed under the heading of California, U.S.A. All gold–rush towns, listed in alphabetical order. At the bottom, “Bella Fria” had been added in pencil.

  I pointed to “Bella Fria.” “That’s the abandoned mining town right by us.”

  “Yeah,” said Mickie. A phantom smile flickered briefly across her face. “Pfeffer said we’d be safe here in his final letter.”

  “He rented us this house,” said Will. “He didn’t say anything about how safe we’d be here.”

  “What else does ‘Bella Fria looks promising’ mean, coming from a man who knew he was about to be killed, pea–brain?” asked his sister.

  Will shrugged in response, then added, “Dinner’s ready.”

  I sat down in front of the coffee table that doubled as their dining table. “Smells awesome,” I said.

  Will grinned. “Hey, Mick, you want to get your nose out of the map? We’re eating here.”

  “I’m checking something,” said Mickie.

  “When Mick was, uh, driving back from Fresno earlier today, she picked up tamales and fresh corn tortillas from my favorite taco truck. To make peace. And to force me to make my pico de gallo.” Will flashed a huge white grin as he set the salsa down.

  My heart and stomach flopped around like fish out of water as two different hungers competed inside me. I turned my attention to the food. The salsa pretty much lit my mouth on fire, and I grabbed extra sour cream to cool the burn.

  “Sir Walter’s map doesn’t have ‘Bella Fria’ hand–written on it, whatever that means,” said Mickie. She grabbed a plate and joined us, taking a quick bite before continuing. “So gold and tobiasite aside, it looks like Sir Walter was someone Pfeffer trusted enough to send a map to,” Mick said. She grabbed the sour cream from my side of the coffee table. “Spicy, much, Will?”

  He grinned. “It’s good, huh?”

  Mick passed a letter to me. The handwriting looked like it was written with a feather pen, all tidy with elegant curlicues. “The first letter he sent us.”

  I began to read.

  My dear Ms. Mackenzie Baker,

  I wish to present myself to your notice as a colleague, and a friend, of the late Professeur Pfeffer. He spoke to me of you in terms of highest praise, both for your intelligence and the remarkable caution with which you have thus far preserved the safety of your interesting sibling. As someone with more than a bit of “interesting” myself, I am able to sympathize with the difficulties this must present to you.

  I should like to suggest a correspondence between us, as I believe that I have the ability and knowledge to be of usefulness to yourself and your brother, whose name Dr. Pfeffer has withheld from me. Also, I confess I wonder if you might be of usefulness to myself. But more of this at a future time.

  I enclose a copy of a map sent to me by my dear friend before his demise. Perhaps you will recognize it. It marks sites which are of mutual interest to all of us who esteemed Pfeffer’s work.

  If you should choose that our correspondence continues, perhaps you would be so kind as to notify me by means of the enclosed form.

  Believe me to be,

  Your sincerest well–wisher,

  Waldhart de Rochefort

  Will turned to me, “You’re going on that trip to France, right? Maybe you can meet him.”

  “I’m not involving Sam in our problems.” Mickie glared at her brother.

  “He wants to meet with us,” Will said. “But Mick has this thing about accepting charity, and no way can we afford a trip to Europe.”

  “Shut up,” said his sister.

  “The French Club group needs another chaperone,” I said. “Chaperones travel free, but it’s not charity. It’s hard work, according to Sylvia. She went with her niece’s class before she and my dad got together, and she won’t do it again for anything.”

  “I don’t have a problem with Sir Walter paying my way,” said Will. “But you go ahead and earn your way.”

  “Hmmph,” grunted Mickie.

  It was obvious she wanted to change the subject.

  “So, de Rochefort, er, Sir Walter, was alive during World War Two?” I asked.

  “Give her the second letter,” said Mickie, nodding.

  “Here’s the important part,” Will said, pointing to the second page.

  I have a long acquaintance with Monsieur Docteur Helmann and his investigations into the many secrets about the irregularity that bears his name. As you have probably guessed, I have good means to secure myself against being discovered. I did what I could, during the Second World War, to lessen some of the atrocities he committed or contemplated. After the war, he disappeared, residing, I believe, in your own country of America. I guessed this because the manufacturing of Neuroprine, one of the chemicals he used for his human experimentations, began in your country shortly after his disappearance.

  Well, I thought, perhaps he has turned to philanthropy after all. Or succumbed to his desire for riches, the least distasteful of his appetites. Whatever his original intention, he has embarked upon a dark path once more. You will be aware of the deaths of Professors Ryan, Garrett, Jacobsen, and Pfeffer. With these and other deaths, I have, alas, lost contact with anyone in your country who might provide insight into Helmann’s plans or deeds. But he must be stopped. This is clear to me at last, as it will be to you when you have viewed the enclosed.

  I looked up, trying to remember the dates for World War Two. “So he’s what: seventy, eighty years old?”

  “We think he’s eighty–eight or older, guessing he was at least fourteen the first year I know Helmann to have been involved in researching Helmann’s Disease,” Mickie said.
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br />   “Given that he’s chosen to write us letters instead of visit, we’re guessing he doesn’t have the stamina for a long trip,” Will said.

  “So, is it just me, or do you both think he’s dropping hints all over that he ripples?” I asked.

  “Hard to be certain,” Mickie replied.

  “Oh, I think that’s what he’s talking about. What else could he mean?” Will asked.

  “Well,” Mickie began, her voice dripping sarcasm. “We could make any number of guesses as to what he means and be wrong a hundred times.”

  “He’s a rippler,” Will muttered.

  “Here.” Mickie handed me a French newspaper clipping. “He sent this along with letter two.”

  “Le Monde?” I asked. “This is the big Paris paper. Like the Wall Street Journal except for France.”

  I began reading and translating an article printed two weeks ago about Helmann’s Disease.

  “It says a total of two–hundred sixty–three Helmann’s carriers responded to an email offer for a reduced cost Neuroprine–substitute and they’re all dead now,” Will said.

  “That’s crazy,” I whispered.

  “Yeah.” Mickie’s expression was cold and hard. “I’m guessing this was what kept him busy the past few weeks.”

  “You have to meet him, Mickie,” I said. “You have to tell him everything you know. This is terrible.”

  “What do you want to bet the same person behind the deaths here in the United States was behind those murders?” Will asked.

  “I need to find out what the red dots mean.” Mickie sighed. “I need to speak with Waldhart de Rochefort.”

  Excerpted from the private journal of Girard L’Inferne, approx. 1400

  I saw her leave today and followed. She left alone. But to meet him; they arrived by design, I am certain. Beside the river, where the willows grow to the water’s edge, I saw them. Side by side they lay; gazing into one another’s eyes they whispered. Sometimes Waldhart would make to press his lips upon hers, but ever, when he tried, she became air, shivering away from his touch, I thought.

  This is good, I let myself say. She likes him not.

  Closer I edged, to hear what they spoke. It was nothing to give my heart pleasure.

  “‘Lisaba, you know I will marry you regardless,” spoke he.

  She drew her dark brows together. “I know.”

  “Nor will I seek another lover. I can live as the brothers at the monastery so long as I have you beside me,” said he.

  She sighed, running her hand upon his face and withdrawing it quickly as though burned. “I can have no child if I marry you.”

  “That is your reason?” he asked.

  “Yes. And if I produce no heir Louis receives our lands and all they contain. These things you know already.”

  He grunted, leaned to kiss her. She faded to air and returned to her flesh.

  She continued. “If we wed there would be no child unless I lay with another man. Is that what you are asking of me?”

  He turned from her, an angry look I knew well played across his face. “Come away with me,” he whispered.

  “Never,” she said.

  Both lay silent a long while.

  At last I saw a tear and then another upon his cheek. The weakling.

  She turned to him, wiping his face as I have seen her do for a brat who has spilled himself upon the Great Hall floor. But then she kissed him, and as he turned his body to her, she vanished. He groaned. She reappeared. This same manner of thing happened twice again.

  My anger burned as though it would consume the forest, but I could not look away. Again, they embraced, always she faded but then returned.

  “It is no use, heart of mine,” she said to him at last, pulling back from his kiss.

  And I knew.

  I knew.

  Her heart would never be mine. Though she wed me, though he should perish in battle, though all the world should change. She would love him still.

  I felt the presence of the great boar before I saw him. A fearsome tusked thing. Come here, I called. Come here.

  Lo, it approached. Snuffling, pawing, unheard by the lovers at the brook.

  Gouge them, crush them, spill their blood, said I to the great beast. The creature looked about him, lowered his potent head, and trotted forth to ruin my enemies.

  Who has done what I have done? Who is like me, that he can control the beasts of the forest? Alas, I did not bid the boar to be silent. He squealed a hideous sound which gave the pair time to disappear into air, mightily puzzling the creature.

  I have lost, thought I.

  But no. This day has seen me victorious.

  This evening, Helisabat de Rochefort pledged herself to be mine.

  –translation by G. Pfeffer

  Chapter Nine

  HITTING THE WALL

  “Sounds like one of us skipped breakfast,” Will said as my stomach growled noisily on our way to school the next day.

  I’d slept in late and skipped eating a real breakfast in order to bike to school with Will. Syl made me take a couple of cereal bars. I pulled one out, tore the wrapper with my teeth and pushed my breakfast up from the bottom of the plastic wrapper, remembering another of my questions about rippling.

  “How long does it take to get hungry or thirsty when you’re invisible?”

  Will’s brows contracted as he thought about it. “I went once for three days without food or water.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Two summers ago, Mickie had to leave for job training for four days. It wouldn’t have been a big deal except she forgot to leave me grocery money. So I ate my way through all the bread and cereal in the house the first morning and afternoon. For dinner it was peanut butter on an apple half, peanut butter on zucchini, and peanut butter on red bell peppers. That was nasty; take my word for it.

  “So I ripple for the next three days ‘til Mick gets back so that I won’t feel hungry. Then she comes back in the house and she’s all looking in the fridge, shouting at me about why didn’t I leave her some food ‘cause she’s starving after four days of cafeteria food,” he said, laughing. “It was pretty funny seeing her face when I told her why there wasn’t any food in the apartment.”

  “You should have grabbed food from next door, you know, a little something from everyone, not like a huge raid on any one person. I mean, you could walk through walls.”

  He frowned. “Nah, that’s too much like something my dad would do. I take a pop–tart from someone, it’s stealing.”

  I nodded, but I was pretty sure I’d have stolen the stupid pop–tart. My life was sheltered, easy. I’d never seen our fridge or pantry empty. Anytime I wanted something, I only had to mention it to Sylvia. I had never imagined things any different.

  “Hey, Sam,” Will interrupted my ruminations, “you still want to walk through walls?”

  My face lit up. “Heck, yeah!”

  “I was thinking that could be a fun way to kick off our training, you know, like we talked about. Assuming we’re still on …”

  “We’re totally on.” I needed practice, control.

  We made plans for Will to give me a tour of Las Abs where he would show me some of his favorite things to walk through. He felt that with my being newer at the whole thing it would be safer to do this at night. He also gave me homework, insisting that I practice rippling and reappearing on my own for a few days.

  “Great,” I said. “Because it’s not like I’m going to get any homework today or anything.”

  “We don’t want to repeat having you materialize inside anything. I want you to ripple away and practice telling yourself to look and make sure you’re clear first before you ripple solid,” he said.

  I continued through the first day of school, gathering homework. At lunch, Will and I sat together, and today Gwyn joined us. She fluttered from clique to clique in our small high school, like she didn’t acknowledge the well–defined barriers the rest of us saw. And everyone just let it happen, b
ecause everyone liked Gwyn.

  She sat and launched into the woes of being the daughter of Bridget Li. “Ma’s forcing me to take AP Biology,” she whined. “Which means I’m already behind. Did you guys know about the research project over the summer?”

  Will nodded and I said, “Yes.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she said, laying her head down on the table in mock despair.

  “Buy a really good paper online?” I suggested.

  “Sam!” Gwyn raised her head and glared at me.

  “Just kidding,” I said.

  “You can join Sam and me, on our project,” said Will.

  Gwyn beamed at him. “I knew there was a reason I sat down here,” she said, unwrapping her sandwich. “Great. Organic PB–n–J on whole grain bread. Again.” She stared longingly at my preservative–laden ham and swiss on sourdough.

  “Just take it.” I passed her my sandwich.

  All that week I practiced, getting ready for our Sunday night rippling “class.” Control meant secrecy. Secrecy meant safety from whoever wanted me dead. It didn’t hurt that I expected to have some fun learning this control.

  My dad was down in the Valley with one of the berry farms. Sylvia gave me an 11:30 PM curfew, more than generous seeing as I was crashed out most nights by 9:45.

  Will came by for me as the sun was setting.

  “There’re all kinds of places for brick walls; there’s Bridget and Gwyn’s for a rock wall—did you know they live in the town’s oldest building?” asked Will.

  I nodded as he continued.

  “And the school cafeteria has those big glass windows that are almost like walls. I think you’ll like glass a lot. Then we could try the gym for cinder–block; I don’t know if you’ll like it, but it’s interesting.”

  I realized how nervous I felt now that we were actually going to do this. I mean, we were talking about walking through solid objects here. I thought we could avoid a disaster like at the creek, but it was still a sobering reminder that Will didn’t know everything.

  He glanced over at me as we pulled into the Murietta Park parking lot. “You okay, Sam? You’re so quiet.”