The Silver Token

by Alan Marble

  “Wait! No, please, wait!” He tried to chase after her, but he knew it was futile. Panic started to well up in his chest as he watched her, graceful white against the verdant hillside, winging down into an unknown and unpredictable encounter with those strange humans. Feeling helpless, all he could do is watch in horror while his vision slowly faded out to black.

  #

  When Jonah awoke the next time, he was lying in a bed; warm, comfortable, and relatively well rested. The myriad of dreams that he had experienced the night before still swam in the murk of his subconscious mind, competing with the memories of the startling events from the night before. The sensation of icy water lapping at his skin, pulling him down had become a distant memory tickling at the edge of his conscious, perhaps little more than a dream, itself.

  Rebekah had mentioned that his previous dream had been a vision, a fragment of a memory left behind by those who had come before him. It had made little sense at the time to him; why, after all, would a memory like that be of any use to anyone, let alone himself? He had chalked it up to more of the nonsense that she and Abraham had been spouting. He had, after all, been the one to tell her that he had been dreaming. It was not much of a stretch for her to try and ascribe his dreams to some kind of mystical visions.

  Dreaming about flying high in the sky, as a dragon, was not too hard to explain away with logic. For the past few days he had the thought pounded into his head that he was a dragon, had heard the tales about how dragons supposedly once roamed the skies freely over Europe, how they had first encountered human beings. It would not be the first time that some fanciful tale had worked its way into his dreams. Jonah could still vividly remember times when, as a child, an unsettling movie on late night television translated into poignant nightmares.

  Even the events of the night before might have been a dream. The whole incident on the bridge, trying to grasp at the doorway as he fell presumably to his death. The sensation of growing wings and soaring over the river. The whole thing could have well been manufactured by his sleeping mind.

  Perhaps the whole last week could be explained away as a weird and complicated dream. Perhaps he had never left Florida, never purchased that damned silver token, never witnessed a murder and never met Rebekah or Abraham or anyone who had silly ideas about dragons and Syndicates and the like. Even now he could be in his own warm bed, waking from that long and confusing delusion.

  Sitting up, he realized that it must not have been the case. He was lying in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room. The clothing that he had been wearing when he fell in the river was now draped over the back of a chair nearby, and still looked to be on the damp side. That, at least, seemed to tell him that what he remembered was real. Glancing around with a frown he looked for something, anything else that was familiar but found nothing.

  The room was small, as was the bed he was in. The decor looked outdated and a bit kitschy, the sort of thing one might expect to find in a motel. The heavy curtains draped over the window and the heater tucked in beneath it served to reinforce that idea. There was a door with a peephole next to the window, and another door off to the side that led to what must have been a bathroom. Somehow he had, indeed, wound up in a hotel.

  Sitting upright, letting the blankets fall away, he realized that he was clothed. A turquoise blue t-shirt with “Grand Canyon” emblazoned across a silk-screened representation of the landmark, and a slightly oversized pair of sweatpants. He’d never seen the clothing before, and certainly did not remember putting them on.

  Swinging his legs out of the bed, Jonah shuffled a little unsteadily in the direction of the door. His wallet was laid out on a table next to the door, the contents next to it, presumably to allow them to dry out, too. Next to the door were a pair of cheap looking flip-flop sandals and no sign of his shoes.

  On the table, next to a few wrinkled but dry dollar bills was the token. With a bit of a frown he scooped it up, held it up in the light and took a look at it once more. The stylized dragon, wings held aloft and head back, seemed to evoke a reaction in him but he could not be sure what it was. Confusion, irritation, perhaps even disgust. He wanted to rid himself of the damned thing.

  Turning it over he looked at the vague impression of letters on the surface of the metal that had been mostly rubbed smooth over the ages. Briefly, he wondered what it had spelled out, what language it had been in, who had forged it to begin with.

  Again he remembered what Rebekah had told him. The coin was supposed to be some kind of emblem of who he was, a token carried by the dragons who had gone before him, whose memories had somehow been rubbed off on the thing and were now invading his dreams. The vision of the white dragon sailing in the wind ahead of him was still fresh in his mind, as if he had been there only moments before. It was just a dream, he reminded himself, shoving the token angrily into the pocket of his sweatpants.

  The dream had been real enough in his mind, though, real enough to confuse him. Real enough that the emotions still lingered in his heart. The white dragon had been someone to him. Someone he cared about. Now that the dream was over, he felt her absence, a poignant little hole somewhere in the middle of his being. It made no sense.

  “The hell,” he muttered to himself with no small measure of confusion and irritation. He realized that he was also quite hungry, his stomach growling quietly. Reaching out and pushing the door open, he saw that it was a bright, clear day outside, enough sunlight reflecting off a nearby building that he had to shade his eyes. More than that, though, he could smell food.

  Scooping a handful of bills off the table and grabbing what he presumed was the key to the room, he slipped the sandals on, somewhat unsurprised to find them a perfect fit. Emerging into the sunlight, he shuffled his way along the row of doors in the direction that the smell of food seemed to be wafting from.

  Emerging from the little row of motel rooms, he found himself in a little dirt parking lot nestled up against a relatively quiet stretch of pavement. In the distance more of the red sandstone bluffs rose toward the sky, empty desert stretching off toward the horizon. He seemed to have been in a small town, little more than a scattering of buildings strewn against the side of the highway. One of them seemed to be a restaurant, at least, and it was there that the smell of food was emanating from, and there he made his way with unusual haste.

  The building seemed to have been constructed to evoke the image of an old western storefront, a rickety sort of wooden porch stretching across the front of it, big glass windows letting him see inside where all manner of trinkets and souvenirs were available - as well as a cafe. Stepping up to the door and pushing it open, greeted by the scent of coffee and pancakes. It was enough to make him smile.

  “Welcome to Lee’s Ferry Mercantile!” The voice belonged to an older woman who was stationed behind the counter, frumpy but friendly looking. “Here for the breakfast service?”

  “Yes,” he said, simply enough, nodding.

  The woman laughed, a hearty, well meaning sound. “Well, of course you are. Breakfast service is $11.99, all you can eat. Includes your drinks. Go ahead and help yourself, you can pay on your way out. Oh, and if we’re out of waffles just give me a holler and we’ll have another batch whipped up.”

  He required no further encouragement than that. Nodding briefly to the woman at the counter, he made his way into the little cafe. It was a simple affair, a handful of booths and tables arranged at one side, a buffet line on the other. Breakfast staples like eggs, hash browns and bacon lay simmering in steel serving trays over cans of Sterno, pitchers of milk and orange juice resting on ice at the end. Simple but more than effective; Jonah found himself rushing to the stack of plates, going through the line and piling the food on as high as he could.

  The little cafe did not seem to be a busy place. There were only two other patrons that he could see, an older gentleman who gave him a brief nod when he glanced that way, and a Native American who seemed too engrossed in his meal to notice. Jonah made his wa
y to one of the unoccupied booths, sitting down and digging into the pile of food.

  An older television was situated in one corner of the cafe, turned to some local news channel. For several moments he paid it no attention, but then a familiar sight on the screen caught his eye - the bridge crossing the gorge near the dam. The one he thought he remembered tumbling from. Chewing his food more slowly, he turned his attention to the television.

  “And now we have a breaking update on the freak accident that took place at Glen Canyon Dam late last night,” the anchor intoned. “For details we’ll go to Derek Wachowski who is live on the scene in Page. Derek?”

  The picture flashed to a reporter who was standing at the bridge, which had been roped off, numerous police vehicles parked on the surface. From that vantage point, he could make out the gaping hole in the safety fence where the car had been pushed through. “That’s right, Tom. We’ve just gotten word from the Arizona Department of Safety that not one but both of the vehicles involved in the accident may have been stolen vehicles.

  “Early this morning Don Madden, the driver of the semi-truck involved in the accident and presumed to be one of the victims, was found dead near a service station just outside of Kanab. Arizona authorities received the report from their counterparts on the Utah side of the border and are not releasing much information about Mr. Madden but it appears that he was murdered, the carjacker taking the truck south to Arizona and apparently causing the accident that took place on the bridge.”

  Jonah found himself feeling strangely guilty that someone uninvolved with them was also a victim of the same man who had killed Sam, the same man who had tracked him across the country. It seemed unfair, unjust, and he could not help but to feel in some strange way responsible. Frowning, he continued to watch the report.

  The picture had switched to an aerial shot. The crumpled outline of the trailer could be seen jutting partially from the dark blue-green of the river, the rest of it fading into the darkness where the river was deeper. “Rescue divers were able to get a positive identification on the luxury SUV involved in the accident, and now reports are indicating that the same vehicle was reported stolen from a Detroit area business two days ago. Attempts to contact the owner have gone unsuccessful but it now appears that all the victims of the accident were involved in car theft.”

  “Well that’s quite something,” the anchor interrupted. “Do we know anything about the identities of the victims yet, Derek?”

  “Not that we’ve heard yet, Tom. Rescue divers are continuing to scour the river from the foot of the dam downstream to Lee’s Ferry, but due to recent snowmelt there’s a lot of runoff coming down the river making the process a little difficult.”

  “I see. And any word yet from the authorities on the cause of the crash?”

  The picture switched once again to the reporter, panning out to show more of the scene. “No, not yet. We still have the eyewitness accounts that indicate the driver of the semi trailer was traveling at a high rate of speed and jackknifed on the bridge, colliding with the SUV before falling off the bridge. Unverified reports also seem to indicate the SUV balanced on the edge a moment before falling in and that a woman was seen attempting to escape.”

  “Any word on whether she made it?”

  The reporter shook his head. “Well as I said the reports are unverified but it would not seem that anyone made it out of this, Tom.”

  The scene then switched to the studio with the reporter in a little inset in the corner. “Thanks, Derek. What a terrible situation unfolding in Page this morning. We’d like to remind travelers that Glen Canyon Bridge is being closed until the investigation is complete and repairs can be made, no sooner than a week out, meaning that you will have to take an alternate route through Kanab and Fredonia. Now, for your Southern Utah weather, we turn to the weather desk …”

  “Poor sons o’ bitches.”

  The gravely voice broke him out of the brief little reverie, and Jonah turned his head to see the older gentleman standing nearby, gaze toward the television. “What?”

  “The folks who went off that bridge. One helluva way to go.” He paused, chewing on his lip a moment. “Can’t imagine what it’d be like. Don’t care if yer a car thief or what, no one deserves to go out that way.”

  Watching a news report on the accident that had nearly claimed his life was beyond weird, it was surreal. He could remember the incident, every tiny detail : the way the truck barreled down upon them, the squealing of tires and metal, the way that panic had taken control of him and caused him to tip the car over the edge to its doom. He wondered what had become of Rebekah, wondered how he was here, in this place, watching the story unfold on the television.

  Hearing the old man comment on it only seemed to compound the strangeness of the situation. “Yeah. Can’t imagine,” was the only response he could muster.

  “Mhmm. Too bad, really,” the man commented with a little murmur, shuffling his way back to the exit. “Good day to you, enjoy the food.”

  Jonah glanced back down at his plate, having briefly forgotten about the mountain of food that he had served up for himself. Suddenly he did not feel much like eating, as if it seemed somehow inappropriate given the loss of life, the gravity of what had passed the night before. The hunger in the pit of his stomach, however, did not seem to care for such sentimental thoughts, and was not yet alleviated. Begrudgingly he picked up the fork and impaled a sausage, forcing it down to satisfy the hunger.

  TEN

  Jonah had finished his breakfast without much gusto, shoveling the food down more out of a sense of duty than anything else. The kindly woman at the desk had been paid, and he had pushed his way back out into the bright sunshine, spending several minutes just standing on the wooden porch, watching cars coming and going in either direction, buzzing along the highway to points unknown.

  Even in this he felt an odd sense of detachment. These were normal, average people doing normal, average things. Going on a road trip, going to visit family, passing through for business purposes. Many of them would return to their homes at the end of the day, unperturbed by maniacs who sought to kill them or women who insisted they were dragons. No one would be asking them to take a leap of faith from a balcony. None of them would find themselves pushed off a bridge to their doom seven hundred feet below.

  He found himself yearning to turn back the clock, just a few days, just long enough to go back to that moment before he’d set food in the coin store. Perhaps he could make sure none of this would happen. Sam would be safe, he would be at home, and life would be normal.

  That, of course, would be impossible.

  Feeling somewhat resigned, he shuffled his way back across the dirt parking lot, in the direction of the roadside motel where he had found himself that morning. He still had no idea how he had gotten there to begin with; part of him assumed that Rebekah had taken him here. He had seen no sign of her the entire morning, however, and was beginning to wonder if he’d ever see much of her again. The time to himself that he enjoyed that morning was something of a welcome respite after several days of being watched and “guarded”, as she said, but in a strange way he was missing her presence.

  So it was that when he opened the door to the room and found her inside, sitting on the edge of the bed, he felt a strange mix of surprise, resentment and relief.

  Rebekah looked more composed than she had in days. Her hair was cleaned and combed straight, except for the little curls at the end that rested on her shoulders. She was wearing a fresh set of clothing, too, free of the scuffs and tears that her flannel shirt had acquired. She even smelled fresh, recently showered, as best he could tell. “Hi, Jonah. Get yourself some breakfast?”

  “Yeah.” He answered in a halfhearted fashion, pulling the door shut behind him and glancing down at his sandal-clad feet. “You … get all this stuff, for me?”

  “Your other clothes were pretty wet. Couldn’t leave you in them all night,” she responded, rather matter-of-factly. �
�I’m sorry they didn’t really have much in that store next door. It was either that or something with rattlesnakes. Oh, and, I’m sorry about the shoes. I couldn’t find them.”

  Nodding, he shuffled his way over to the bed and sat down on the edge, as well, breathing a heavy sigh. There were a dozen questions that were suddenly floating around in his head, as well as a dozen doubts. Questions as to how he was still alive, what had really happened the night before. Doubts over whether or not he was remembering them correctly, whether or not he was starting to lose his grip on reality. “I’ve been out all night,” he said, instead, rather lamely.

  She smiled pleasantly at him. Again he thought the smile looked good on her, thought she should do more smiling, and found himself feeling strangely sheepish about the fact; he turned his gaze downward at his feet again before she spoke. “You had a rough night. I understand.”

  “What happens, now?”

  “Well,” she said, drawing in a deep breath. “I just got off the phone with Abe, told him about the car. He’s pretty unhappy about it, of course, but that’s what insurance is for, right? Anyway, he reported the car stolen, so we don’t have to worry about it too much.”

  Still looking at his feet, he nodded. “Yeah, I saw the news report.”

  “News travels fast,” she responded with a quiet chuckle.

  Again he nodded, rather lamely. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond - not without broaching a subject that he did not really care to approach at the moment. “Tahoe?”

  “He’s getting in touch with a contact in Vegas. They’ll be on their way out here with a car to pick us up, but it’s probably not going to be till later this afternoon. We’ll just have to lay low here until then, and I’m afraid there’s not a whole lot to do around here. He’s going to notify the others. The Convocation is probably going to be delayed a day.”