by C. W. Trisef
“Mom,” Ana interrupted, “just plug it in.”
“Oh, alright,” Pauline said, her attention returning to the plug.
“Don’t be such a Grinch, Ana,” Paige kidded.
Pauline called out, “Okay, ready?”
“Ready!”
As soon as Pauline let the electricity flow, a part of the strand shorted and some of the lights exploded, causing the angel’s head to break off and shoot from its body.
“AHH!” the three ladies screamed, shielding themselves as the head collided into the ceiling, taking a chunk of drywall with it. They dove for cover, trying to dodge the projectile as it chaotically bounced off the walls. They waited until the head rolled to a stop.
“Well, you’re right about one thing, Mom,” Ana remarked, combing bits of drywall out of her hair. “This angel sure is the symbol of our lives right now.”
“At least she’s still smiling,” Paige observed, trying to look on the bright side after inspecting the statue’s smoking head.
“Well, I give up,” Pauline muttered dolefully now that her fragile optimism had exploded back into depression. “Who’s up for some Honey Buns?”
CHAPTER 10
LONG LIVE THE MUTANTS
“Nika?” Ret said, recognizing the name. “I know your brother!”
“You know Ivan?!” the woman replied, suddenly enthralled. “Do you know where he is?” In her excitement, she withdrew her hand from covering her face, revealing a terrible skin disease. It took Ret by surprise, a reaction that his sense of propriety couldn’t quite suppress in time.
Nika’s jubilant expression immediately faded. She looked away in shame.
“I’m sorry,” Ret apologized.
“It’s okay,” she said sorrowfully. “I’m just not used to being around normal people.” Ret didn’t really understand what she meant by that, but he felt it best not to ask. Changing the subject, she inquired, “You’ve met Ivan? I haven’t seen him since I was a young girl.”
Ret took a deep breath and tenderly told her, “Sadly, Ivan is no longer with us.”
“You mean he’s…” Nika wondered, already suspecting the answer.
Ret nodded.
“Did he take his own life?”
“Oh no, it was an accident,” Ret returned, “during a rescue mission.”
“Hmm, well, he was one of the lucky ones then, I guess,” Nika said. Again, Ret wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean.
“When I said earlier that I knew your brother, I was actually referring to your other brother, Sergey,” Ret clarified.
“Oh,” said Nika, less enthusiastic about her younger sibling.
“He misses you,” Ret informed her. “He hopes you’ll come back soon.”
“I miss him, too,” Nika said, her confidence returning, “but not enough to go back.” She walked past Ret as she headed out of the dead-end cleft in the rock. “I have to stay here; my people need me.”
“Your people?”
“This is a land that nobody wanted, home to a people who nobody wanted,” she explained, reaching the end and stepping out of the shadows. “Though we come from all walks of life, a common desire runs through each of us: a longing to be accepted.” Then turning to face Ret, she asked, “Would you like to meet them?”
“Uh, sure,” Ret said. Nika seemed pleasantly surprised.
Although a meet-and-greet wasn’t exactly on his agenda, Ret didn’t really have anything else to do at the moment. He secretly hoped Nika or her people might be able to tell him how to get back to ground level so he could get the Oracle from Mr. Coy, then return underground and collect the element.
“Okay, but I should warn you,” Nika added as she led the way, “we’re all a little…different.” She stopped when they arrived at the hole in the side of the mesa, still blocked by the large rock that Ret had put there earlier to prevent Nika’s escape.
“That’s alright,” Ret smiled as he easily rolled away the boulder without physically touching it. “So am I.” Nika stared wide-eyed at Ret’s abilities.
They stepped into the mouth of a large cavern, where the light was quickly swallowed by darkness. Ret, who in recent years had become somewhat of an expert in traversing dark passageways, conjured a flame to shed some light on the path ahead.
“You said your name is Ret?” Nika wondered after seeing Ret’s self-produced flame.
“Yes.”
“Any relation to the Ret Cooper who everyone is angry with?”
“That’s me,” Ret said with sarcastic pride.
“I thought so,” Nika replied. “I’ve been here for years, but each new person who comes here keeps us relatively informed on what life is like back there.”
“Yeah, I’m not too popular right now,” Ret admitted.
“Great, you’ll fit right in,” Nika beamed.
“Then you must have heard your brother Sergey was recently elected president of Russia,” Ret reported.
“Yes, I did hear that,” Nika responded. “Better him than me.”
“Sounds like you’re doing the same down here,” Ret pointed out.
Nika laughed, “Something like that.”
Their route was a rough one, featuring frequent ducks of the head and slips of the feet. The air was cool and damp, and more than once Ret was pelted by a drop of water falling from somewhere overhead. The rock formations inside the cave were just as magnificent as the ones outside it, though for different reasons. Some were long and spiky, hanging from the ceiling like icicles of stone; others were round and stout, plopped on the ground and resembling scoops of ice-cream. Portions of the walls were frozen in ripples, below which sat pools of water so clear and still that their surfaces appeared made of glass. Everything had been splashed with the most colorful palette, and Ret could sense which minerals had left behind which colors: green from copper, yellow from sulfur, rust from iron.
The cavern was a natural wonder. It seemed to be the product of many things, yet one thing in particular: time. Ret felt it was ungrateful of himself to spend only a few seconds admiring stalactites and stalagmites that had likely taken hundreds of years to form. He wished he could take his time and spend a whole day—even a week or a month—studying the curtains and columns, the cave pearls and soda straws. But then he caught himself: he was starting to sound like a certain pesky Guardian named Neo.
The faint rays of light meant they were nearing the other end of the cavern. The path gradually opened up and leveled out until the two of them arrived on the other side. Nika stopped to let Ret take in the view. They were overlooking a great valley, in which was nestled an amicable settlement. Small homes dotted the floor, interspersed among lush, green farmlands. The quaint colony was completely enclosed by several grand mesas, which resembled a pack of elephants circled face-out to protect their little ones. Calm and inviting, the locale seemed a sanctuary.
As Ret followed Nika into town, he found it possessed a charm that helped him see past its primitiveness. There were no streets because there were no cars—no office buildings because there was no need. It was one of those heard-about but never-seen settlements where people still walked to places and talked to each other—where pace was slowed and time had stalled, and where everyone’s favorite gathering place was the front porch. Peace and quiet grazed alongside horses and cattle, with a creek meandering through it all.
“What is this place, Nika?” Ret asked.
“Oh, just somewhere special,” she replied with a gratified smile.
“It doesn’t have a name?” Ret wondered.
“Of course it does,” Nika told him. “I call it home.”
“Where does the light come from?” Ret inquired, glancing up at the sky, or whatever it was. “It can’t be from the sun since we’re underground…”
“We’re underground?” Nika marveled.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” Ret said. “That’s how I came here at least. How did you get here?”
“Through the trilithon,”
Nika explained, “like everyone else.”
“What’s the trilithon?” Ret asked curiously. He figured if this trilithon thing was an entrance, then it might also be an exit.
“Oh, it’s not much,” Nika bent the truth. Her growing fondness of Ret prompted her to talk about something else. “Look, here they come!”
Eager to welcome a new arrival, the town’s citizens were making their way down to the main drag as Nika and her guest were coming up it. She called everyone by name as she introduced them to Ret. There was Stephanie, who was missing an arm, and Davis, who had an extra thumb; Kelly, who was wearing an eye patch, and Paul, who had a withered hand. Of course, Nika only referred to them by name, not by malady, but Ret couldn’t help but notice each person’s ailment.
In fact, every single person he met had some kind of challenge. A man with severe burns was helping a woman with a terrible limp. Two deaf friends were speaking to each other through sign language, punctuated by an occasional moan. A blind woman navigated her way toward Ret with the aid of her long, white walking stick. Once there was no nose; twice a lazy eye—not to mention three pairs of crutches and four canes. One man took a break only to shake hands, then returned to pacing back and forth while conversing with himself. Another stuttered so dreadfully that Ret could hardly understand her. This person was fighting cancer, that one had frequent seizures, and two others had never been the same since their strokes.
But these were only the frailties that could be seen, for, as Nika explained, there were scores of other individuals whose troubles were not so obvious. These were the depressed, the anxious, the lonely—the mentally ill and socially awkward. One man often mixed words so refused to speak, while one woman never minced words and refused to keep quiet. Some were overbearing; others felt undervalued—these too loud, those too quiet. Disorders ranged from sleeping to eating, from handling stress to managing anger. A few had no self-esteem, others had too much. Still more had been labeled as unstable, bipolar, or downright obnoxious. From hyperactive to compulsive, it seemed everyone had been given an acronym, and if they didn’t self-identify as ADD or OCD, then they were just plain ODD—odd. Yet all, in some way, had once been diagnosed as different and, from then on, treated as defective.
This was all a little much for Ret to take in. It reminded him of a visit he had made once to a nursing home, where he delivered some baked goods and played a few rounds of bingo but in the end was relieved to leave. His emotions then were the same as they were now: a harrowing mixture of sympathy and guilt. On one hand, he felt sorry for these people—for the lot they had been given—while on the other hand, he felt a sense of duty, like it was his job to somehow ease their burdens. In his mind, their imperfections were wrongs that needed to be righted—glitches that needed to be fixed.
“You okay?” Nika asked Ret after the townspeople returned to their labors.
“Sort of,” Ret said with noticeable heaviness.
“You look a little overwhelmed,” she told him.
“Yeah,” Ret sighed.
“It’s because we’re different, huh?” Nika assumed.
After a moment, Ret replied, “I just need some time to think.”
“That’s fine, I understand,” Nika said. “Take your time.” She left him with a smile.
Pensive and troubled, Ret commenced an unhurried stroll through town. He was being bombarded by all kinds of emotions—some familiar, others new, and many not his own. He felt like a failure for not being able to collect the element. Confusion plagued his mind for being rejected by a Guardian, and resentment haunted his heart for being told he wasn’t ready. Not to mention the aimlessness he was experiencing as he wandered this strange place with its strange people—people whose problems weighed on him. He wanted to help them—longed to cure them—but, for some reason, they neither solicited his pity nor requested his opinion. In fact, they looked perfectly content with their subpar lives. It seemed they had already accepted the things they could not change, and it bothered Ret that their infirmities no longer bothered them.
When Ret’s path came to the creek that flowed throughout the settlement, he turned and began to follow its bank, hoping a peaceful walk with nature would soothe his soul as it usually did. He felt refreshed, admiring the flora and fauna while enjoying the merry weather, until he took a closer look at one of the flowers. It resembled a daisy but seemed deformed. Its petals were not uniform but of various sizes, and its dark center was more a warped oval than a circle. It looked odd and unnatural, but Ret figured it was just a different variety.
He inspected a few other plants and found similar situations: crazy leaves, contorted stems, stunted growth. Some had multiple shoots, others had exposed roots. These were maturing too early, those were blooming too late. The distorted shapes and twisted designs gave the landscape the look and feel of a Salvador Dali painting.
The trees were also victims of these surreal abnormalities. Limbs suddenly ended in decay and dust. Trunks had grown holes like Swiss cheese. Fruits were misshaped and discolored. Pine trees shed needles with knots and dropped cones with whiskers.
Even the wildlife had fallen prey to this phantom predator. There were fish with only one eye and butterflies with three wings. Ladybugs were every color but red. Bumblebees had extra-long stingers. A raccoon was missing a paw, the squirrels had no tails, and even the songbirds were tone deaf.
There was something fundamentally wrong with this place. It looked like something out of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. From its people to its plants, this was a land of mutation where nothing was normal because everything was different—and none of it in a good way. Could this place ever be cured?
Yes, cured. Was it not Ret’s job to ‘cure the world’? Was that why he stumbled upon this mutated place—to cure it? Was this what the Guardian had in mind all along? Ret already had some control over plants and trees; did that extend to other living things? He had regrown an apple, so how about an arm? Foliage, so why not phalanges?
Ret’s mind began to run wild. If, in fact, the wood element’s powers stemmed to the cellular level, there was no end to the possibilities. Would he be able to restore sight to the blind and hearing to the deaf? Could he correct chromosomes and reroute synapses? Had cancer finally met its match? Was DNA now DIY?
Ret was ecstatic. He ran to the nearest tree and placed his hand on its trunk. He concentrated on his scar and let its surging energy flow through the bark and into the branches. He instructed the tree to produce fruit, not the funny-looking kind that now encumbered its limbs but the true kind that it was born to bear. Soon, blossoms appeared, then fruit began to bud. But when it matured, it was just as mutated as the others.
Frustrated, Ret withdrew his hand and rushed to a flowerbed close by. He wrapped his fingers around a tulip stem, but its deformed blooms were not fixed and only multiplied like a Hydra. The same occurred with the daffodils and the roses. The mums stayed underdeveloped, and the lilies remained wilted. Ret plucked out a seed from a spent sunflower head and sprouted it in his palm, but the plant that emerged was just as mutated as its parent. In his anger, he grew the sunflower way beyond maturation until its head exploded, sending seeds shooting in all directions.
“Why can’t I do this?!” he yelled. “Why can’t I fix anything?” He fell to his knees in front of a large tree and slammed his fists into the dirt. He channeled his rage into the tree, causing it to swell until it had tripled in size. Then he fell on his back and laid on the grass.
Ret had reached a breaking point, desperate for change but incapable of it. He wanted to collect the element but was denied. He appealed for Neo’s help but was spurned. He yearned to fix Nika and her people but couldn’t. He attempted to cure their environment but failed. He was lost and lonely—purposeless and powerless. He didn’t see the point in trying anymore.
Ret watched the shadows grow longer and longer until night fell over the land, the dimness of evening diminishing the details of everything. But instead of cric
kets chirping and owls hooting, Ret heard singing. He stood and followed his ears to the town square, where the citizens had gathered for a variety show of sorts. Ret sat alone in the back as a group of school children finished their musical number. A poetry reading ensued. Next came acts of ballet, vocal and instrumental pieces, stories of personal triumphs, interpretive dancing, remembrances of deceased villagers, and even a bit of comedy. There were times of applause and laughter, interspersed with moods of sadness and tears, all against the backdrop of a warm fire.
Just when the night seemed over, someone in the crowd called out for one more performance. Obviously a favorite among them, the idea quickly gained momentum until Nika finally assented and took the stage. The audience cheered. A violinist joined her, knowing the routine. Nika waited for silence, then opened her mouth and, with the voice of an angel, sang this song:
I have a difference
That makes me stick out,
That’s made me a reference
For shame and for doubt.
Though I’ve denied it,
It’s always still there.
I try to hide it,
But people still stare.
They keep their distance
And say words that sting—
That my flaw’s existence
My own fault did bring.
So from life I’ve withdrawn,
And my friends I eschew,
Till hope’s all but gone
And I hate me, too.
Yet what if mutations
Aren’t meant for the host
But for populations
Who point fingers the most?
Maybe the reason
My difference won’t budge
Is to teach them the lesson
To love and not judge.
For whoever said
Being different is bad?
It’s in the scorner’s head
Where that notion is had.
Since I could not rend
What they call my chink,
It might only end
