IMPERFECT ORB

by K. Lorel Reid

  “Samantha won’t tell anyone about your precious clearing, Mike. Look at her, she’s practically catatonic.” David was naturally being dramatic in his own way. As for Samantha she was recovered enough to demand to know what was wrong with her face.

  Mike may have been surprised by both their recoveries if David hadn’t explained to him their theory.

  “Did you find anything down there?” David wanted to know.

  “No,” Mike spoke, believing the reincarnation of the polyhedron to be none of his friend’s business, “not a thing.”

  “That’s just as well. It was probably just some animal from the woods.”

  Mike raised his eyebrows, surprised.

  “It could have been a feral dog or a large racoon.

  Mike raised his eyebrows even higher. What happened to ‘scaly’? He had to be sure that he was hearing this right, “A racoon?” Mike questioned.

  “Sure,” Samantha responded, “the forest is teeming with them, with the campers and all. One just happened to find its way onto the open path.”

  How those two sensible people managed to convince themselves that what they had seen was a racoon, Mike didn’t know. Mike also didn’t have time to argue. There was still his mother waiting for him. Carefully, he took the box from Samantha as he explained to them his situation. They both seemed sympathetic but didn’t know what excuse could be offered.

  “Tell her you were taking the short cut through the woods and got lost,” David suggested.

  It wouldn’t have been a half bad idea if through the woods there wasn’t a very distinct path to follow. But then how would his mother know something like that? She probably hadn’t been in the woods since she was a teenager. And, if thought about long enough, it was possible for someone to wonder off the path. Very much so.

  Mike left then, moving quickly and carefully. By the time he turned onto his street he was practically running. Out on the porch sat his mother, Helen, and Helen’s daughter, like a country post card, sipping tea from small cups with saucers, talking quietly amongst themselves.

  “Mikey,” Mrs. Gregory jumped up the second she caught sight of him, “where have you been?”

  “The truth is, I got lost.”

  Mrs. Gregory brought her eyebrows together suspiciously. “Lost?” she questioned. “How could you possibly get lost?”

  “Well,” Mike made up his face, pretending to be terribly embarrassed, “I was taking the short cut through the woods and somehow I wondered off my usual path and somehow got lost.” Such a bad lie would call for manipulation. Perhaps he’d have to use his mind games.

  His mother made a face and he did the same. Then, seemingly like magic, his mother was slightly confused. That was when he handed the pink box to her and vanished into the house. It was late but not as late as Mike had thought. Chances were there wouldn’t be any of the cakes left in the morning but he had to go to sleep now. Not only was there a pulling urge, there was also the need to escape his mother for at least a little while. In the morning the events of that night would be less important, less confusing.

  So Mike slept. It seemed that the second his head hit the pillow his eyes closed. Some time between the closing and re-opening of his eyes Mike had dreamt.

  The serene blue, which showed itself most consistently in the creature’s eyes, was taking steps.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  David sat alone at the kitchen table where before him lay an unorganized array of papers. Both he and Samantha had tried to write down everything Mike had said while giving them the information for their science project. It would have been a lot easier if he could say that both he and his partner had taken down the same notes, but it wasn’t like that. There had been some things one had gotten while the other had not, while both their ideas and views on the subject differed entirely.

  Only now — alone in the small kitchen, Samantha having left, exhausted, shortly after arriving — was David able to think more rationally about the events which had taken place earlier that night. After he had convinced himself that what he’d seen was some kind of forest animal he’d turned and convinced Samantha of the same thing. She was skeptical at first — like himself — but it wasn’t long before she too began to believe it. She, after all wanted to believe it. They both did.

  Everything was so odd. The image was quickly fading from his mind, but what remained puzzled him. It had been dark, perhaps even too dark for the summer hour. That in itself was strange, but the sight of that unknown thing rushing towards them was yet stranger. It had moved so quickly, covering such a large distance in what seemed to be the blink of an eye. Yet, oddly, its approach had appeared to be in slow motion. In that darkness, by the Drop, that terrible stink pervading the air, David had thought….

  Well, he wasn’t quite sure exactly what he had thought. The only thing he knew for certain was that the feeling of relief couldn’t have been greater than when the creature had cast its flickering eyes at Samantha before turning to run. They were lucky that whatever that animal was had backed down when confronted with loud noises and perceived aggression. Some animals would have taken her up on the challenge and attacked. David smiled. He would have been surprised to see himself smiling. Every sound made him jump, the humming of the refrigerator left him sitting uneasily. Yet they had been lucky, and he knew it. The thought that perhaps their luck would soon run out had yet to occur to him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The creature was once again in the cool and complete darkness of the caves, having gained a momentary victory over the magic and the battle between their wills. It would be a short lived victory, he knew. The magic was still rebuilding its crystal shell whose very structure gave it its power. It was getting stronger by the moment, pulling the necessary elements from the Healing Plants, other vegetation, soil and rocks around it. It already had the creature’s blood but it needed other life elements that the creature had long since been unable to provide.

  And so the creature had left its den in search of the remaining requisites of life. When the creature came upon the pair of young people alone on the path it had been relieved, thinking that it would not have to be out of its sanctuary for long. But then one of them had started to scream, jarring something way down in its soul; something that reminded the creature of what it had once been. The creature could feel the force of the magic nudging it forward but the magic was in too frail a state to be effective. The will of the creature prevailed and its will for the first time in a long while overrode that of the magic. It was able to do the one thing it desperately wanted to do: return to the darkness of the caves and sleep… for a time, if not for an eternity.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Like a backdrop there was blue, its hue distinctively pale. The colour seemed to suggest something. Mike had no idea what. He thought it strange enough that he was there at all; wherever it is there was. Suddenly, although he didn’t turn, he was looking at the blue from a different angle. Weird. He didn’t know what that blue was, but he knew he didn’t like not knowing.

  There was, of course, one very real possibility. Mike could have reached the sky. He could have broken every record there was to break. That was a possibility, but he didn’t think it likely. There was something wrong. Something didn’t feel right.

  Once again the scenery seemed to turn. He had tried to turn his body, but it had been that backdrop of blue which had shifted instead.

  It seemed to be miles away, but the picture was clear, as though it were being presented only inches before him. In the distance there was a wooden box, the corners covered with styled brass. The brass was black and tarnished with the burden of years. Also made of brass, there was a lock. Mike knew all about that box. He knew it was some sort of family heirloom which had been handed down from generation to generation on his mother’s side. Mike knew that there was nothing in that box except an old and torn velvet lining. He knew that the box sat on top of the large wooden bookcase inside the den. T
he key to the box was kept inside one of his father’s desk drawers. Finally, last of all, and to Mike most important, he knew he didn’t like that box. That had been okay, for he’d never thought much about any of that until now. What was that box doing here?

  Mike looked in the direction of where the box had been. Easily he caught sight of it. But was it not closer? Blinking was a normal function. It was something practised regularly, but there had been something different about this time. It seemed to Mike that time had gone by. Not just seconds or minutes, something closer to years. There was also something else: The box was definitely closer. Without thinking much about it Mike blinked again. Again the box came closer, the feeling of fleeing time stronger.

  Mike continued this, enjoying the sensation of having large amounts of time go by with each close and open of his eyes. Then the box was before him and Mike didn’t know what to do. What would happen if he blinked again? He didn’t want to know. The box had not changed its course since it had began moving. If Mike blinked once more it would have to go through him. Mike tried to shift, but both the backdrop of blue and his own body held their ground. It wasn’t long before Mike began to panic. He’d tried casually concentrating on keeping his eyes open, but as each second crawled by it became harder. He had to do something, so he did the only logical thing a person would do when confronted with a closed box, even one ostensibly suspended in air: He reached out and threw open the lid. This particular box was always unlocked and this instance was no exception. Once the lid was opened, as the next second dragged by it unfurled with it a deafening silence. Mike was just taking note of this, just getting ready to panic again, when through the silence — a silence that was heavy with something — there came a crash. Actually, when Mike thought about it, it was a sound that seemed more closely to match the amplified crack of a whip. Next, the surrounding blue backdrop exploded in intensity. Mike was thrown from his position only to be thrust into darkness.

  The boy lay absolutely still, his eyes closed, his fists clenched, and he himself braced for something. But nothing happened. Slowly he opened his eyes. It was dark, but not completely. His bare feet touched something hard. Mike looked in that direction. It was the wooden bed frame. Then it came to him. It had been a dream. He knew this although he was unsure of exactly what the dream had been about. The memory of it was fast disappearing from his consciousness, leaving Mike with only certainty of its strangeness. Then something familiar sounded outside. It was the crack of thunder. Loud and angry it seemed to reverberate across the sky. There was a moment’s pause and then Mike’s room was alight; but only for a moment.

  Mike lay unmoving and listened for the thunder to sound again. And then, after what seemed to him a long while, it did. He wanted to move quickly but still in the haze of sleep his motions felt slow and dream-like. In the dark he dressed, putting on dirty and soiled clothes. The garments he had taken off before climbing into bed were piled in a heap on the floor. Those were what he dressed himself in now.

  Quickly, taking careful steps in the dark, Mike made his way downstairs. Before going through the door he stopped and turned towards the den. There, on the bookshelf where it always was sat a wooden antique keepsake box, awkwardly reflecting the moonlight.

  Slowly, wrestling with the urgency of his cause, Mike walked into the adjoining room to stand before the book case and antique box. Right then he was puzzled by his interest with it. (Just because he had dreamt, after all, didn’t mean he knew of what.) Through sheer curtains beams of moonlight streamed in. It was in this light Mike regarded the box at every possible angle without actually removing it from the shelf. Then he left the room, coming to one conclusion as he went: The box was a pointless antique. He was unsure what he had been doing in there and he was unsure what his sudden interest in it was, but Mike knew that one thing for sure.

  First thunder grumbled in the dark, then the room was briefly lit up with light. The lightning had struck quickly after the thunder had sounded. He knew that the rain was getting closer. He knew he had to get down to the Drop and protect the magic. Quickly and quietly legs, average in shape and size, brought the boy across the hall and out of the house. He was careful in opening the door and even more so in closing it. The wind that blew outside was fierce and Mike thought that at any moment his fingers would loose their hold on the metal knob and the door would either go flying open or banging shut. Either way it would wake his mother. Mrs. Gregory was not known for deep sleeps.

  Now outside Mike was tempted to return to the house to get a jacket. He stood on the porch steps pondering if he was willing to take the chance of returning inside the house, then decided no, it would be too risky. It was cold and almost immediately his bare arms were covered with goosebumps to the extent that after a while they began to hurt. While hugging himself to keep warm he took off at a slow jog.

  It wasn’t long before Mike reached his destination. Still cold but sweating, he stopped outside the crown of trees. Puffs of breath escaped his deeply pink lips as he stood bent over in the darkness, trying to catch his breath, each hand taking hold of a knee. The night was a dark, inky black and along the dirt path it was even darker. There were no street lamps to light the path and the fires built by the campers had long since been extinguished. Under normal circumstances his mind would have been racing with all the things that could happen to him out on the dark road, but now the boy only picked his way through the screen of trees stealthily, as though afraid he might wake somebody.

  The red lighter was still in Mike’s pocket and as he produced that weak orange flame he was reminded that the fuel could run out at any moment. Within the Drop the air was thick and alive. Outside it hadn’t done anything but stink. Before even getting a chance to gain his bearings, within his mind Mike saw colours of joy. From in front of him, out of the darkness, there came the polyhedron. Spinning, and churning throughout the air, spreading colours behind his eyes. A solemn smile, filled with some sort of obscure joy, creased his face. Mike reached out with one hand and within his palm the polyhedron settled.

  Mike held the glass object high. His hand was outstretched and extended completely above his head. Suddenly the air thinned.

  It was late in the day when Mike next awoke. It had rained the previous night and that was apparent as he peered through his bedroom window. The sun had yet to dry the drenched land. Pulling open the windows he found that the cool late morning air, too, was damp. All this bothered him very little. The magic was safe within the polyhedron. Then, with that thought an image came to mind. It was of an old wooden box. A geometric pattern had been branded onto the box’s surface and accented with black varnish. The box itself had been accented with brass. He knew precisely which box he was thinking of.

  With both his elbows perched on the windowsill Mike stared intently at the bark of a tree. However, he never quite saw that tree. Instead his mind kept picturing that horrid box. His mind saw it and for some reason the boy felt that there was something in it. But that was impossible. There was nothing in the box but worn and patched velvet. Unless someone, most likely his mother, had recently stashed something in there. That made perfect sense. He sighed and pulled away from the windowsill, feeling like he had once known something now forgotten. If someone had suggested he had dreamt the night before he would have been surprised.

  Yawning wearily Mike made his way across the room and out the door. On his way down the stairs he noticed his mother’s room door was opened. She was already up, not that he found that surprising. The white light seeping through the house from all angles said the day had long since arrived.

  Sure enough Mrs. Gregory was in the den watching a talk show. In her hand she held a pad and pencil. Mike read what was written from over her shoulder. As he was getting about half way down the list his mother began to turn. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed Mike before screaming, startled.

  “Mikey!” Mrs. Gregory spat, “don’t ever do that again! You scared me. What do you think you�
��re doing?”

  “Nothing,” he spoke evenly, simply, before turning to leave the room. Behind him he could feel his mother staring at him with a mix of fright and curiosity. She must truly think him strange, but didn’t everybody? It was just as the boy was about to exit the room he remembered the box. Without saying a word, but nonetheless attracting the attention of his mother, Mike reached onto the shelf and grabbed hold of it.

  “Mikey, what are you doing?”

  It was some time before he answered. In his hands the wood felt smooth and worn. He didn’t want to touch the stained brass, not sure of what would come off on his hands, and so was careful not to.

  “What’s in this box, anyway?” he questioned his mother.

  “Mikey, you know there’s nothing in there. And it’s not a box, its a chest. A replica of a very famous one, by the way.”

  “But Ma, there is something in here I — ”

  Grasping the lid Mike had pulled open the ‘chest’ only to find his mother was right. What he was staring at now had once been a very beautiful velvet lining. But not anymore. What remained was faded and worn, torn and patched. That was it, there was nothing more to see.

  “What were you expecting Mikey, you know there’s nothing in there. Now put it back, it’s an antique — irreplaceable.”

  She swept past him and took the box herself. While setting it carefully on the shelf she went into the long story about how the box had belonged to her great, great, great aunt on her father’s side. It was with a minimal amount of guilt Mike slipped out the room, leaving her to narrate to herself.

  The kitchen was pleasantly drenched with sunlight. It was obviously going to be one of the hotter days of summer. Before finding the clearing Mike had hated those exceptionally heated days. He’d spent them with his back against a large tree in the woods. There he had been attacked by mosquitoes, ants and anything else that decided to crawl from the tree trunk down his shirt. Greatfully it wasn’t like that in the Drop. Thinking about it now Mike was more thankful than curious as to why showers of insects didn’t fall from the many leaves overhead. It didn’t make sense, for the Drop was lost in shade. It was that thought that beckoned him to spend the day below ground.