Mark arrived on their doorstep with their backpacks and a map tube just after their parents pulled out of the drive. His hair was slicked back, a sweep of black strands covering the bald patch on his crown. His blue cardigan gaped over the fleshy expanse of his stomach. He wore a toothy grin, but his eyes widened as he spied Farley’s saliva-coated tongue and the dog began the opening maneuvers of his overly exuberant greeting ritual. Abbey grabbed Farley and pulled the Chesapeake Bay Retriever into a sit.
Caleb and Simon stared at Mark. They crowded the doorway side by side to block him from entering the house. Mark continued to smile. Nobody said anything.
“It was nice of you to return our backpacks,” Abbey finally ventured from behind her brothers. She tried to see if the knife remained on his belt, but the cardigan was too long. Surely the three of them could take him down if necessary, but not if he had the knife.
Mark thrust the backpacks and map tube at Caleb and started to speak at a brisk pace. “Your shoreline contains areas of long fairly straight coastline with no headlands and bays. That results when you have a shoreline where the rocks are very similar or just one type. Most shorelines consist of many rock types and they vary in their resistance to erosion, forming a more jagged shoreline.” Mark drew a breath and prepared to continue his speech.
“Whoa, slow down man,” Caleb said. “Are you saying you’ve figured out where it is?”
Mark made puffing noises out his nose and rocked from one foot to the other, keeping his eyes focused on the stoop, except for occasional glances at the wall over Abbey’s shoulder.
Mark drew his lips back again into the strained toothy arrangement that was beginning to remind Abbey of Donkey from Shrek. “It would be very helpful if you would not interrupt me. I do not deal well with interruptions. The proximity to shore of the two islands that appear on your map was critical to my assessment. I have accounted for slight rises in sea level and storm erosion patterns on the current substrate type of the area, presuming that ocean currents do not flip as a result of climate change.”
“And if they do?” Caleb interrupted.
Mark made the nose noise again. Farley’s tail thumped the floor. “Then shorelines around the world would be so altered that we would have no way of knowing where you were.”
Caleb laughed. “Where we were? That’s funny. Didn’t we say it was just a school assignment? We didn’t go anywhere. We really appreciate your help. We’ll take it from here.”
Abbey and Simon stood mute.
Mark’s grin lost some of its enameled intensity and he staggered backward a step, breathing heavily in and out through his nose, nodding his head with each breath. Abbey wondered if it was going to be a repeat of the bed incident.
After nine nose breaths, Mark said, “I have to go now.” He turned and marched down the driveway with his curious bouncy step.
When he was out of earshot, Abbey said, “Caleb, he might be trying to help us. We should be nice to him. We need to ask him what he knows, who Mantis is, and how he knows about the stones.”
Caleb crossed his arms. “We can’t have him thinking that we went somewhere.”
“Abbey’s right, Cale,” said Simon, as Caleb shoved the map tube into his backpack. “We’ll talk to him after school. We’d better hurry. We’re going to be late.”
They met in front of the bleachers at lunch. The sky was overcast, but the rain from the previous day had ceased and the air held some warmth. Caleb spread the map on one of the bleachers and smoothed his drawing out on top. “Mark thinks it’s Santa Monica Bay. I have to admit, it looks right. The islands are Santa Cruz and Santa Catalina. They’re smaller in the drawing than they are on current maps, but that makes sense.”
Abbey peered over Caleb’s shoulder at the map and at the squiggles on Caleb’s paper. “How do we know there aren’t a whole bunch of shorelines that look like that? How do we know we were even on this planet or in this world?”
Caleb frowned. “I don’t know.”
Simon traced his finger from the shoreline inland, letting it come to rest on the dot that represented Los Angeles.
“Newellay…” said Simon. “Newellay. Wait—what if Max was saying ‘New L.A.’? A future L.A., perhaps a rebuilt L.A.?”
Abbey stared at her older brother. Sometimes, she really wasn’t sure if she was the smartest person in the family at all.
Caleb launched into a victory dance crossed with a mambo, followed by slaps on the back for Simon. “That’s it! Now we just have to figure out the location of the Bubble City. Probably a different place at the same time. And the location of the first place, the marina with the mirror building.”
Abbey scowled. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t let your victory dance go to your head. You have no idea if it was a different place at the same time. It could’ve been a different place at a different time.”
Caleb ran his hand through his hair, which vaguely resembled the comb of a rooster. “Good point. We have to figure out how it works. Do we go to a different place, different time, each time? Can we get back to the first place? I’ll add those to the list of questions.” He pulled his pencil and the list out of his pocket and started writing. “Okay, so I’ve added some things to the list for us to divvy up again.” He read out the new additions. “Bubble city, maze, sender of the distress call, cell service, Mantis, Livingstone Labs, more than one set of stones and Madrona. Before we divide those up, let’s have a reporting out on how everyone’s doing on their previous homework assignments. Abbey first.”
Abbey pursed her lips, about to refuse, but then relented. “I’d be more comfortable if you didn’t seem to be enjoying this quite so much. We could get trapped in these other places, or hurt, or in trouble. I already told you about Al-Ice. I struck out on Twinkle-Free Air. As for the storm, if it is in the future, storms might become more frequent and intense because of climate change.”
“I’ve been thinking about Twinkle-Free Air,” said Simon. “What if it’s a catchy play on stars and how they lose their twinkle when you leave the earth’s atmosphere? If that airline does space jumps like Max did, then their flights would be ‘twinkle-free’.”
“Woohoo! You’re on fire today, bro!” Caleb exclaimed as he added notes to his paper. “And what about you? Anything about the Greenhill kid? Or S Systems?”
Simon shook his head. “I’m zero for two. There are lots of Sinclair Systems, but none of them related to computers. Salvador Systems is a hardware company. I’ll have to do some digging and possibly go to Granton to get any further info on it. Greenhill School was locked by the time I got there and their yearbook isn’t online. I tried following up on the email address but the kid used the name ‘Fly Kid’ to register it. And he only checks it on Greenhill School IP addresses, so I can’t get any details on where he lives.”
“Hmmm,” said Caleb. “Fly Kid and Mantis…both insects. There’s probably something there. Maybe we should check entomology clubs and—”
“Or he plays baseball,” interrupted Abbey, feeling pouty that Simon had figured out Twinkle-Free Air when she couldn’t. “There’s a baseball game here tomorrow afternoon. Us against Greenhill.”
“All right then, one of us needs to check it out.” Caleb continued annotating his list. “Okay. For today, I’ll talk to some of my friends about the Greenhill kid. Maybe some of them know him. Simon, you trace the email back to Mantis’s IP, and do some research on Salvador Systems. Abbey, you’re on Livingstone Labs and the Madrona. The only way we’re going to figure out whether there’s more than one set of stones is to go back to the Bubble City and search around the outside of the lab building. Let’s meet at the stones at four.”
Abbey shook her head violently. “I’m not going back through the stones, Caleb. Not today. Not to the desert. We’ll die. Don’t you have track and field anyway?”
“I’m skipping track. Don’t worry, Ab. I wasn’t suggesting we go back to the desert. We’ll just do some tracings of the markings on the stones, and
then go talk to Mark. It’ll be fine.” This last assertion was accompanied by an expansive gesture in the air by Caleb.
“Don’t you think we should tell Mom and Dad?”
Caleb’s face was blank. “Only if you want them to think we’ve lost our minds or have started taking drugs, thereby ending life as we know it.”
“Fine,” said Abbey, pulling her collar up around her neck. “I’ve got class.”
“Don’t forget your homework,” Caleb called.
Becca and Kimmie waved when Abbey entered the computer lab. She smiled weakly at them. “Sorry guys. I should sit alone today. I have to work on my science project. I need to focus.”
Kimmie rolled her eyes and twisted a strand of her black hair around a pencil. “All right, Miss Smarty-Pants, if you don’t want to hear about Becca’s new Greenhill boyfriend.”
There was no malice to Kimmie’s words. They’d been friends long enough for them to tolerate Abbey’s study habits, although Kimmie made no bones about telling Abbey she was totally deranged. Kimmie and Rebecca were smart girls—not freak geniuses like Abbey, of course, but respectable straight-A students—which is why they were still friends with Abbey, despite her borderline pariah-like status with the rest of the kids in their class. But Kimmie and Becca had somehow managed to avoid being total geeks and seemed a bit better at balancing schoolwork and life than Abbey was.
Abbey grinned back. “Tomorrow, ‘kay?”
Rebecca bobbed her head. “He’s coming here tomorrow for the game.”
“Great. Let’s talk then.” Abbey sidled to the back of the classroom.
She settled in and arranged her books into a productive layout. She had already completed her analysis of the Horton-Strahler scaling ratio in the layers of social organization of many mammals, most notably elephants, for the Science Fair. She retrieved her write-up from the school server, placed it prominently on the screen, and then typed ‘Madrona’ into Google.
Some of the photos were breathtaking, and Abbey felt as drawn to the tree’s silhouette as she had the previous day. The Madrona seemed starkly lush, yet defiant, like it could thrive in the harshest of conditions. Photos showed it growing out of rocky outcrops and on sparsely vegetated banks. She was surprised to read that the trees were actually very vulnerable to development and environmental change. They were common to the Pacific Northwest and California and noted for their peeling bark. But they weren’t native to the desert or Coventry. The tree at the lab must have been cultivated, she mused. But why that tree? And why there? And why was the same tree in the middle of a rosebush on Coventry Hill? The articles made references to its appearance, nearest relatives, and taxonomy. Nothing jumped out.
Abbey typed in ‘Madrona Symbolism’. Results flicked up on the screen. Madrona meant mother and life-giver. First Nations people used to believe that if the Madrona were ever to disappear, the world would fly apart and be destroyed forever. A shiver rippled down her arms. What if the Madrona that they saw at the lab was the last living one? What if someone was keeping it alive so the world wouldn’t fly apart?
She doodled the word ‘Livingstone’ on her paper for a long time before typing it into the computer. Livingstone Laboratory Supplies and Livingston Computer Labs came up, as did many people around the world with a last name of Livingstone. Nothing seemed relevant. She tried a few other search engines with no luck before opening Facebook. She typed in her password quickly. Using Facebook in school was a serious offense, and her palms were damp. A few clicks later, Sam Livingstone’s wry grin peered out at her from beneath the shaggy blond hair that made him look like a movie star, not a physicist. He updated his status daily, usually with some science quip or comment on the experiments he was running in the lab at Berkeley. Today he had a quote that said chemists were like physicists only ‘less so’ because, after all, physicists get to split atoms, while chemists only join them together. Abbey closed the window. She ticked off another day in the countdown to July and crossed her fingers that he would be a camp counselor again.
She rewrote the word ‘Livingstone’ and circled it. It had to be just a coincidence. Dr. A. Livingstone. It was almost funny after all her mother’s lectures about keeping her maiden name. She wrote out Sam’s quote about splitting atoms with a heart underneath. Then, irritated with herself, she drew a line through the heart, breaking it in two. Sam was ten years older than she was. He considered her to be just a kid, and one geeky enough to want to attend Science Camp in the summer, although he’d made it clear he thought science was cool. But he was a graduate student at Berkeley with his own car and apartment. He dated women, not scrawny fourteen-year-olds. She imagined texting him: < Hey Sam, how’s it going? Split any atoms lately? > and then < What are your thoughts on time travel? How about parallel universes? Want to hear my new hypotheses? Did you know it looks like we might get married some day? Might as well start dating now, right? > But she no longer had a phone. It was somewhere else, and probably somewhen else, in a desert.
Almost on its own, her hand extended the line through the name, making it Living stone. Living Stone. Abbey stared at it for a few minutes before Googling it.
As always, Google had a ready reply. Living Stones were plants ideally adapted to disguise themselves, conserve water, and survive in a desert ecosystem. Just like a desert city would have to be. They were also known as Fairy Elephant’s Feet. Most of the year the plants resembled upturned elephants’ feet, but they erupted into brilliant pink flowers every summer. Abbey felt an odd desire to touch one of the plants, to run her hands over its surface and understand how it was made.
The final bell rang. Abbey packed up her stuff, evaded Kimmie and Rebecca, and headed home. Simon was busy at the computer lab and Caleb had headed off to the local art store to buy supplies for their rubbings. Abbey had been assigned Farley walking duty. They were to meet at the stones at four.
Abbey passed the gray marble Coventry Ridge Estates sign that marked the entrance to their subdivision. She stopped and turned in a slow circle, looking at the Stairway Mountain Range to the west, then the valley bottom where the Moon River traced its way through Coventry, its flows held back by the tons of steel and cement that formed the Granton Dam. Then she turned her face to Circle Plateau, the semi-arid steppe east of the city, where orchards thrived. Dry, but not desert-dry. Yet.
At home, Farley bounced in delight around her, shedding sprigs of wiry brown fur that hung in the dusty sunlight before beginning their lazy descent to the carpet. Abbey checked her watch. 3:28. Plenty of time for a walk down the block and back on the path that circled the base of Coventry Hill. She collected the leash and bags and the dog set off at a lively trot, weaving in and out of yards to sniff gardens and garbage bins, and pee on planters and lawns. They reached the end of the street and cut up the small path that connected to the forest trail. Abbey looked at her watch again. It was 3:47. She hustled along, but Farley had little intention of being hurried. He pranced in and out of trees chasing squirrels, his tongue lolling, his body almost vibrating with euphoria. Finally they reached the small path that turned down toward their house. She turned thankfully in that direction, but Farley gave an excited yip of recognition and bounded up the hill instead. Abbey raced after him, shouting his name, but he ignored her. When she caught up to him, he had led her to the stones, where Simon and Caleb were standing with paper and charcoal. They appeared to have fashioned some sort of holder for the charcoal out of a coat hanger, in order to avoid touching the stones. Farley barreled up and leapt on Caleb, trampling the carefully laid papers with muddy paws.
“Farley, down! Off!” Caleb yelled, pushing the eighty-pound lump of leaping fur back and snatching the paper up into the air. Farley, thinking it was some sort of game, danced around, barking and grabbing at the paper. “Off, Farley! Off!” Caleb repeated.
Farley’s white teeth locked onto the paper. Caleb yanked it away and the dog leapt after it. The paper splintered into shreds, and Farley landed squarely on the stones…
and vanished.
“Farley!” Abbey shrieked.
“Follow him!” Simon yelled. “We have to follow him.”
Abbey propelled herself forward, reaching the stones just after her brothers. She felt the familiar whoosh as she was carried forward into a different place. She closed her eyes until the world stopped moving around her. The light levels hadn’t changed, nor had the temperature. She opened her eye a crack. Farley sat a few meters away from her, his tail thumping against the ground. Simon and Caleb were staring all around. Abbey opened her eyes wide.
They were in the forest…their forest. They hadn’t gone anywhere.
“I guess it didn’t work,” said Caleb. Abbey detected a disappointed tone.
“We should go talk to Mark quickly anyway,” Simon said. “Where did the charcoal and hanger go, though? Did Farley knock them into the bushes? And did the stupid turkey actually eat all the paper?”
Farley wagged his tail helpfully.
“I don’t know. I didn’t think he did,” Caleb said. They looked all around them, but found nothing.
“The charcoal and hanger must have rolled under the rosebush,” Simon said. “Let’s go talk to Mark. We can look again when we get back.”
They traipsed down the hill with Farley in the lead. As they approached the drive, Farley began to skitter around, the short fur on his back standing up in swale-like ripples. Several meters from the front door, he began to bark and growl like a lunatic, running back and forth on the lawn, alternately working up his nerve and the volume of his bark, lunging at the door, and then darting away as if the front steps were on fire.
Abbey, Simon, and Caleb exchanged stunned looks.
“Do you think someone is inside? What should we do?” Abbey asked. The house sat shrouded in late afternoon shadow. No lights decorated the windows. A new autumn doormat sat in front of the burnished red door. Her mother must have purchased it today in preparation for the campaign party they were hosting the following evening.
A Pair of Docks Page 9
