Silverwood

by Betsy Streeter

  “I see,” Gabriel says.

  “The story is wearing thin, though,” Kate says. “There’s a kid at the bookstore, Daniel, and he found a book that lists everyone who’s gone into the lake. It was written by his uncle. I don’t think he’s put all the facts together yet, but he’s definitely encountered some Tromindox. And, turns out Daniel had The Book of Regrets, right there in the store.”

  After a pause, Kate adds, “Oh also, he’s interested in Helen.”

  “Well,” says Gabriel, “when we get back, I’ll have to have a talk with young Daniel. You know, make sure of his intentions, and all that. Helen’s a little young to be dating.” His huge, disarming grin crosses his face. Kate looks in her husband’s eyes, taking in his features. He has grown a bit older, a few more lines surround his eyes but they remain as mischievous as ever.

  “When you get back to Helen,” Kate says, “you’ll have to prove to Helen that you’re real and you’re there to stay. Only then can you get into meddling with her boyfriends.”

  “He’s a nice kid,” Kate adds.

  “We’ll see about that,” Gabriel says, straightening up and squeezing his wife’s hand. “And now, if you don’t mind, I could really use your help finding my kid brother before it’s too late.”

  Helen turns the notebook over in her hands. “It’s just names and dates,” she says. “Your uncle wrote this?”

  Helen and Daniel sit facing each other cross-legged on a window seat at the front of the hotel. The sun streams through and throws shapes of windowpanes and silhouettes of antique furnishings all over the oriental rugs on the floor.

  “Yeah,” Daniel says, “he wrote it before he disappeared. It’s definitely his handwriting. I checked. Posey Van Buren told me about it right before she disappeared, too. You know, the lady with the camera that you fixed. How did you do that, by the way?”

  “I don’t know.” Helen evades the question and shrugs. Best not to seem too incredibly weird when just getting to know someone. Daniel seems pretty even keel about everything that’s happened, even a book-obsessed cat showing up in the bookstore and his being stuck in a hotel that supposedly has a field around it that melts squid creatures. But still.

  Helen runs her fingers over the embossed shape on the back of the notebook.

  “I used to play with coins that looked like that all the time, when I was a kid,” Daniel says. “My uncle acted like they were more valuable than money, but he never explained why.”

  “It’s a portal,” Helen says matter-of-factly.

  Bertrand the cat has entered the room and taken up a position in the exact center of the rug. He surveys the area and then seems to develop an interest in the front window. He skitters over and jumps up onto the sill, looking like he has spotted a squirrel outside.

  “What’s a portal?” Daniel asks.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” Helen answers. “They seem to be a lot of things. But I think they work as connectors. And, they carry information.” She gently bends the notebook cover back and forth, and her brow furrows. “My mom,” (again, try not to be too weird) “my mom uses them in her job sometimes.”

  As Helen stares at the shape on the notebook, her hacker instinct takes over and the book starts to come apart in her mind. She runs her thumbnail along the edge of the shape. She does it once, then she does it again. There’s something here. There has to be something…

  “Wait a sec,” says Helen, and reaches into her back pocket. She produces a small piece of clear plastic and sets it onto the front of the booklet. The light card comes to life, displaying photographs of the people named inside. Next it shows some kind of town. An old town, a little like Brokeneck itself, but laid out differently. In the corner of the card she can see a tiny image of a portal on its edge, spinning. Spinning…

  “That’s it!” Helen says. She flips over the booklet and jabs her thumbnail into the embossed shape. She bends it and tears, and from the cover emerges a portal. She pries it out and holds it up for Daniel to see. The sunlight from the window bounces off the metal.

  “Did your uncle leave this embedded in the cover of this book?”

  “He must have,” Daniel says. “I wonder…”

  A big dog barks nearby. A dog like… Clarence. Wait, Clarence doesn’t bark at anything. Does he? Since when did Clarence start barking?

  Helen comes out cautiously onto the porch and Clarence runs in front of her, back and forth, jumping up on his hind legs, his face filled with urgency. His claws scratch and scrape on the wood as he paces, turns, looks at her, then out at the street. His tail flies around in all directions.

  “What the…” Helen says.

  “It’s for you,” Henry says, materializing in the doorway. He holds up his drawing of a Tromindox with a mohawk. Helen stares at it for a second, her eyes widen. That image, again. She spins back around.

  “Oh, my god… Chris? Uncle Chris?”

  A ragged shape lies in the middle of the street, writhing in the dust. Black tentacles, and arms, and feet, fly everywhere. Pieces and parts of the creature change shape moment by moment. It is in great pain, and exhausted.

  “No Helen, you can’t!” Daniel yells, grabbing at Helen’s arm.

  Helen yanks her arm upward and away from Daniel. “You don’t understand!” she yells. “Leave me alone!” Helen bolts across the front porch and in a split second, she is in the street crouching over the convulsing heap.

  In the next few moments there with Helen, the creature shrinks and slithers its way back into the form of a human being. It’s a very emaciated, exhausted human being, but it’s a human. Who has a really ragged mohawk.

  Christopher sits up and rests his elbows on his knees. Who is this young woman in front of him? That can’t be his kid niece. She’s… like Kate, with black hair. Only, she’s like Gabriel. Who knows. She’s just, so big and grown-up.

  “Uncle Chris!” Helen cries, throwing her arms around Christopher’s neck.

  “I’m sorry we’ve been gone, kid,” Christopher says. “I’m so sorry. We’re gonna take care of you. I promise. I promise you. Okay?”

  “How did you get here? How did you…” Helen says.

  “Never mind kid,” Christopher says. “Now where’s your brother? Is he six feet tall, too?”

  Henry has come to the edge of the porch. Uncle Christopher until now was mostly a vague concept, someone Henry only remembered from when he was very small. But now, here he is. He looks like a younger version of Henry’s dad, with different hair. Henry stands rooted to the spot, not sure how to respond.

  Christopher pulls himself up off the ground and walks up to Henry on the porch. Helen catches her breath as he crosses through the field. But he passes through without dissolving—he is one hundred percent human.

  Christopher extends his hand to his nephew. “Henry, I presume,” he says. “Good to meet you, young man.”

  Henry takes Christopher’s hand and shakes it. He thrusts his drawing forward. “I drew this of you,” he says.

  Christopher takes the drawing and looks at it. There he is, inside the Tromindox. Yuck. “Guild, huh?” He looks at Henry, who nods. “Of course. Of course the youngest Silverwood would be Guild. You’ve got a mighty talent there, kid, quite a talent.”

  “Thanks,” Henry says, and heads back toward the front door of the hotel. He steps over Clarence and goes inside.

  Christopher looks up at Daniel. “Hello.”

  “Hello,” Daniel says. The two size each other up. Dreads, mohawk, sandals, boots.

  “Nice hair,” Christopher says.

  “Yours too,” Daniel says. “So, you’re Helen’s uncle.”

  “Yep, that I am,” Christopher says.

  “And, you were one of those… things,” Daniel says.

  “Yeah. I don’t recommend it,” Christopher says.

  “No, I guess not. If you don’t mind my asking, what just happened there… with Helen?” Daniel asks.

  “She healed me,” Christopher says.


  “Healed you? Okay…” Daniel says.

  The two young men stand and nod for a moment. “Well,” Daniel says, “Helen, best if you get back inside Mrs. Woods’ field, don’t you think? Helen?”

  “Where has Helen gone to?” Christopher says.

  “Maybe she’s inside, she’s supposed to stay within the boundaries of the field,” Daniel says. Then he adds, “By that I mean, there’s a field around the hotel, that keeps out those squid things. Melts them, actually. I saw it. Wasn’t pretty.”

  “I see,” Christopher says. “Good thing I’m not a squid thing anymore.”

  “Yeah, good thing,” Daniel says. “I’ll go check upstairs. Do you need something to eat?”

  “More than I ever have in my entire life,” Christopher says.

  The two of them head back into the hotel. “Helen?” Christopher yells, his eyes darting around the huge lobby. Where is she?

  The notebook lies on the window seat. The portal is gone.

  The sun beats down on Henry’s face through the window as his pencil moves across the notebook paper. He draws the figure of a girl, standing, facing forward. She has dark, curly hair. She’s standing in a large rectangle with posts on either side of her. He adds some details and now the rectangle resembles a porch with a wooden railing. Henry fills in details of the girl’s face, and then completes her purple velvet dress and her boots. He adds her shadow.

  Henry puts down the notebook and slides down out of the window seat onto the squeaky wood floor of the hotel lobby. He crosses the lobby and approaches the front doors of the hotel. The doors are heavy, with inlaid etched glass. He pulls them open.

  Standing there, framed perfectly in the square formed by the porch and the railing, stands Rosie.

  “Hi, Henry, I said I’d find you.”

  She holds her own notebook straight out in front of her, facing him. Henry steps forward, out into the sun, to peer at it.

  She’s holding out a drawing of Henry himself, standing framed in a doorway with inlaid, etched glass.

  The bells on the door of the Brokeneck Diner tinkle as Mrs. Woods enters. She takes her customary seat at the counter; a mug of hot coffee appears unbidden in front of her. “Thanks,” she says.

  Earl and Ted occupy the next two stools, as usual. Mrs. Woods takes a look around her. Everyone seems subdued today.

  “Where’s Rose?” Mrs. Woods asks, noticing Rose’s window table sitting empty.

  “Probably the lake,” Earl says. He sounds defeated. “That’s where we’re all going eventually, isn’t it?” Earl has become depressed since Posey disappeared. “Underwater. That’s where we’ll all end up. Just a matter of time.”

  “Now Earl, you don’t really believe that,” Mrs. Woods says.

  “Why not?” Earl snaps. “Give me one good reason why not. I tell you, this whole town will be empty before too long.”

  “And,” Earl adds, “take a look at this.” He shoves a crumpled piece of newspaper across the counter toward Mrs. Woods. Ted, on the other side of him, lets out an annoyed sigh but Earl ignores him. “Look.”

  Earl has once again folded the paper together, so that the words UNDER and WATER come together to form UNDERWATER.

  Mrs. Woods looks at it for a moment. “Okay…”

  “I don’t care if you believe me or not,” Earl declares. “Not one bit.”

  “What if I told you that you’re right?” Mrs. Woods asks.

  Earl looks at her.

  “Eleanor, don’t mess with him,” Ted says. “It’s not nice.” Ted, for all his jabbing of Earl over his paranoia, is protective of his old friend.

  “I’m not,” Mrs. Woods says. “I’m serious. What if I told you, there is something going on with the lake, Earl?”

  “Just what are you getting at?” Confronted by agreement, Earl isn’t really sure what to do. He’s used to ranting and nobody listening to him. But something in Mrs. Woods’ tone of voice tells him she’s not kidding.

  Mrs. Woods swivels her stool to face Earl directly. “What I’m getting at is, there is something going on with the lake, and that we here, in the town, have to do something about it…”

  Suddenly, Mrs. Woods slams her fist down on the table, for no apparent reason. She takes a sharp breath, and appears to lose her balance. She grabs onto the edge of the counter to steady herself. Beads of sweat break out on her brow.

  “Eleanor, you okay?” Ted asks. He and Earl lean forward, concern and confusion crossing their faces.

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Mrs. Woods says. “It’s just…” she leans forward, then convulses back. A tiny, barely-perceptible blue light appears all around her for a split second. Ted and Earl don’t notice.

  Mrs. Woods slides down off the stool, her coffee untouched. In fact, her coffee always remains untouched. She gathers herself and turns calmly toward the door.

  “I’m… sorry gentlemen, I’m afraid that I don’t feel very well all of a sudden,” Mrs. Woods says.

  “Let me walk you back,” Earl offers, always the gentleman.

  “No no, thank you, really,” Mrs. Woods says. “I’ll be alright. Just need some… fresh air. But thank you.”

  Mrs. Woods walks deliberately and slowly out the door. The bell tinkles again.

  “Well that was weird,” Earl says. “I wonder what’s up with Eleanor.”

  “Yeah, I was looking forward to hearing her theory on the lake. That was gonna be a good one,” Ted says.

  By the time Mrs. Woods reaches the street she looks decidedly blurry. She resembles static on a television screen, or a digital face gone haywire. It would appear that someone, somewhere, is hijacking her signal. She’s losing range. But why is she losing range? Where is the interference coming from? She comes back into focus as she moves down the street and closer to the hotel.

  When she reaches the hotel’s porch she sees an exact copy of herself, wearing an apron and sweeping.

  “There she is… no, wait. There she is. What the…?”

  Henry and Rosie peek down from the upstairs balcony of the Brokeneck Hotel. This vantage point gives them a view all the way down the main street, the better to anticipate when Mrs. Woods is coming back. They thought they knew, because they could see her walking right toward them. That was, until she stopped dead in the middle of the street. And then, a person looking just like her—exactly like her—appeared in the street in front of the hotel.

  As if the arrival of an extra Mrs. Woods hasn’t created enough confusion, the other reason Henry and Rosie are up here is that about fifteen minutes ago, a figure dressed all in black, riding a black motorcycle with a sidecar (identical, in fact, to the bike Henry had wanted to buy back at the dealership), pulled up in front. It was towing their trailer.

  That is, the trailer that Henry last saw disappearing into a canyon in a cloud of dust.

  The motorcyclist pulled into town with a deep rumble of his engine, circled around once in front of the hotel, stopped, got off, unhooked the trailer, and left in a cloud of dust. Special delivery. Didn’t stay to say hello.

  The trailer looks bad. It leans to one side and it’s sporting a big collection of dents. But it’s there. Is their stuff in it still? Who knows. But there’s the trailer.

  Henry is rightly suspicious. Why would someone go to the trouble to deliver the trailer? Who are these motorcycle people anyway, and who sends them?

  Henry knows from watching his mom: you don’t go running out there like a fool, you survey the situation first. So, the best course of action at this moment seems to be, get a better look from someplace safe. The balcony provides this view.

  It’s just that now they also have a view of more than one Mrs. Woods.

  “Wow, what do you think will happen when the first one gets close to the second one?” Rosie asks.

  “I don’t know,” Henry says. He’s still staring down at the trailer.

  “My dad said that sometimes this happens,” Rosie says. “But then, he says that a lot. Whenever somethi
ng goes wrong, or crazy, he just says, ‘Well, sometimes that happens.’”

  “That’s not very helpful,” Henry says.

  “Not really,” Rosie says.

  “Well, it looks like we’re going to find out what happens,” Henry says.

  The Mrs. Woods from the street comes closer, and the Mrs. Woods from the porch stops sweeping. They stop, and look at each other. They both raise a hand to their brow. Then, Mrs. Woods from the street walks past the other Mrs. Woods, into the hotel. Mrs. Woods from the porch goes back to sweeping.

  “Okay now what?” Henry asks.

  “Maybe we should go talk to one of them?” Rosie suggests.

  “What if it turns out that one of them is evil or something? Like an evil twin?” Henry asks.

  “I don’t think either of them is evil,” Rosie says.

  “You seem sure of yourself. Are you gonna explain how you know so much? You still haven’t even explained how you got here,” Henry says.

  “I told you, I got a ride,” Rosie says.

  “A ride? With who? On the bus? You don’t just get a ride to some ridiculous town in the middle of nowhere,” Henry says.

  “Look, do you want to know what’s in your trailer, or not?” Rosie asks.

  Fine, create a distraction with the mystery of the trailer. Henry’s other questions will have to wait.

  The carpeted stairs are mercifully quiet, and the two of them creep downward with their hands on the massive wooden banister. One of the Mrs. Woods copies has taken a seat facing the front window in a high-backed chair with carved wooden legs. They can just make out her profile.

  They decide it’s best just to leave her there and go out through the kitchen, circling around to the front to avoid the Mrs. Woods sweeping the porch.

  When they reach the corner of the building Henry and Rosie crouch down. They can see Sweeping Mrs. Woods on the front porch. Sweeping Mrs. Woods wipes her brow, takes her broom and heads inside.

  “Okay,” Henry says. “Let’s go see if we can get that trailer open.”

  They leave their hiding place and scurry up to the rear of the trailer. The old bicycle lock on the back is still intact.