LAST WEEK: The great earthquake of 1906 rocked San Francisco. Much of the population moved into tents in Golden Gate Park, including Pamela and her mother, Teresa.
Read last week’s installment here. See all installments here.
Chapter 102
Pamela
San Francisco — 1906
Night Promises
Ryo’s tired of talking to men who won’t listen. He’s weary of offering explanations to those who can’t hear. But the past plays on like an old movie with a ghost audience, which some might argue is no audience at all. Perhaps it answers the age-old question: does a tree falling in solitude make a sound if only the dead and a crow can hear it? Will his words seep like understanding into River’s consciousness? He sighs and continues Pamela’s story.
“Pamela and Jenny head homeward. The girls hold hands, giggling, whispering secrets. Dusk tints the tent city, softening its hard edges, muting its color into shades of gray.
“In a small clearing, under one of the few remaining oak trees, an old man is juggling fire. It is odd that no one objects. After all, on many peaks, flames still blaze, turning the remains of the city to cinder. But, except for the children, no one seems to notice the tall, gaunt figure skillfully rotating torches in the air, his silhouette both graceful and gnarled. His arms, muscular and lithe, toss the fire as if he owns it, but his feet are twisted inward like a crab’s. Behind him, a wheeled metal chair reflects the fire.
“‘Pretty girls,’ he cries, seeing Pamela and her friend. ‘And more than pretty.’ He looks sharply at Pamela. ‘Pretty is a sorry word for such a one as you.’ He pauses in his juggling. The fire hangs unmoving in the air. He reaches toward Pam, pulling from her ear something pointed, something that glints in the flames. It is a silver bullet.
“‘You will live a long time,’ he says, ‘Not an easy life though. Not even perhaps what some would call…’ his words drift off into smoke.
“‘The grave’s a fine and private place, but none I think do there embrace… except you, little Pamela, except you.’ How did he know my name? Pam wonders. He laughs. It’s a hearty sound. It reminds Pam of the hot, thick soup dished out in the food lines, a sound to warm your belly on cold nights.
“Suddenly, he vanishes. All that remains is a plume of inky smoke in the twilight sky, and the warm silver bullet in Pamela’s palm.
“The girls grab hands and run, shrieking together, through the twilight. Cinders follow them, catching in Pamela’s hair like destiny, like ill-fortune, like heartache.
“Jenny is used to being the center of attention. She’s the golden-haired girl, the one with a family and a home, the granter of favors. She is jealous of the interest shown Pamela by the Magician. But now she’s relieved. Pleased not to have been laughed at. Thankful not to have a tragic future. Grateful not to have her name linked to the grave.
“‘Sarah!’ screams Pamela.
“‘Mom!’ the two girls cry, breathless with terror and excitement.
“‘We saw a man,’ Jenny pants.
“‘He juggled fire,’ Pam gasps.
“‘He took a bullet from Pam’s ear.’
“‘He told me I would live a long time.’
“‘He said she would be unhappy.’
“‘He said I was pretty.’
“‘He said she would embrace the grave.’
“‘He gave me this.’
“‘And then he vanished!’
“‘He disappeared.’
“‘Into smoke.’
“‘Into ashes.’
“‘Into cinders.’
“‘Into nothing.’
Pamela shakes her braids, black with soot. Jenny’s hair is unsullied, clean, yellow, and bright as sun on a clear sky.
“‘Girls,’ Jenny’s mother remonstrates.
“‘Miss Pamela,’ Sarah says.
“‘How many times have we told you not to talk to strangers?’ Jenny’s mother asks.
“‘But we didn’t talk to him, Mommy. I promise. He was just there and then he wasn’t. Right, Pammie?’ Jenny cries, all resentment forgotten now that punishment threatens. Pam nods.
“Sarah reaches for Pamela’s bullet. Pam closes her hand. She’d been frightened, she still is, but she wants to keep the silver talisman. Sarah looks hard at Pam, who reluctantly opens her hand. Sarah takes the still-warm bullet. She holds it up to the now-dark sky. It seems to reflect the vanished sun.
“Sarah hands it back. ‘I don’t know what this is, and I don’t think I like it. But it’s not dangerous… unless you have a gun. Do you want it?’ Pamela nods. ‘Then I think you should keep it. It was given to you for a reason, I believe. I don’t know what, and I don’t why, but it takes both clouds and sun to make a rainbow.’
“Sarah sews a tiny satin pouch onto a narrow satin ribbon. It’s just big enough to hold the bullet. She ties it round Pamela’s neck where it dangles over her heart, a tangible future.
Chapter 103
Mount Olympus – San Francisco — Eternity
Gods and Circuses
Thanatos’ cousin of sorts, Hephaestus, is also an inveterate traveler. Thanatos finds Hephaestus’ desire to travel especially odd because he is crippled.
Hephaestus is the God of fire, metalworking, stonemasonry, sculpture, and volcanos. His skills are unmatched and unmatchable. He wrought himself a wheelchair so magnificent, it makes even druids and nymphs stop dancing and beg for a seat.
Surely, Thanatos thinks, it would be easier for Hephaestus to remain in his marvelous chair than go gallivanting all over time and place, appearing magically in fairgrounds and carnivals. But Hephaestus is a showman. He lives for wonder and applause. He has discovered that humans, especially young ones, make much more receptive audiences than gods.
He is not, strictly speaking, related to Thanatos. He is Hera’s son and no one else’s. She bore him parthenogenetically, to get even with Zeus, her cheating, sex-addicted husband, after Athena sprung from his head with no help from her.
But when Hephaestus emerged clubfooted and malformed, Hera tossed him off Mount Olympus. He fell for nine days and nine nights, landing in the sea with a splash so big it caused a tsunami. No wonder then, that he prefers Earth to Olympus and children to gods. No surprise that despite, or perhaps because of, his malformed limbs and his mother’s rejection, he enjoys magical journeys and approbation.
Chapter 104
Gabriel
San Francisco — 1985
Reflections
Gabriel looks in the mirror. Nothing looks back. Nothing, that is, except the orchids behind him whose hairy roots reach toward the light.
I want to be painted in color, he thinks, to hear bird song in daylight, and quiet dreams at night.
Under his orchids, five newly repaired boom boxes sit. Gabriel adjusts them, hoping to achieve the sweet clarity of sound he has only heard in dreams. It is new, this feeling of hope, this sorrow in the morning for beauty turned to ash, this longing for color in the night.
But no matter how he tunes them, the music is slow, in minor keys, Debussy playing a dirge, Chopin’s nocturne sad as heartbreak. His soft, full mouth thins into a hard line. It is the only time he has not been able to control something mechanical. It is the only time he has ever tried to thwart his fate. If Gabriel were more human, he might have returned the stereo to the store, he might even have flung the sleek black box across the room… But if he were more human, he would not be having such problems.
He touches an orchid’s hairy root. It sizzles, it burns. Immediately, new branches sprout and flower.
Very well, he thinks. If I am cast to be a destroyer of worlds, I will embrace my role. I did not choose this. I was not asked. Yet who am I to defy the stars?
Gabriel sips wine and lets a single square of bitter chocolate melt on his tongue. It tastes sweetly bitter, like lost memory and unfulfilled longing.
Chapter 105
Mike
Napa — 1979
Mike’s Tale
The only way to peace is through forgiveness; the only way to forgiveness is through understanding, thinks Ryo. It’s a path I’m still traveling, a path easier because I am unencumbered by the things of this world, not trapped by time, or love, or lust, or need. But to comprehend the whole, I must know each part. I don’t yet, but I will. Ghosts are quantum. We can be in two places at the same time, see different histories before they meet to become one, watch many lives converge toward a single end.
The year is 1979, and Mike is a beefy sixty-five-year-old construction worker. He lives in Napa. He enjoys cold ale, rare steak, and baked potatoes rich with butter and sour cream. He loves his wife, Jennifer, and his twin daughters, Ashley and Celeste.
Jennifer is a meaty blonde, solid and cheerful. She is security, a quilted down comforter, warm stew, and hot spiced cider on cold nights.
Ashley is seven, a sweetly willful child. Overflowing with charm and curiosity, she can mold almost anyone to her will. She spearheads elaborate theater productions of which she is writer, producer, director, and star. The neighborhood children are her chorus, her ticket sellers, and her audience. Parents are conscripted to sew extravagant costumes and provide refreshments which some of the children sell. Ashley collects the profits, but no one minds. It is worth any price to be near the sunlight of her person. Her hair is orange as sunrise, her face is dotted with sandy freckles, her eyes are clear green agates, her smile an embrace.
Celeste, born just two minutes after Ashley, couldn’t be more different. It is difficult to believe the same blood flows in their veins. The only visible connection is the sandy arc of freckles that bands their noses. Celeste is quiet and serious. Her hair is straight and dark, her eyes deep and thoughtful. She wants only to wander through the pages of novels. Her appetite for words is insatiable. She fears the night and is haunted by the thought of death. Sometimes when she looks at her mother, Jennifer, her heart freezes with impending loss. Children do have fears of mortality. Usually, they block them as they age. Most even block the fact that they had such fears. Through the wrong end of a telescope, childhood is a tiny halcyon summer filled with endless games of hide-n-seek and ice-cream. Forgotten are the monsters under the bed. Disregarded are the nights made sleepless by fear of the unknown and the terror of death. Ashley has no such fears, or if she does, she never reveals them to her sister.
In spite of, or perhaps because of, their differences, the girls are very close.
Sometimes, on warm summer nights, Jennifer lets them sleep on the porch wrapped in quilted down sleeping bags, like giant cocoons with children’s faces.
The girls watch for shooting stars and make wishes. Ashley wishes for pink sequined dresses, movie cameras, and magic powers. Celeste wishes that she and Ashley and her parents would live forever and ever and never get sick or old. Huddling together under the warm blankets, Ashley whispers ghost stories that keep Celeste awake long into the night. She watches Ashley’s sleeping face, like an angel in the moonlight.
Watch the author read this week’s installment in the video below:
NEXT WEEK: Gabriel casts a rock through the arching window, smiling as colored fragments fall like needle-sharp tears on his infant’s body. He is only sorry that he wakes before his blood begins to flow.
Edited by Mitchelle Lumumba and Sophie Gorjance.
E.E. King is cohost of the MetaStellar YouTube channel's Long Lost Friends segment. She is also a painter, performer, writer, and naturalist. She’ll do anything that won’t pay the bills, especially if it involves animals. Ray Bradbury called her stories “marvelously inventive, wildly funny and deeply thought-provoking. I cannot recommend them highly enough.” She’s been published widely, including Clarkesworld and Flametree. She also co-hosts The Long Lost Friends Show on MetaStellar's YouTube channel. Check out paintings, writing, musings, and books at ElizabethEveKing.com and visit her author page on Amazon.