Oracle--Solar Wind

by C. W. Trisef

  What happened next was a feat of mechanical engineering that took less than ten seconds to experience. Ret and Ana watched with great interest as two halves of a long, steel bridge began to rise from the water, each attached at one bank of the creek. They were triangular at first, resembling a still-wrapped Toblerone chocolate bar. Once they had straightened out horizontally, they connected at the middle of the creek, and then the two slanted sides folded outward to become vertical walls. The car quickly crossed a short strip of dirt and then, without any bumps in the road, entered this submerged, walled bridge. It looked like one of those moving walkways you might see at an airport. It rested in the water just deep enough so that the walls running along either side rose just above the surface to prevent water from spilling inside. The bridge was not above the water—it was in the water, below the surface—and the walls kept the water out.

  From the shore, the only thing a bystander may have noticed was a strip of metal shining from bank to bank, which likely would have been shrugged off as nothing more than a shimmering reflection of the afternoon sun on the rippled water. The presence of a car was completely undetectable at ground level.

  They reached the end of the bridge, hit the ramp, and bounced onto a little-used road named Alley Street that came right out to the sand. Ret looked behind them to watch the fold-away bridge close into a tight triangle and then break in half before sinking out of sight. It was yet another impressive display of Coy ingenuity.

  “Sure beats the kayak,” Ana remarked.

  Not until first period (when his teacher asked him if he was a new student) did Ret realize this was his first appearance at school since becoming “normal-looking,” as Ana called it. Everyone seemed to take notice. Guys he had never met before complimented him on his new contact lenses and his dyed hair. Girls he had never spoken to told him how much they liked his spray tan. And everyone expressed sympathy for his house that “exploded.” It seemed Ret was the talk of the whole school.

  “Don’t let it go to your head, bub,” Ana warned him.

  Meanwhile, Missy was having a hard time locating Principal Stone. No one in the front office knew where he was, so everyone referred her to Mr. Kirkpatrick, the assistant principal. When Missy arrived at his office, she found a little man who looked terribly stressed out.

  “Excuse me,” Missy said politely as she knocked on his door, “I’m looking for Principal Stone.”

  Without so much as glancing away from what he was doing, Mr. Kirkpatrick replied stalely, “He resigned.”

  “Oh,” said Missy. Although it was news she hadn’t been ready for, she was quick on the draw. “Then I suppose that makes you the interim principal, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” he sighed heavily, buried in a mess of papers. “Just found out this morning. Superintendent called, told me Stone ‘went into the wilderness,’ whatever that means. Sounds kind of nice right about now, actually.”

  “In that case, sir,” Missy persisted, “I’m wondering if you can help me.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised,” Kirkpatrick complained loudly, ignoring the request for help from the portly woman standing in his doorway. “I’ve been filling in for that weasel since day one. Worst principal I’ve ever worked with.” He was picking up thick stacks of paper and slamming them on his cluttered desk, sending pencils and paperclips into the air. “Still don’t know how he got the job. And now he just up and leaves.” His telephone rang, and he knocked it off his desk into the trashcan. “Good thing Kirkpatrick the hero is here to save the day yet again.”

  “Sir, I’m here to apply for a job as a supervisor on campus,” Missy told him.

  “What?” he asked, looking up at her for the first time.

  “You know, a nark?”

  “Oh,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Sure, sure. I can use all the help I can get. Just watch out for the boys’ restroom: one of the urinals floods.”

  “Got it.” Missy left the doorway and said to herself, “That was easy. Didn’t even have to flash my Uzi.”

  In the days that followed, the news of Principal Stone’s sudden resignation had a troubling effect on the Coys and Coopers. It especially bothered Mr. Coy, who felt a certain duty to protect not only his own daughter but also the mother and her two children who now lived on his property. The fact that Lye had come right in their own backyard and destroyed the Coopers’ home put everyone on alert, wondering if or when or how he might strike next.

  Mr. Coy even paid a visit to the Stone residence—this time by car—with no intention of going (or breaking) in. He just wanted to drive by and scope things out. So over to Skidaway Island he went, slowing to a stop under the shade of a large oak tree across the dusty street from the main gate of the house. It looked abandoned, its windows dark and its lawn as tall as prairie grass. Using a device that sent out radio waves, he determined there was nothing moving inside the house, and then, switching to thermal mode, concluded the place was cold. The Stones had fled. But why?

  Unable to sleep at night, Mr. Coy felt he should contact his good friend, Thorne. They had served together in the Navy years ago. Thorne went on to start his own international business, specializing in the installation and implementation of communications and defense systems. Coy told him he had a sizeable project for him at the Manor if he was up to it. Thorne was intrigued and arrived within a few days.

  Thorne flew in on his own plane, a small floatplane that had two buoyant pontoons underneath the fuselage to keep it afloat when landing on water. He came in off the coast of Little Tybee and then taxied up the creek to the backside of the island. Then he moored the plane to the shore and hiked up the bluff to the Manor.

  “What is your name?” a woman’s voice asked when Thorne approached the main gate.

  “Walter Thorne,” he replied to the air.

  “Please wait while I locate your name on the guest list.” Somewhere inside the Manor, a maid was consulting the guest list, a job that once belonged to the Coys’ late butler, Ivan. Within seconds, the maid found Thorne’s name on the list (which only contained a grand total of four) and said, “Welcome to Coy Manor, Mr. Thorne.”

  The gate parted, and before Thorne had made it halfway up the long walk, the double doors opened, and Mr. Coy hurried out to greet his old comrade.

  “You haven’t aged a bit,” Thorne observed after a hearty embrace.

  “Too bad I can’t say the same about you!” Coy ribbed, slapping him on the back. “Gray hair already?”

  “That’s what two teenagers will do to you,” Thorne sighed. “They’re not all as wonderful as your Paige, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, well, you and I both know she gets that from her mother,” Coy said. “Come, come; I’ll let you tell her in person. You’re just in time for dinner. You’ll be my guest for this week.”

  Mr. Coy followed his nose and led Thorne across the grounds to the Cooper home, where Pauline was just taking the rolls out of the oven. Paige was already there, helping Ana set the table.

  “They’re here,” Pauline said when the knock came at the door. “Ana, will you get Ret, please?”

  “Sure,” Ana obeyed. Then she turned and yelled, “Ret! Dinner’s ready!”

  “I could’ve done that,” Pauline muttered to Paige. “Will you please let your father in, honey?”

  “Is that steak I smell?” Coy said as he entered. “Thorne, you’re in for a treat. Pauline is almost as good a chef as I am.”

  “Almost,” Pauline humored him as she came to greet this week’s guest, wiping her hands on a towel.

  “This is Walter Thorne,” Coy introduced, “an old friend from the Navy.”

  “He doesn’t look old to me,” Pauline exchanged with a welcoming smile. “Nice to meet you, Walter.” Then, extending her hand, she introduced herself, “Pauline Cooper.”

  “Please, Ms. Cooper, call me Thorne,” he said kindly, taking her hand. “No one’s called me Walter since I joined the Navy—hasn’t sounded right ever since. I’m
not very fond of the name Walter now, actually.”

  “Very well, Thorne,” Pauline said pleasantly. “And this is my daughter Ana and my son Ret.”

  Thorne’s face suddenly clouded over. He stared at Ret with concern, worry even. Everyone noticed and fell silent.

  “Ret Cooper?” Thorne asked, as if to make sure he had heard correctly. “Is that your name?” It was a name that obviously wasn’t new to him.

  Thorne’s eyes fell down. He glanced to the left and then to the right. He was looking at Ret’s hands hanging at his sides, clearly searching for scars.

  Instantly distrustful of this newcomer, Ret’s mind gathered all the silverware that was on the table and brought each piece within an inch of Thorne’s face. Pauline and the girls let out stifled squeals as the cutlery came whizzing by them. Wide-eyed, Thorne froze with fear, staring at the steak knives in particular.

  “Whoa, Ret,” Coy intervened, as if calming a frenzied horse. “Let’s hear him out before you impale him.”

  With his brow furrowed in doubt, Ret relinquished the utensils, returning each one to its proper place without ever taking an eye off Thorne.

  “Alright, Walter,” Coy said with suspicion, purposely calling him by his first name. “What have you heard?”

  “You must understand, I mean you no harm,” Thorne said respectfully, breathing a sigh of relief. “A few weeks ago, I was in New York at a meeting of the United Nations. I am not a member of the General Assembly but was invited to attend due to my background. It was an emergency meeting, held in response to the events going on in Saharan Africa. We learned what really happened, not only there but also in the Bermuda Triangle and at Easter Island—how each place was hiding some kind of element—and that a person named Ret Cooper was to blame.”

  “What?” Coy said in shock. “How did they find out? Who told you this?”

  “It was some person from the UN community,” Thorne recalled. “His name was Lionel Zarbock. Do you know him?”

  Pauline’s jaw dropped. Paige and Ana glared at each other. Mr. Coy stared at Ret with a face that said “I thought so” more than “I told you so.” Ret could feel Mr. Coy’s gaze, so he avoided it.

  “Yes, we know him,” Coy answered, “though apparently not well enough. What else did he say, Thorne?”

  “A lot. He had prepared a whole slideshow. He vilified Ret—made him enemy number-one. This guy, Lionel Zarbock, convinced everyone at the UN to pretty much let him do whatever he wants to prevent Ret from finding any more of those element things. Look, Ben,” Thorne said, wrapping up, “I’m not sure what this is all about, but I think it’s safe to say”—jabbing his thumb toward Ret—“this young man’s got some big problems on his hands,” which, whether he meant it or not, was very profound.

  “Yes, we know,” said Coy painfully.

  “Lionel,” Pauline spoke, as if trying to process an ugly reality, “he betrayed us—betrayed us all! Oh, who can we trust?”

  Much to everyone’s surprise, Ret left the group and sat at the dinner table. He served himself a generous helping and started chowing down. The others followed, their moods subdued and conversation light. It wasn’t long before Ret slid a second steak onto his plate, then another hefty scoop of mashed potatoes and two more rolls. He wasn’t starving; he was loading up. You see, he had a plan—a sort of last-resort plan that he had been considering for several weeks but couldn’t quite bring himself to carry out. Until now. The news shared by Thorne had pushed Ret over the edge. And so he kept eating until he was nice and full, well aware that he might not eat another one of Pauline’s home-cooked meals ever again.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE ORPHAN’S SONG

  Ret was leaving—for good. That was his plan. This Oracle business was far too dangerous, and he cared about his loved ones too much to keep them at risk any longer. Everything was spiraling out of control now, and he was the cause of it, so he would go. Where? He didn’t know, just away—far, far away from everyone and everything. Whatever he touched turned to ruin; whatever he did caused someone harm. He, and he alone, was the common ingredient that continued to sour every recipe. And so, he decided, it was he who needed to go.

  After dinner, Ret went to his room, closed the door, and flopped on his bed. Staring at the ceiling, he could hear occasional groans from his stomach, overwhelmed by its first real meal in weeks. He listened to the sighs and “byes” as the Coys left with Thorne, then to the cling and clang as Pauline and Ana cleaned up. Not much later, he heard the mother and daughter bid good-night to each other and head into their respective rooms.

  Ret waited for them to fall fast asleep. He pondered on what he was about to do and wondered if it might not be the best decision after all. He glanced out his window, which he always kept open. The breeze was cool and salty. A full moon hung low in the sky. He watched a thin haze obscure the moon and, for a moment, thought it was leftover smoke still rising from the burned-down Cooper home. It was just the usual fog rolling in from the ocean, but Ret took it as a sign.

  He quietly gathered a few provisions and stuffed them in a backpack. He tiptoed from his room and entered the dark hallway. He stopped in front of the cracked door to Pauline’s room and peered inside. There was his devoted caretaker. She looked especially lonely, curled up by herself on one side of her large bed. It was Ret’s fault her husband wasn’t there.

  Then he arrived at Ana’s door, also ajar. He stole a glance inside. Ana lay sprawled out on her bed, a slight snore disrupting the silence. Ret couldn’t help but smile. She had been a friend to him when no one else was. He would miss her quiet optimism and not-so-quiet confidence.

  As he left the hall, the tear in Ret’s eye advised him to at least leave a note. He knew Pauline would be worried sick, thinking he had been kidnapped or something. So he kept it simple:

  I’m going away. I don’t know where, but I’ll be okay. It’s better for everyone. Sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I’ll miss my only family. It’s time for all of us to move on.

  Ret

  He went out the front door, then locked it from the outside by mentally sliding the deadbolt. He jogged to the Manor’s nearest gate, used his brain to bend the bars apart wide enough for him to slip through, and then bent them back into place. He found his trusty kayak and paddled to the mainland (still his preferred way to cross the creek), then briskly walked over a house-turned-ash-heap and didn’t look back. He was moving on.

  Ret made his way north to the main road with an unusual bounce in his step. He felt lighter, unfettered from the burdens he was leaving behind. Like a recently released prisoner, he breathed in the fresh air and exhaled with freedom. There was no one to hold him back, no strings to tie him down, no Oracle to tell him what to do. He was a new man.

  He waltzed further into town. The streets were empty. The only sound that stirred the nighttime silence was the soft and pleasant murmur of the waves breaking on the beach a few blocks away. The digital marquees of the periodic bank or church along the strip told him the time was midnight and the temperature a balmy 62 degrees, which free information he would need to utilize in the future since he purposely left his cell phone out of his meager provisions. He wanted as few reminders of his former life as possible. He was starting over—a fresh, clean slate.

  Ret was just about to cross Center Street when he heard a noise. It was the voice of a man, and he was singing. It wasn’t the deep, rich voice of a big-bellied man; no, it was soft and smooth and just as beautiful.

  Curious, Ret turned east down Center Street and walked a few yards, following his ears. The sweet melody was coming from behind the orphanage. He went around back and saw a young man sitting on the first few steps of the bottommost ladder of the building’s fire escape. Even though his back was to Ret, he could tell it was Leo, gazing out over the dark ocean and into the black sky. Ret listened as Leo sang:

  I fear the darkness in the night.

  I’m alone
, there’s no one but me.

  Clearly outnumbered and severely encumbered

  By the darkness in all that I see.

  But there’s a light—a light in the night!

  A light I never saw was there:

  The sunshine concealed it, now the darkness revealed it.

  How could I miss a light so fair?

  There are times when I see no hope

  For this world of heartache and sin.

  Too hard to correct it, so I’ll just neglect it,

  Too much darkness for light to win.

  But there’s a light—a light in the night!

  I’m not alone; there’re legions like me.

  And the darker the night grows, the starker each light glows.

  Oh, these lights in the night—now I see!

  Ret was sad when Leo’s last word was carried by the wind out to sea. Even though he didn’t really understand it, he didn’t want it to end. It was a powerful piece of music, its message and melody a balm for the wounded soul.

  Finally, Ret said, “That was amazing.”

  Startled, Leo jolted with surprise and almost fell off the ladder.

  “Ret?!” Leo wondered, straightening his glasses. “What are you doing here?”

  “Listening to you sing,” Ret told him, sidestepping the real reason.

  “Oh, you heard that?” Leo winced with embarrassment.

  “It was beautiful,” Ret complimented him.

  “Yeah, well, tell that to Mrs. Eisner,” Leo said with a hint of scorn.

  “Who’s she?”

  “She’s the choir teacher at school,” Leo explained, climbing down the ladder to the ground. “For the last two years, I’ve been trying to get into the school choral group, but every time I try out, Mrs. Eisner tells me I ain’t ready—tells me I need to ‘suppress the drawl.’ And I try to, but it’s hard.”