by Cynthia Hand
“I can’t.”
“You can.” She handed me a spray bottle. “It’s holy water,” she explained. “If anything scary comes into this room, tell it to go away, and if it doesn’t go away, spray it with this.”
I seriously doubted that holy water would have any effect on aliens.
“Try it,” she dared me. “See what happens.”
I spent the next night muttering, “Go away,” and spraying shadows, and she was right. The monsters disappeared. I made them go away, just by my refusal to be afraid of them. I took control of my fear. I conquered it.
That’s how I feel right now, like if I just refuse to be afraid of the bird, it’ll go away.
I wish I could call Mom instead of Billy. What would she say to me, I wonder, if I could magically go to her, if I could run downstairs to her room in Jackson the way I used to and tell her everything? I think I know. She’d kiss me on the temple, the way she always did, and smooth the hair away from my face. She’d draw a quilt around my shoulders. She’d make me a cup of tea, and I’d sit at the kitchen counter and I’d tell her about the crow, and about my vision of the darkness, how I feel inside it, about my fears.
And here’s what I’d want her to say: It’s time to stop being afraid, Clara. There’s always going to be danger. Live your life.
I turn the phone off and set it on my desk.
I won’t let you do this to me, I think at the bird, even though it’s not present at the moment. I’m not scared of you. And I’m not going to let you drive me away.
5
I REALLY WANT A CHEESEBURGER
The days start zipping by, October leaning toward November. I get caught up in the busyness of school, the “Stanford duck syndrome,” which is where it appears like you’re swimming calmly, but under the water you’re furiously kicking. I go to class five days a week, five or six hours a day. I study roughly two hours for every hour I spend in class. That’s at least seventy-five hours a week, if you do the math. Then once you subtract sleeping and eating and showering and having sporadic visions of me and Christian hiding in a dark room, I’m left with about twenty hours to hit the occasional party with the other Roble girls, or get my Saturday afternoon coffee with Christian, or go snack shopping with Wan Chen, or go to the movies or the beach or learn how to play Frisbee golf in the Oval. Jeffrey’s also calling me every once in a while, which is a huge relief, and we’ve been having an almost-weekly breakfast together at the café where Mom used to take us when we were kids.
So there’s not much time to think about anything but school. Which suits me just fine.
I keep seeing the crow around campus, but I do my best to ignore it, and the more times I see it and nothing happens, the more I believe what I keep telling myself: that if I don’t engage it, everything will be fine. It doesn’t matter if it’s Samjeeza or not. I try to act like everything’s normal.
But then one day Wan Chen and I are coming out of the chemistry building, and I hear somebody call my name. I turn around to see a tall blond man in a boxy brown suit and a black fedora—I’m thinking circa 1965—standing on the lawn. An angel. There’s no denying that.
He also happens to be my dad.
“Uh, hi,” I say lamely. I haven’t seen or heard from him in months, not since the week after Mom died, and now poof. He appears. Like he walked off the set of Mad Men. With a bicycle, bizarrely enough, a pretty blue-and-silver Schwinn that he takes a minute to lean against the side of the building. He jogs over to where Wan Chen and I are standing.
I pull myself together. “So … um, Wan Chen, this is my dad, Michael. Dad, my roommate, Wan Chen.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Dad rumbles.
Wan Chen’s face goes greenish, and she says that she’s got another class to get to, and promptly takes off.
Dad has that effect on humans.
As for me, I am filled with the sense of deep abiding happiness I always get when I’m around my father, a reflection of his inner peace, his connection with heaven, his joy. Then, because I don’t like feeling emotions that are not my own, even the good ones, I try to block him out.
“Did you bike here?” I ask.
He laughs. “No. That’s for you. A birthday present.”
I’m surprised. Never mind that my birthday was in June, and it’s November. I can’t remember ever receiving a birthday gift from Dad in person. In the past he usually sent something extravagant in the mail, a card stuffed with cash or an expensive locket or concert tickets. Money for a car. All nice things, but it always seemed like he was trying to buy me off, make up for the fact that he’d abandoned us.
He frowns, an expression that’s not quite natural on his face. “Your mother arranged the presents,” he confesses. “She knew what you’d want. She was also the one who suggested this bicycle. She said you’d need it.”
I stare at him. “Wait, you mean it was Mom who sent all that stuff?”
He nods in this half-guilty way, like he’s admitted to cheating on the good-father test.
O-kay. So I was actually getting presents from my mom when I thought I was getting presents from my absentee father. That is messed up.
“What about you? Do you even have a birthday?” I ask, for lack of something better to say. “I mean, I always thought your birthday was July eleventh.”
He smiles. “That was the first full day I got to spend with your mother, the first day of our time together. July the eleventh, 1989.”
“Oh. So you’re like twenty-three.”
He nods. “Yes. I’m like twenty-three.”
He looks like Jeffrey, I think as I scrutinize his face. They have the same silver eyes, the same hair, the same golden tone to their skin. The difference is that while Dad is literally as old as the hills, calm, at peace with everything, Jeffrey is sixteen and at peace with nothing. Out there “doing his own thing,” whatever that means.
“You saw Jeffrey?” Dad asks.
“Don’t read my mind; that’s rude. And yes, he came to see me, and he’s called me a couple times, basically because I think he doesn’t want me to look for him. He’s living around here somewhere. We’re going out to Joanie’s Café tomorrow. That’s the only way I can get him to spend time with me—offer free food—but hey, whatever works.” I have a stellar idea. “You should come with us.”
Dad doesn’t even consider it. “He won’t want to talk to me.”
“So what? He’s a teenager. You’re his father,” I say, and what I don’t say, but what he probably hears me think anyway, is You should make him go home.
Dad shakes his head. “I can’t help him, Clara. I’ve seen every possible version of what could happen, and he never listens to me. If anything, my interference would make things worse for him.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, I came here for a reason. I’ve been given the task of training you.”
My heart starts beating fast. “Training me? For what?”
Something in his jaw works as he considers how much to disclose. “I don’t know if you know this about me, but I am a soldier.”
Or the leader of God’s army, but okay, let’s be modest. “Yeah, I kind of did know that.”
“And swordplay is a specialty of mine.”
“Swordplay?” I say this too loudly, and the people walking by flash us alarmed looks. I lower my voice. “You’re going to train me to use a sword? Like … a flaming sword?”
But that’s Christian’s vision, I think immediately. Not mine. Not me, fighting.
Dad shakes his head. “People often mistake it for a flaming sword, from the way the light ripples, but it’s made from glory, not fire. A glory sword.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “A glory sword? Why?”
He hesitates. “It’s part of the plan.”
“I see. So there’s a definite plan. Involving me,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Is there a copy of this master plan written down that I could take a peek at? Just for a minute?”
; The corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s a work in progress. So, are you ready?” he asks.
“What, now?”
“No time like the present,” he says, which I can tell he thinks is a joke. He goes over to retrieve the bicycle, and together we meander slowly back toward Roble.
“How’s school, by the way?” he asks, like any other dutiful dad.
“Fine.”
“And how’s your friend?”
I find it bizarre that he’s asking about my friends. “Uh—which one?”
“Angela,” he says. “She’s the reason you came to Stanford, isn’t she?”
“Oh. Yeah. Angela’s doing okay, I think.”
The truth is, I haven’t hung out with Angela since that day at MemChu, almost three weeks ago. I called her this past weekend and asked if she wanted to go to the new gory slasher film that came out on Halloween, and she blew me off. “I’m busy” is all she said. She’s also not interested in going to parties or even poetry readings, which I assumed she’d be all over, or doing much of anything besides going to class, and even in our Poet Re-making the World class she’s been oddly quiet and nonopinionated. Lately I’ve seen more of her roommates than I have of Angela: Robin is in my art history class on Mondays and Wednesdays and a lot of times we get coffee after, and Amy and I always seem to show up in the dining hall for breakfast at the same time, where we sit together and chat up a storm. It’s through them that I know that Angela’s either been hanging out at the church or holed up in their room, glued to her laptop or reading big intimidating-looking books or scribbling away in her good old black-and-white composition notebook, wearing sweats most days, sometimes not even bothering to shower. Clearly something more intense than usual is going on with her. I figure it’s her purpose heating up—her obsession with the number seven, the guy in the gray suit, all that jazz.
“I always liked Angela,” Dad says now, which startles me because as far as I know, he only met her that one time. “She’s very passionate in her desire to do what is right. You should look out for her.”
I make a mental note to call Angela as soon as I have a minute. We’ve reached Roble by this point, and Dad stands looking at the building with its ivy-covered facade while I park the bike on the rack outside.
“Do you want to see my room?” I ask a bit awkwardly.
“Perhaps later,” he says. “Right now we need to find a place where we won’t be disturbed.”
I can’t think of anywhere better than the basement of the dorm, where there’s a study room with no windows. People mostly use it to make phone calls when they don’t want to bother their roommates. “It’s the best I can do on short notice,” I say, as I lead Dad down there. I unlock the door and hold it open for him to see.
“It’s perfect,” he says, and goes right in.
I’m nervous. “Should I stretch out or something?” My voice echoes strangely in this claustrophobic little room. It smells in here, like dirty socks, sour milk, and old cologne.
“First we should decide where you would like to train,” he says.
I gesture around us. “I’m confused.”
“This is the starting point,” he says. “You must decide the ending point.”
“Okay. What are my options?”
“Anywhere,” he answers.
“The Sahara desert? The Taj Mahal? The Eiffel Tower?”
“I think we’d make quite a spectacle practicing swordplay at the Eiffel Tower, but it’s up to you.” He grins goofily, then sobers. “Try somewhere you know well, where you’ll be comfortable and relaxed.”
That’s easy. I don’t even have to think about it for two seconds. “Okay. Take me home. To Jackson.”
“Jackson it is.” Dad moves to stand in front of me. “We will cross now.”
“And what is crossing, exactly?” I ask.
“It’s …” He searches for the words, finds them. “Bending the rules of time and space in order to move from one place to another very quickly. The first step,” he adds dramatically, “is glory.”
I wait for something to happen, but nothing does. I look at Dad. He nods his head at me expectantly.
“What, I’m going to do it?”
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You brought your mother back from hell.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Brick by brick, my dear,” he says.
I swallow. “What, I’m like building Rome now? Maybe we should start with something smaller.” I close my eyes, try to center myself in the now, try to stop thinking, stop processing, just be. I listen to my breath drag in and out of my body, try to empty myself, forget myself, because only then can I reach that quiet place inside me that’s part of the light.
“Good,” Dad murmurs, and I open my eyes to glory’s golden wash around us.
“In this state,” he says, “you have access to anything you ask for. You must simply learn how to ask.”
“Anything?” I repeat skeptically.
“If you ask and you believe, yes. Anything.”
“So if I really wanted a cheeseburger, like right now …”
He laughs, and the sound echoes around us like a chorus of bells. His eyes are molten silver in this light, his hair gleaming.
“I suppose I’ve had stranger requests.” He holds out his hand, and something golden brown appears in it. I take it. It’s like bread, only lighter.
“What is it?” I ask. Because it’s so not a cheeseburger.
“Taste it.”
I hesitate, then take a bite. It explodes on my tongue, like the best buttery croissant I’ve ever had, almost melting in my mouth, leaving a faint aftertaste of honey. I scarf down the rest, and afterward I feel completely satisfied. Not full. But content.
“This stuff is amazing,” I say, resisting the urge to lick my fingers. “And you can produce this out of thin air, anytime you want?”
“I ask, and it comes,” he says. “But now, focus. Where were we?”
“You said that in glory we can access anything.”
“Yes. That is how one passes between heaven and earth, and how it’s possible for me to travel from one place on earth to another. One time to another.”
I get momentarily excited. “Are you going to teach me how to move through time, too?”
I like the idea of giving myself an extra hour to study for exams, or finding out who’s going to win the Stanford-Berkeley game before it happens. Or—a lump jumps up in my throat—I could go to see Mom. In the past.
Dad frowns. “No.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed. “Not part of the plan, huh?”
He puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezes gently. “You will see your mother again, Clara.”
“When?” I ask, my voice suddenly hoarse. “When I die?”
“When you need it most,” he says, ambiguous as ever.
I clear my throat. “But for now, I can what, cross to wherever I want to go?”
He takes my hands in his, looks into my eyes. “Yes. You can.”
“That could come in extremely handy when I’m running late for class.”
“Clara.” He wants me to be serious now. “Crossing is a vital skill. And it’s not as difficult as you might think to achieve,” he says. “We are all connected, everything that lives and breathes in this world, and glory is what binds us.”
Next thing he’ll be talking about the Force, I know it.
“And every place has a piece of that energy, as well. A signature, if you will. So to move from here to there, you must first connect to that energy.”
“Glory. Check.”
“Then you must think of the place you wish to go. Not the location on a map, but the life of that place.”
“Like … the big aspen tree in my front yard in Jackson?”
“That would be ideal,” he says. “Reach for that tree, the power it’s generating from the sun, the roots stretching themselves out in the earth, drinking, the life of the leaves….�
�
For a minute I’m hypnotized by the sound of his voice. I close my eyes, and I can see it so clearly: my aspen tree, the leaves starting to turn colors and drop, the movement of the chilly autumn wind through the branches, the whispering as it stirs the leaves. It actually makes me shiver, imagining it.
“You’re not imagining it,” Dad says. “We’re here.”
I open my eyes. Gasp. We’re standing in my front yard under the aspen tree. Just like that.
Dad lets go of my hands. “Well done.”
“That was me? Not you?”
“All you.”
“It was … easy.” I’m shocked by how simple it was, such an impossible-sounding thing as going almost a thousand miles in the literal blink of an eye.
“You’re very powerful, Clara,” Dad says. “Even for a Triplare, you’re remarkable. Your connection is strong and steady.”
This makes me want to ask him a dozen questions, like, If that’s true, why don’t I feel more, I don’t know, religious? Why aren’t my wings whiter? Why do I have so many doubts? Instead I say, “Okay, let’s do this. Teach me something else.”
“With pleasure.” He takes off his hat and suit jacket and lays them carefully on the porch railing, then goes to the house and returns with Mom’s kitchen broom, which he promptly snaps into two pieces like it’s a strand of uncooked spaghetti. He holds out one half to me.
“Hey,” I gasp. I know it shouldn’t be a big deal, but I connect the broom with Mom dancing around the kitchen, sweeping theatrically, mock singing “Whistle While You Work” in her most nasally high-pitched Snow White voice. “You broke my broom.”
“I apologize,” he says.
I take my half of the broom, narrow my eyes suspiciously on his face. “I thought this was about glory swords.”
