Level 2

by Lenore Appelhans

  But no, the man is not my father, though he does bear a rather striking resemblance to him.

  “What are you up to, mate?” The man sways to and fro as if inebriated.

  “This.” Julian raises his fist and punches him in the face.

  CHAPTER 7

  THE MAN THUDS TO THE FLOOR, out cold. Julian drags him to the other side of the hive, depositing him there in distaste.

  When I get over my shock and find my voice, I yell at Julian. “What did you do that for?”

  “Now he can’t refuse you his chamber,” Julian says, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “But how can hitting him cause him to lose consciousness? I thought that couldn’t happen here.”

  Julian shrugs. “He believed it could happen. You needed a place to plug in. So plug in.”

  I shake my head weakly in disgust and crawl into the now vacated chamber while I still have the energy to do so without Julian’s assistance. Seeing the man makes me yearn to see my dad again. I fiddle with the man’s settings until I can load my own, and on a whim decide to revisit the last trip I took with Dad. I flex my fingers, and then I’m in.

  Ward, Felicia. Memory #31272

  Tags: Turkey, Dad, Scary storm, Musical goats

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  The ancient Peugeot we’ve hired chugs and bumps up the winding road at such a slow speed that I want to scream. We’ve been in the car for hours, and there’s nothing for me to do other than check periodically if my cell phone has reception (it never does), stare out at the scraggly trees, and think about all the fun I could be having if only Dad had trusted me to stay alone over fall break.

  In the front seat Dad talks to our driver and translator, a squat man with a tendency to grunt and grin a mouthful of gold. They converse in a mishmash of broken Turkish and English, and any attempt I make to decipher what they’re saying over the roar of the motor results in a headache. I zone out and absently doodle Julian’s name in the dusty glass of the windowpane and cross it out again until my finger is caked with grime.

  “Are we almost there?” It may be the fortieth time I’ve asked since we left Istanbul this morning at the crack of dawn. We have stopped several times to stretch our legs and gas up the car, most recently an hour ago in the outskirts of Ordu, but I’m itching to finally be free of this metal cage on wheels.

  Dad turns his head and winks at me. “Azrak says to be patient. A fine assortment of goat cheeses awaits us in the next village.”

  I groan. It is Dad’s preoccupation with goats, specifically a musically inclined herd here somewhere in the wilds of the North Turkish coast, that ruined my plans to alternately avoid Autumn so I could sneak around with Julian, and to spend time with Autumn to reassure her that nothing is going on. Because Mother was sent to Montenegro for two weeks to help them sort out their passport office, Dad insisted I come with him on his research trip. Or as I like to refer to it, his wild goat chase.

  As I stretch out my arms, the charm bracelet Autumn sent me for Christmas last year comes free from under the sleeve of my fleece jacket. I twist my wrist and watch as the charms catch the rays of the midafternoon sunlight. The tiny piano charm I bought myself, but I fixate on the other two, both dolphins, Autumn’s favorite animal. When she gave me the bracelet, she said the dolphins reminded her of us, two faithful friends since childhood adrift in an ocean of constant change. I tuck the bracelet back under my sleeve.

  The road is getting bumpier now, if that’s even possible. Dad throws worried glances behind him, but I know he’s not nearly as concerned about my bruised tailbone as he is that his precious recording equipment in the trunk might get damaged. He confers with Azrak, and the car slows to a crawl.

  Finally we arrive at a village. Azrak parks in front of a crumbling concrete building, and both he and Dad jump out. Azrak opens my door for me, and I mumble polite thanks as I step out onto the dirt road. A group of young boys kicking a half-deflated soccer ball gawk at us and then break out into cherubic smiles as they hold out their grubby hands.

  “You have candy?” Azrak asks me.

  “No.” I scowl.

  He shouts something at the boys in Turkish and they scatter, the biggest one taking the soccer ball with him.

  “We’ll get some supplies here in Cam Basi before we go set up camp,” Dad says, brushing off his khakis with the backs of his hands. “Azrak assures me the goatherd I’m seeking has been spotted around these parts. It’s not too much farther now.”

  I grimace and follow Dad and Azrak into the building. One side is lined with stalls where women in a sea of colorful headscarves sell everything from rolls of fresh cheese to sheep heads with their eyes gouged out. The rest of the room is a makeshift café with groups of men huddled around tables playing backgammon, smoking cigarettes, and drinking tea. I’m a million miles away from where I want to be.

  Dad and Azrak are already haggling over some flat bread. I tap Dad on the shoulder and tell him I’ll wait outside.

  When I emerge from the stuffy building, I take a deep breath of the cool mountain air and shiver. I imagine I can smell the Black Sea, though I can’t. Not really. If it weren’t October already, I might have sold Dad on a side trip to a beach, though he’s not one for passive activities like lying out. He’d likely insist on building sand castles and embarrassing me.

  I walk down the road a bit, past homes that look like no more than huts. The enticing scent of spiced meat on the grill emanating through the wooden slats makes my stomach rumble. At the end of the row, I turn and walk back toward the car. The wind is starting to pick up, carrying with it bits of torn paper and withered leaves.

  I’m in time to slide into the car and help Azrak arrange our purchases in the backseat next to me. I peek into one of the plastic bags and am greeted by a pair of fat trout, their slack mouths gaping.

  “You didn’t buy a sheep head, did you, Dad?”

  He smacks his forehead in mock horror. “Oh, no! I forgot the sheep head. Maybe we can get one on the way back?” he teases. He leans over the seat back and makes as if to tickle me, but I dodge his wriggling fingers. Azrak starts the car, and we’re off.

  The ride is short, as promised, and in no longer than twenty minutes, we’re standing in front of a ruin of a house with one door falling off its hinges, and no roof.

  “This is where we’re staying the night?” I ask, incredulous.

  Azrak grunts something unintelligible and begins unpacking a tarp from the trunk.

  Dad rubs my shoulders. “It’s just for tonight, sweet pea. Can you help me look for rocks we can use to secure the tarp?”

  “Fine,” I grumble, ducking out of his grasp and walking in the opposite direction. I shield my eyes with my hand and squint into my surroundings. The landscape is breathtaking. Rugged and lonely with vast swaths of tall, tangled grass. A sob builds in my chest, and I don’t quite know why.

  I wander around, kicking at the grass until I find a sizeable stone that looks like it will do. I haul it back to our “shelter” and add it to the pile my industrious father has already gathered. “That’s enough, I think,” he says.

  While he and Azrak work on the roof, I carry in the food, the cooking equipment, and our sleeping bags. I leave Dad’s precious cargo in the trunk. It will be safer there. I rustle through the bags and break off a chunk of bread, which I top with the moist, crumbly cheese. It tastes amazing, salty and tangy on my tongue. Before I know it, I’ve devoured a whole round of bread and cheese.

  When Dad and Azrak finally finish securing the tarp, I’m sitting against the wall on my sleeping bag with a copy of Our Town. We’re discussing it in class when I get back.

  “Ah, Our Town.” Dad takes the copy from my hands and flips through it, scanning the pages as if he’s looking for something in particular. My bookmark flutters to the floor. “‘Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?
’” he reads. “Such a powerful line.”

  “Hey!” My frustration with having to overnight here in the middle of nowhere like squatters reaches a fever pitch and I erupt, snatching the book from his hands. “I’m not even that far yet. And you’ve lost my place.”

  Dad startles at my outburst and backs away without another word. He and Azrak go outside and busy themselves with building a campfire to prepare the trout. They offer me some when it is flayed and cooked, but I refuse.

  The tarp above us flaps, and the wind whistles through the gaps between the rocks. “Storm coming,” Azrak wheezes. He belches loudly and then burrows into his sleeping bag headfirst. He doesn’t even remove his shoes.

  Dad and I both take off our shoes and then shimmy into our sleeping bags. Feetfirst. I arrange my pillow so it cradles my neck, and I stare up at the undulating motion of the flimsy tarp. I cross my fingers that it doesn’t start raining.

  Dad keeps clearing his throat next to me, and I know he wants to say something.

  I throw him a bone. “So, has Azrak ever seen these famous goats of yours?”

  Dad exhales loudly. “He hasn’t, but we talked to some people from the village who have. They say they’ve never heard anything like it.”

  “How does it work?”

  “Seems this goat herder was once a blacksmith. For fun he forged a whole octave of bells to put on his goats. And he is training them to run in some sort of order, so it’s like they’re playing a musical piece. Once I heard about it, I knew I had to see it. And record it.”

  “How random.” I’m unconvinced this is worth missing out on what’s happening back home. These days spent in a dump, listening to the muffled snores of a Turkish man, are days I’ll never get back.

  “Look, Felicia . . . I know you didn’t want to come . . .”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “. . . but I couldn’t leave you at home by yourself. You’re seventeen.”

  “Seventeen is old enough,” I grumble. “Nicole’s parents let her stay at home alone.” I know it’s a weak argument, especially since Nicole’s exploits while her parents are out of town are so legendary, I’m sure even my father has heard about them.

  “You used to love coming on these trips with me.” His voice is full of emotion. “I know it might not seem like it now, but there’s more to life than parties and studying. The point is to keep trying new things, meeting new people, visiting new places. Once you settle into a rut, no matter how fun that rut may seem, you stagnate. You might as well be dead.”

  I snort. “We will be dead if those rocks fall on our heads.”

  “Good night, sweet pea. Try to get some sleep.”

  And I do try to sleep. But I lie awake with my eyes squeezed shut for a long time, unsettled by the storm and afraid my nightmares will be extra fierce in this strange place. They’ve been more vivid lately, interspersed with flashes of bright light, and I’ve been getting less and less sleep because of them.

  Dad wakes me, so I guess I must have fallen asleep at some point during the night. He puts a hunk of bread in my hand and starts to whistle. “Roll up your sleeping bag, sweet pea! The goats are on the move!”

  I rise groggily, squinting in the bright sunlight, and gather up all my belongings to meet him at the car. I can think of better ways to spend my morning than lugging around my dad’s crap. He trades me the camping gear for his audio equipment. “Do you see them?” He points beyond the hut. “There on the crest of that hill. We have to hurry.”

  He sets off, and Azrak and I follow. All the while, I keep my eyes on the herd of goats. They munch grass in the morning sunlight, and the bells tinkle as they move.

  Once we’re in recording range, Dad sets up his equipment. Just in time too, because the goatherd bellows at the goats, and they prance and buck all around him. The sight alone of this orderly chaos is enough to transfix me, but the eerie, discordant melody of the bells has me rooted to the spot. It’s far from perfect, but I can understand now why Dad wanted to see them.

  Dad’s face is flushed and there are tears shining in his eyes. “See, sweet pea. What did I tell you? These are the moments that make life worth living. These are the moments I try to capture and convey when I compose.”

  I close the distance between us and slip my hand into his. The rest of the world fades away, and it’s just me and my dad, watching one of the most bizarre and beautiful spectacles I’ll probably ever see.

  I surface then, the strange music still clanging in my ears.

  “The nice gentleman wants his chamber back,” Julian says. “Can you restore his settings before you get out?”

  I do what Julian asked and wiggle out of the chamber. The man Julian punched is standing behind him, rhythmically rubbing his jaw.

  “Thank you, sir,” Julian says as if dismissing him.

  The man shuffles back into his chamber without another glance at us.

  Julian heads for the expanse of wall that hides the door. “We need to go.”

  I still have so many questions. “But . . .”

  “Let’s go.” His tone, impatient and vaguely menacing, leaves no room for discussion. It doesn’t seem worth it to fight him now, so I follow him out of the hive.

  We’re back on the run. As I fall in behind him, I wonder how long we’re going to have to traverse this expanse, this seemingly never-ending colony of hives, in order to find Neil. To keep frustration at bay I play a game. For every hive we pass along the corridor, I guess what types of people might be trapped there. That hive on the right could be full of former circus clowns. The one on the left teems with vicious gangsters. When I run out of easy descriptors, I start to make up individual histories. The clown who, because he refused to take off his red nose, was killed in Pamplona. The gangster who gave up his family for true love but was tracked down years later and was sent to sleep with the fishes.

  I’m surprised by how long I’m able to stay clearheaded outside my chamber. Should I tell Julian? Or is it better if I pretend I’m foggier than I am? It’s not that I’m scared of Julian exactly, but it seems wise to tread carefully around him.

  The hives start to rumble, and the path roils and cracks, throwing me to my knees. There’s a flickering, too, like the electricity is on the fritz. It lasts only a few seconds and then everything is calm again.

  Julian pulls me up and points at a mass of the scanner drones—at least ten—bearing down on us. “We have to take cover. Now!” Julian opens the door to the nearest hive, and we fling ourselves through.

  “Whoa! Close call.” In relief I smile up at Julian, but the smile dies on my lips. With a grim expression he swivels me around to face the communal area of the hive. It’s not empty. It’s full of burly men, fuming with anger. And all their eyes are on us.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE DOOR SEALS SHUT BEHIND ME. I claw at it in desperation. I have to get out of here.

  “Stay calm,” Julian whispers into my ear, pulling me away from the wall, closer to his side. “They can’t hurt you unless you believe they can.”

  Julian’s words barely register. As the beady-eyed pack approaches, the leader snarls and I cower.

  “You two responsible for the banging in my head?” He lunges at me and wraps his meaty arm around my neck, pressing me up against his chest. “Make it stop!” he howls at Julian. “Or I’ll off your little girlie here.”

  He squeezes me so hard that if I depended on a windpipe to keep air flowing to my lungs, I’d be passed out by now. I tense, too terrified to even struggle. This can’t be happening again.

  Julian holds his hands out to the leader in a pacifying gesture. It goes ignored. Instead a hulking brute with a long scar along his forehead rushes at him, fists swinging. He lands a punch on Julian’s face, right at the cheekbone. It knocks Julian off balance enough for a comparatively scrawny man to bound over and shove him easily to the floor. This riles the rest of the group up into a frenzy. They press in and egg on the attack.

  My panic escala
tes. Can they rip us apart? What happens if they do? Can you die when you’re already dead? I sure don’t want to find out. And definitely not like this.

  I can’t even see Julian anymore, he’s so surrounded by the writhing mass of men. A misty fog seeps from the wall of the hive, blurring the scene even more. Dark thoughts hover and jab at the edge of my mind, like a swarm of stinging wasps, telling me to give up. To give in.

  But then Julian roars. He rises and spins like a tornado in slow motion, flinging the scarred hulk away from him and into the crowd. He elbows anyone who blocks his path as he makes his way over to where I stand, still in the viselike grip of the leader.

  Julian leaps at us, and at the same time, I feel the man slacken against me and loosen his hold. As I begin to keel over, Julian catches me and kisses me full on the lips. His touch distracts me momentarily from everything else. It quells the dark thoughts in my head. Heat rises in my chest, replacing the panic and hopelessness. I’m dimly aware of our attackers lumbering away.

  I can’t surrender to Julian. I push against him roughly, and he releases me, making my body go cold and my head fuzzy. The noise comes back, a low level buzzing that gets louder as it swirls around my thoughts, pricking and probing for a way in. “Stay alert!” Julian barks into my face. “Focus your mind on me. You are stronger than them!”

  I peer at him drowsily, taking in his distressed jeans and his shredded shirt on the way up to his face. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are mere slits. “What do you mean?” I slur.

  He shakes me. “The doping gas is trying to invade your mind. You don’t have to let it in.”

  The doping gas. I remember then where I am, what I have to fight for. I close my eyes and concentrate on driving the dark thoughts away, on building a wall to keep them out. They screech and groan as I beat them back, a hideous din. I lay the final brick that completes my defenses, and I’m rewarded with the sound of silence. I fall into Julian’s arms, fully spent.

  He cradles me against his broad chest. The raw edges of his tattered shirt tickle my cheek, and the heat of his skin sears my own. “You did it,” he says with awe. “You beat the gas. It took everything you had, but you did it.”