Complication

by R.A. Graves

The twins landed successfully along a ridge flanked on one side by a drop-off and on the other by a shallow pool. Debora drifted down behind them and touched ground with a hard grunt, yanking her parachute out of the air. A moment later, Michael could be heard screaming out of the sky. He made some clueless tugs on his ropes and splashed down into the pool. Air filled his chute and he went soaring up again. He came splashing down a second and third time before the twins caught hold of his feet and worked him to a final landing.

  Debora pulled the goggles off her face, let them hang from her neck and helped Michael stuff his parachute back into its bag.

  “Where do we go from here?” Michael asked, shoving the last of his chute in.

  “One of the twins produced the rod and studied the tip of it. “All we need to do is follow the inverse of the map etched into the end of this striking-rod.”

  Michael wrung out his wet clothes. The dust blowing in the air was already sticking to him, making him grimy. “Why didn’t we have the map transposed and enlarged?” he asked. “I mean, this whole thing seems hasty and unplanned.”

  “Time is of the essence,” the twin said, “since someone allowed himself to be beat up, and lost the watch.”

  “It was a ninja, trained in martial arts. He was huge.” Michael put a hand up to show a height at least a foot taller than himself. “He came out of nowhere.”

  They followed the map on the punch-rod as best as they could. The sun moved in its certain path, most of the way across the sky, as they criss-crossed the canyon valleys with no luck. They doubled back and tried starting over more than twice. The course the map cut through the quarry was chaotic, asking them to pass through walls, climb cliffs and span impassable ravines. Frustrated and tired, they settled down for the night, right in the place where the map said the complicator should be.

  Michael threw his things on top of a pile of stone that stood out in the open. He stretched then hopped up to take a seat. A twin came by and stood in front of him with his arms crossed, a troubled look on his face. He stared so long and awkwardly that Michael finally spoke up.

  “What is it?”

  The twin removed his glasses. “Whenever our ancestors, the forefathers of Wind Quarry, not to mention, slaves of the canyons found any reason to give praise and worship, despite their horrible existence, they would build an altar, a small humble monument of stone, around which they would pour out their prayers.” Michael looked into the twin’s face blankly. “You see, Mr. Bandolier, they were to be like sign posts for generations that remind us to this day, God will save his people. Almost never were they used as park benches.”

  Michael looked down at the pale rock and slid himself sheepishly off the edge. He shoved his pack off and let it fall to the ground. “Sorry, I had no idea.”

  “It’s quite alright,” said the twin. “It is a bit more subtle than the Great City Tower, isn’t it?”

  The other twin came up behind his brother and laid his hands on his shoulders. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe our ancestors should have held their prayers and hurled these stones at their enemies instead.” He patted his twin on the side of the neck and walked off.

  “My brother has always been more brutish than I.”

  “Not identical after all then, I guess?”

  “Sometimes I think not, not at all.”

  The other twin pulled what looked like a small log from his pack and set it on the ground. He lit it and it roared instantly into a robust fire. “That will last most the night,” He said.

  Michael sat near the flames, wishing they made camp earlier so he could have dried out better. He had long since dried, but not before a hard crust of dust and dirt clung to his clothing. He rubbed his hands together. “Was I supposed to bring the marshmallows?”

  The twin went into his bag again, this time he pulled out multiple packages and tossed them around. “These are better than marshmallows, although, not by much.”

  Michael ripped his pack open and started in on it, chewing at a dry piece of jerky. He held it up like he was making a toast. “Not that bad,” he said. “You know, I was thinking, who in their right mind would want to use a device called the complicator?”

  “We are dealing with some crazy people,” Debora said.

  “I would warn you that it is more sinister than their psychological state,” said a twin. “It’s evil that makes a person lust for control of the earth.”

  Michael swallowed the last of his food and settled down as comfortably as he could. He lay on his stomach, propped on his elbows, the book opened in front of the fire light. Debora settled down next to him.

  “Is that the book you found at the mill?” Michael looked at her, surprised. “My job is to pay attention,” she said.

  “It’s a sort of family diary, and it’s full of things, just like what we are doing here.”

  “It mentions the complicator?”

  “Along with lost ships, sunken treasure, valuable artifacts...” He leafed through a few pages, shaking his head.

  “Your father was an adventurer.”

  “And my grandfather; my whole family, except for me.” He flipped to the back of the book where there were still blank pages. “See, this part would be for me to write down all the exciting things going on at the bindery.” The fire crackled sending a spiral of sparks into the air. “The thing is, I didn’t know about any of this.” He laughed. “My dad was always traveling; spontaneous business trips that I wasn’t allowed to go on. I guess now I know why.”

  Michael closed the book and put it away, turned to his back. Debora took off her jacket, balled it into a pillow and did the same. She watched the stars as they popped into existence. “If it’s of any value, I’m glad your father didn’t drag you down his path; whose assistant would I be if he had?”

  Michael rolled his head toward her. She had a soft smile aimed up at the stars. “Besides,” she said, “I think you have a lot of good adventures and treasures of your own ahead of you.”

  Her cheek was aglow with a red hue from the fire. All that could be heard in the quiet night was the powerful rush of the Great River, somewhere far off, and the soft crackle of the artificial log.