The Traveler

by Melissa Delport

  The studio is small and crowded, filled with artistic equipment and a tiny kitchenette in the corner, on which sit several unwashed, mismatched cups. A small set of stairs at the back of the room obviously leads up to an overhead apartment.

  Kate Sherman is much younger than I expected, probably a year or two younger than I am, putting her around twenty-two or twenty-three years old. She has a bewildered air about her, as though she is not quite sure how she happened into this situation. Her dark hair, pulled back into a ponytail, falls shiny and sleek down her back. Her big brown eyes peer at us through her thick, sixties-style bangs, and she has a dark blue smudge on her right cheek. Her hands and her apron are covered in paint and she has a paintbrush tucked behind her right ear. She is adorable, but very nervous and Jason immediately sets about making her feel at ease. I stifle a giggle behind his back as he primps and preens in front of her, calming her in his suave, 'don’t worry, I’m here, I will protect you' manner. I leave him to it, slowly making my way around the studio and admiring the artwork covering every available surface, all in various stages of completion.

  Kimberley loved to paint, too. She had been good, but her talent was nowhere near this standard. Kimberley’s painting was too prescribed, too textbook. She painted with her head not with her heart and, as a result, her paintings were almost superficial. Not that I ever told her that, of course. That’s not something you say to your best friend. Kate’s canvases, on the other hand, evoke real, raw emotion. They are beautiful; the splashes of color and the attention to detail making them incredibly life-like. The images are also darker than I would expect of such a sweet, innocent girl. Kate has suffered, has lost something dear to her. I understand that pain only too well.

  “These are really good,” I interrupt eventually, earning myself an annoyed glare from Jason as Kate takes her chocolate brown eyes off him and turns to me gratefully.

  “Thank you so much,” she stutters, smiling shyly, and I notice the small gap between her bottom teeth and that she has a slight lisp.

  “Shall we get started?” Jason prompts and she nods, taking a seat opposite him on a floral patterned wing-backed chair. Jason perches on the very edge of a colorfully flamboyant sofa, on which is propped a large, still wet painting of a faceless woman cradling a crying baby. The infant’s hands are wrinkled and red, clenched in tight fists. Eyeing the canvas with distaste, Jason lowers his blond head to consult his notes. I imagine he is worried about getting paint on his perfectly tailored grey pants.

  Eventually, after a few tests and a warm-up, the interview is underway and I focus all of my attention on the job at hand. I am making a few tiny adjustments to the aperture when I hear Kate interrupt Jason’s wind-up rhetoric.

  “Is that snow?” The disbelief in her voice rings through the room and, for a brief moment, there is utter silence. I turn to the window and my eyes widen in shock.

  “Holy hell!” Jason leaps off the sofa with renewed vigor, dislodging the drying canvas which clatters noisily to the floor. Both Kate and I lunge for it as Jason heads for the door. As he is about to grab the handle, the door is yanked open from the outside. Joe is standing in the doorway, his face reflecting his own shock.

  ‘It’s snowing!” he gasps, looking between Jason and myself. I can hear the faint sounds of Louis Armstrong’s "What a wonderful world" still blaring from the stereo.

  “It can’t be snowing, it’s July,” Kate murmurs, replacing the painting clumsily and looking to me for confirmation. I don’t answer her as, like a floodgate, the memories come rushing back.

  “I have to go,” Dex’s voice was harder, more insistent and I clung to his arm, hating that I was reduced to this hysterical desperation.

  “Dex, please,” I begged, tears pricking at my eyelids, “please don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

  “I have to, Rachel. Now let me go, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “No!” It came out as a yelp and the tears spilled out of my eyes and coursed down my cheeks. “Stay with me.” My voice broke and his eyes softened, but only slightly. His hand came up to my face, tracing the tears, his green eyes filled with wonder as he rubbed his fingers together, feeling the wetness. I shivered in my summer dress, suddenly noticing that it had turned cold, as though my own pain had spilled out of me and chilled the very air around us. Dex took an involuntary step towards me and then he seemed to visibly shake himself. I saw the cold glint in his extraordinary eyes, the hard set of his jaw and I realized that there was nothing I could do to stop him.

  “I have to go. I have no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice,” I whispered.

  “No, Rachel. There’s not.”

  He turned and walked away from me up the street and my leaden feet couldn’t follow. I simple collapsed on the cold asphalt and hugged myself, sobbing at his cruelty, at his coldness. I don’t know how long I sat like that, weeping and wanting and wishing, but long enough that at first I didn’t realize what was happening. It was only when people started emerging onto the street from the nearby houses that I raised my head and finally understood why I was so cold. It was snowing in New York, in July.

  Chapter 2

  I shake my head, forcing the memories from my mind. The bizarre summer snowfall had made news headlines all over the country – it had covered our entire neighborhood in a thick white blanket, while everywhere else the sun had been blazing. But that was seven years ago, I remind myself, and this is now. We emerge onto the street and I shudder as the icy air envelops me. The sky is so dark it almost looks as though night is falling. I rush over to the truck, tossing aside my purse and pulling one of the larger apparel boxes toward me. I tear the tape seal with my fingernail and plunge my arm into the box, withdrawing a few ABC jackets. A neutral stone color, with the ABC logo emblazoned across the front, the jackets are waterproof, hooded and very expensive. Bill will probably murder me - my freezing to death is no doubt preferable to a short-delivery, but I cannot even think I am so cold. I throw spare jackets to Jason and Joe whose lips are already turning blue. Kate follows us out of the studio only moments later, belting a long coat around her waist and rubbing her hands together, trying to warm them.

  “What’s going on?” she asks, sounding more than a little afraid. I completely understand her apprehension, there is an ominous atmosphere settling over us and the hairs on the back of my neck are rising.

  “I’m not sure,” I answer, feigning a confidence I don’t feel and smiling reassuringly at her, “but look, we have to go. We’ll reschedule at a later stage...” I hesitate as she looks perplexed, biting down on her lower lip. I can’t blame her – I wouldn’t want to be alone in her studio right now either. I wouldn’t want to be alone anywhere.

  Joe reaches into the van and switches off the stereo which I had not even noticed was still on. The next few minutes do nothing to quell my sense of fear. The snow is turning icy and the weather is deteriorating too fast to keep track of. This is not natural; it’s impossible. A loud crack accompanied by a streak of light, sounds almost on top of us and I jump.

  “Now that was definitely thunder!” Joe drawls as a deafening boom follows, and I nod in agreement. It starts to rain, a stinging, icy sleet that soon becomes a deluge. The wind is howling around us and up the street, whipping my sopping hair painfully across my face. We all pile into the van, Kate right along with us, to escape the crazy elements and I see the condensation billowing from Jason’s mouth as he starts talking, insisting we get back to the station for a live emergency broadcast. I can’t help but admire his dedication; despite everything, Jason is a true journalist at heart. I feel the gooseflesh rise on my arms as I gaze out of the window, a combination of anxiety and the terrible cold. The temperature must have dropped ninety degrees in a matter of minutes.

  Joe and Jason argue briefly over what course we should take. Joe, unbelievably steadfast, thinks we should finish our story here and Jason is flatly refusing. For once, I’m siding with Jason. We need to get the hell o
ut of here and find out what is going on. I can’t believe that Joe isn’t as fazed by the crazy weather as we are. The van gives a sudden lurch and Kate screams in terror.

  “What the hell?” Joe roars, peering through the windscreen and over the hood.

  “Get us back to the station!” I yell and, without any further argument he guns the engine.

  The earth beneath us is shuddering as Joe pulls away from the curb. As he does a U-turn, heading back in the direction we came from, I feel my breath coming in shorter, harsher gasps. Grabbing my slouchy leather purse I pull it toward me, digging in the side pocket and extracting my inhaler. I quickly take two puffs and hold my breath, letting the steroids work and open my airways, and then I slip the inhaler into my jacket pocket. I’m probably going to be needing it again soon.

  I developed asthma at the age of seventeen, the very day Dex disappeared. It was almost as though I couldn’t breathe after he left, as though he was the air that I needed and, when he went, he took it with him and I couldn’t quite catch my breath. Over the years I have learned to manage it, seldom needing my pump, but in times of heightened emotion – stress, fear, sadness, it always flares up. It has never affected my fitness though and I can exercise quite comfortably. It’s almost as if my emotions are the trigger.

  “Dammit!” Jason shouts and I turn to see him holding his phone to his ear. “No signal,” he explains, shoving it back into his pocket. I reach back into my purse withdrawing my mobile.

  I take one look at the screen and drop it back into my bag. “Nothing.”

  Jason curses. I glance at Joe who has extricated his own phone, but after a cursory glance he shakes his head at me in the rear view mirror. Kate left her phone at the studio but I doubt it would have worked anyway. The storm is causing too much interference.

  I can hear sirens in the distance and Joe is muttering up front, trying to peer through the relentless rain to see where he is going. Glancing through the side windows I am struck by how poor the visibility actually is, and how dangerous the driving conditions have become. I clamber between the front seats to sit beside Joe in the passenger seat and squint ahead, straining my eyes for any danger. Without warning a red sedan appears ahead of us, driving way too fast. The driver swerves to avoid our van and collides heavily with a cab parked on the street. The sound of the impact is deafening, even over the noise of the maelstrom we seem to be trapped in. Joe slams on the brakes and, before we have even come to a standstill, I force open my door and climb out of the van, immediately pulling the hood up over my head. The wind lashes at my face as though trying to tear off my skin and I crouch low, struggling to walk against the buffeting gale. Any doubts I may have had about my ‘borrowed’ jacket scatter as I feel the sting of the rain on my hands as sharp as needles. Thankfully most of my body is protected although my jeans are already soaked through and my sneakers are filled with water, making each step laboriously uncomfortable.

  Despite the weather, people are running through the streets, screaming and yelling, water spraying up in their wake. This is what chaos looks like I think wildly as I reach the sedan which has overturned and is lying on its roof, the tires still spinning in mid-air. The entire front is completely smashed in and the passenger side is empty. I make my way around to the driver’s side, cringing when I crouch down and see a man hanging limply upside down. Thank God he was wearing his safety-belt which is now holding him in place. He appears uninjured other than a nasty gash on his forehead and I shake his arm frantically, trying to ignore my chattering teeth and the bitter cold piercing my skin even through the thick jacket. My face and hands are already going numb.

  A reflection in the shiny side of the sedan catches my attention and I whirl around, my jaw dropping and my blood running cold in my veins. Even through the crowds of frantic people, I can see him. Coming down the street towards me, walking slowly and purposefully, is a man dressed in what can only be described as a black tunic, flowing down over black pants. The fabric of both seems to be repelling the water which is running off of him in rivulets, pouring onto the ground below and leaving him completely dry. His feet are clad in seamless, heavy-duty black boots reaching almost to his knees, but which have no buckle or laces.

  His hands are stretched out in front of him, palms facing down, and, as he walks, the earth below him is lurching and cracking, a deep fissure forming alongside him. I stare in horror as he jerks his hand to the right and the fissure widens, a few people disappearing into the chasm, screaming as they fall. Realizing what is happening people start to flee in the opposite direction, rushing away from the newcomer. I watch as a woman my age trips and falls painfully to the ground and I think irrationally of Kimberley, who was always less graceful than I. I used to tease her about having two left feet. Dazed, the woman drags herself to her feet and hurtles away from the black-clad man. I breathe a sigh of relief as she disappears from sight.

  “Wake up!” I hiss urgently at the unconscious man in the sedan, shaking his shoulder. He doesn’t answer, still hanging limply from his seat. His face, I can see even through the cold, is going red as the blood rushes to his head. A wail of sirens reaches us and I see two NYPD police cars screech to a halt a few yards away. I yell a warning as four uniformed officers debark and they crouch behind their cars, drawing their guns. Their eyes bulge as they catch sight of the man who is quaking the earth around him.

  A blaze of light diverts my attention and I see a second man in black is walking just slightly behind the first, a ball of fire hovering over his outstretched palm. He launches bursts of flames at those who are fleeing, and shows not the slightest emotion as the screeches of the dying and those who have been set on fire echo down the street. I am mesmerized by the two men, my mind frozen, unable to accept what they are doing – what they are capable of. The scent of burning flesh assails my senses and despite the horror of my current surroundings, I find my mind flashing back to a darkened street seven years ago.

  “We shouldn’t be walking out this late by ourselves,” I murmured nervously, glancing around. It was dark and we still had a few blocks to go before we arrived at the party. It really was a stupid idea to walk there alone so late, but Kimberley had made plans to meet up with some boy from her art class and I couldn’t let her go alone. I hated parties – I was only going because Kim had begged me, but now that we were out here alone, I wished I had refused.

  “We’re nearly there,” she glanced across at me apologetically. “I really appreciate you coming with me.” I smiled back at her. I knew that my relationship with Dex was putting a strain on my friendship with Kim – this was the least I could do to try and salvage it.

  I hadn’t seen Dex for three days - just the first of his many inexplicable disappearances during our few weeks together, but it left me feeling cold and hollow. Despite my misgivings we arrived at the party without incident and I breathed a sigh of relief as we walked through the front door of Jesse Fletcher’s house. His parents were in Europe, enjoying the Spanish summer, leaving Jesse and his older brother Steven home alone. The party was meant to be a welcome distraction, but instead it only served to remind me of my misery, and that no other boy could come close to Dex or make me feel the things he did.

  My relief was short-lived. There were a few college boys present – friends of Jesse’s brother – and they harassed me for quite a while. My white-blonde hair and big blue eyes often drew unwanted attention, but I made it pretty clear what I thought of them and went in search of Kim.

  “Hi Rachel,” Shaun, the sole reason for Kim wanting to be here, greeted me warmly as Kim gazed on adoringly. Shaun sat near me in bio and had been my lab partner a couple of times. He and Kimberley were perched on a low, comfortable sofa, oblivious to the raging chaos of the party around them. They tried a few times to include me in their conversation, but I could tell they wanted to be alone. I just wanted to be at home curled up in my bed with a book.

  “I’m going outside,” I smiled at them.

  “I’ll
come with you,” Kim offered looking at me and missing Shaun’s crestfallen expression.

  “No, don’t be ridiculous. You two chat; I’ll be back soon. I’m just going to get some fresh air.”

  I made my way to the crowded pool area, watching as a few of my classmates splashed around in the water. The college boys followed me. It is amazing how brazen people become after a few drinks. These boys were drunk, of that there was no doubt, and despite my repeated attempts to get them to leave me alone, they persisted, and nobody came to my aid.

  They encircled me like vultures, making lewd suggestions, their eyes running unabashedly over my body. I was so distraught and panicky that I barely noticed the lightning that suddenly zigzagged across the sky. All I wanted to do was get back inside. I shivered, an icy cold had come over me and I glanced up to see no stars in the sky, just a blanket of black.

  “Leave me alone,” I was determined not to show my fear, but inside I was terrified. I tried to find an opening so that I could make a run for it but they drew closer, tightening the circle, and I was trapped.

  People were milling around, most of them too drunk to notice I was in trouble. I was sure the boys wouldn’t try anything terrible, not with the crowd of onlookers, but I underestimated the arrogant bravado that alcohol induced. When the tallest reached forward and groped my breast, squeezing it hard enough that I cried out in pain, I realized that I was in serious trouble.

  Whether or not they actually would have gone any further I will never know. Because suddenly the tall, beady-eyed college boy caught on fire. I had heard the urban legend of spontaneous human combustion and I had never believed a word of it, but the human torch before me made me wonder if I had been wrong. The remaining boys dived for their friend, dousing the flames with their hands and, when that failed, they rolled him right into the swimming pool. I stood stock-still, unable to move, unable to believe what had happened. Once the flames were out it was clear that the boy's clothing had caught alight and, although his torso was badly burned, his low moaning was proof that he was still alive. As the others pulled him out of the water I felt my eyes drawn to the shrubbery that bordered the immaculate garden and I caught my breath. I saw two glowing orbs at the bottom of the garden in the darkest corner of the ill-lit yard, like fluorescent green eyes floating in the middle of the blackness. As my eyes adjusted a dark form appeared; the shape of a man, tall and broad-shouldered. I blinked, trying to clear my vision, but in the second it took he was gone.