Eternal Spring (A Young Adult Short Story Collection)

  My heart speeds up. My mind races. Will running like mad give me a chance to get away? Or will it just make him kill me sooner? I think of my mother and how cruel it will be for her to lose me after losing her husband. I’m all she has now.

  We touch down on a flat roof in the city. Even if I had decided to try running away, I can’t do it. Because terror has frozen my limbs. When the asag releases me I crouch in the corner, my head buried between my knees. Call me a wimp; I don’t care. There’s no way I’m going to watch as this demon creature tears me to pieces.

  I wait for the first attack.

  And I wait.

  I hear people chattering and shouting in the distance. A baying donkey. Wagon wheels crunching against a shard-covered street. The air smells like a river, like fish, like foul city odors and warm cooking spices. I lift my head and look around.

  “How are you doing, Terry?”

  “Jerrod! You’re here, too?”

  “I followed, but lost you. But I see you easily found another hero. I’m not surprised.”

  I am. I shift to sit cross-legged. “Did you see that asag? Don’t ask me why it left me here. All I know is I don’t want to be here when it comes back. We’ve got to figure out how to get out of this horrible place.”

  Jerrod squats next to me, his arms dangling over his knees. “I like this place, Terry. I’ll be staying here.”

  “You can’t be serious.” I look around. A zillion sparkling lights scatter like wildflowers across the clear, blue-black sky. The city below answers with a sea of flickering lamps on rooftops and glowing torches carried by people in the streets.

  That’s when I see the ziggurat, a humongo stepped pyramid with a seemingly endless stairway, and a glittering, purplish shrine at the top. It looks spanking new, way different from the excavation photos of dusty ruins I’d seen at Penn’s museum.

  “Are we in Ur? As in the ancient city-state that existed a couple thousand years before Rome even got started? The Sumerian city my Dad had studied like forever?”

  “Yes. And no. This is the Sometime version.”

  “The what?

  He stands, looks uncomfortable. “There are times and places that don’t exist anywhere anymore except in the Sometime. Times and places that are there but not there. It’s special, Terry. And more necessary to the protection of your world than you know.”

  Distracted by the glow in Jerrod’s face that makes him look even more handsome than usual, I almost miss it. But then it hits me. “You’ve been here before.”

  He nods. “This is my home.”

  I take on an accusing tone. “You tricked me into coming here. You insisted I wear that seal. So it must have something to do with transporting us.”

  “It does.” That’s all he says. Not an ounce of guilt or apology.

  “Take me home right now.”

  “I don’t have the power to do that.”

  “Your power brought us here.”

  “No, Terry, it was power surge from a source connected to the bull lyre, but you directed it. You’re the one who can work that seal.”

  “I have no idea—”

  “Yes, you do. You just have to remember how.”

  “Remember?”

  “You have ancient records in your memory. You just have to claim them.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and paced the roof, truly pissed off at Jerrod now. “All your philosophy is very fine, but you had no right to do this to me. Was it a joke?”

  “Not at all. We need you here.”

  “Me? Gimme a break.”

  “I’ll let my aunt explain it to you. You’ll be living with her.”

  I stopped, my hands balled in fists. “No way. My mother is all alone in Philadelphia, and right now she’s probably worried sick. I’ve got to get home.”

  A girl’s soft voice cuts in. “Oh. Excuse me, Lord Ja-red.”

  Lord what?

  “It’s quite all right, Eanisa.” Jerrod says to a girl who is climbing off the ladder that apparently leads from inside the house to the roof. He gestures to me. “In fact, you two are the same age and might want to be friends. This is Tiriqan.”

  Why is Jerrod suddenly pronouncing my name the same way Rigmai did?

  He introduces Eanisa, who steps toward me. Her big-eyed face belongs in a manga comic. Her whole demeanor is so sweet I can’t help but like her.

  “He adds, “Tiriqan’s going to be Lady Ningal’s new chambermaid.”

  In your dreams, buddy.

  “It’s so warm inside tonight,” Eanisa says, “I thought I’d sleep here on the roof. Want to join me, Tiriqan?”

  “Okay,” I say, realizing how exhausted I am.

  As Eanisa sets up two sleeping mats, I pull Jerrod aside and speak in a hushed voice. “How could you do this to me? I thought you were my friend, Jerrod. I even foolishly thought you might want to be more than friends.”

  His dark eyes remorseful, his hand reaches out and cups my cheek. I tell myself not to react, that my jelly knee is just fatigue.

  “I’d like to be everything to you, Tiri. But I’m tainted. That’s why they could risk sending me to fetch you. And if I hadn’t brought you, the bull lyre would’ve carried you to her.”

  “Her?”

  “I don’t mean to frighten you, but you’ll be safer if you stay here.”

  I snort. “Safer here? Running from soldiers and flying demons? No, thanks. I’d rather take my chances with Philly lowlife.”

  Jerrod grips my shoulders. “Someone very evil is after you. It’ll become clear in a few days and you’ll—”

  “I won’t be here in a few days. I’ll find a way home.”

  Disappointment clouds his face. His hands smooth over my shoulders and down my arms, giving me chills. His fingers entwine in mine. “Please don’t go yet. Now that you’re here your powers will begin to manifest, but calling them up will attract demons.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t have any power when I got us here. So I can get back the same way.”

  “Tiri, it’s not like—”

  “Why are you calling me Tee-ree?”

  “Because your real name is Tiriqan. You are a descendant of the royal Kiengir dragon line. And you’re the only one who can save it from oblivion.”

  I release his hands and step back. “I’ve had enough, Jerrod. No more of this weird stuff, okay? I just want to go home.”

  He watches me a moment, then says only, “Goodnight, Tiri.”

  In the middle of the night I’m jarred awake by the mournful bays of a dog or hyena or something. I sit up, soaked with sweat and breathing hard. At first I think I’m having a nightmare, but then I remember the real nightmare: I’m stuck in ancient Sumer. Or, according to Jerrod . . . Sometime.

  Between moonlight and torchlight I notice people on neighboring roofs rushing about frantically. The howls grow louder. Eanisa jolts awake, her big eyes wide.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “A namtar dog. A demon of the underworld gods. We have to get inside the house.”

  After my experience with the asag, I don’t hesitate. I bolt for the ladder.

  It happens so fast I almost miss it. Eanisa trips on her mat and a flurry of dark wings and clacking teeth erupts behind me. I pivot. And freeze.

  Eanisa lies there pinned to the ground with the namtar dog standing over her on all fours, ready for the kill. The oily black fur covering its body emits a hideous stench. I hear Eanisa’s soft whimper and take a step toward her. The creature turns its fanged, anteater snout to me.

  Eanisa murmurs, “Move very slowly to the ladder, Tiri, and it won’t chase you. Leave me. It will be satisfied with one life.”

  “No!” I spring forward. With an eerie whine the creature changes course and heads for me.

  I sense a hum down my spine and the deep, thunderous chords of the bull lyre ring in my ears. As the namtar charges me I rush toward it. Lightning shoots from my palms. My mouth breathes fire. The demon dog bursts into fla
mes.

  Foul smelling smoke fills the air. Eanisa stares at me open mouthed. I drop into a crouch, strange sensations in my body. Odd prickling and stretching and painful cramps. I’m thinking these may be power signs. Meaning I might be able to work the seal before it dissipates.

  I scurry to my shoulder bag, dig out the cylinder seal, and fasten its silver chain around my neck. I loop my bag over my shoulder, close my eyes and let the rumbling hum fill me.

  Dizziness.

  Heaviness.

  Blackness.

  I open my eyes to find myself on a narrow cot in an office crowded with files and boxes. Ms. Cresley’s concerned face looks down at me.

  “You had us all worried, Terry. Here. Drink this.” She hands me a glass of apple juice.

  “Am I in the museum?”

  “Yes, dear. In my office.”

  Hmm. So it’s still the same day here, even though a day passed in Sometime. “Guess you found me near the bull lyre?”

  “Yes, but we weren’t about to leave you lying in the middle of the Mesopotamian collection. Someone might think you crawled out of the Tombs of Ur.”

  I laugh with Ms. Cresley, thinking this is closer to the truth than she knows. I’m wondering how Jerrod handled this. Did he come back with me?

  I sit up. “I’m feeling pretty well now, Ms. Creslely. I think I’ll head down to the gift shop.”

  “No working today. You just say hello and go home to rest. Ms. Rentiff will be closing up by now, anyway.”

  Wait a sec. “Where’s Jerrod?”

  “Who is Jerrod, dear?”

  “The guy who runs the museum gift shop.”

  “Ms. Rentiff manages the shop. There isn’t anyone named Jerrod working here.”

  “Yeah, Mom, I decided you were right. I’m gonna stay away from all the stuff about me in that tea box of Dad’s.”

  My mother smiled and gave me a quick hug. “Good decision, sweetie.”

  After dinner I go to my father’s study and sit in his old recliner. I’m totally bummed over Jerrod. I’d started crushing on him something fierce, even let myself hope he might become my boyfriend. Now I don’t even know if he’s a real person.

  Ms. Cresley doesn’t remember him. I asked a girl at school about him and she didn’t know who I was talking about. Am I such a mental case that I totally made him up?

  And if he is real, that means I actually traveled to a time and place that doesn’t exist anymore — except in Sometime.

  Did I actually kill a demon? And kiss a Guti warrior? And what about those stupid things Jerrod said? Like me being a descendant of a royal dragon family.

  But he also said: I’d like to be everything to you, Tiri.

  I slam my fist against the arm of the chair. I feel like crying, but instead just resolve to quit the museum job. I don’t ever want to see that creepy bull lyre again or any of the things Jerrod and I looked at together.

  Yeah, right. Jerrod the phantom, who was probably some desperate-for-a-boyfriend illusion I carried around that day. Boy, am I a mess.

  Pushing out of the recliner, I go to my room and bring back the silver chain, the cylinder seal, and the terracotta rectangle that holds its impression. The tea box is still on the floor where I’d left it, next to papers that scattered when it fell from the shelf three days ago.

  I sit on my heels and begin piling papers into the box, which is going back on the shelf to collect dust. I find the two manila envelopes with my name on them and slide the seal and chain into one. As I put the clay impression into the other I notice a white paper inside with what looks like my dad’s handwriting on it.

  I pull it out and read it.

  Terry, my beloved daughter,

  I am ill and will not be around when you are old enough to receive this. The day I discovered you in the museum there was an engraved cylinder seal hanging from your neck on a silver chain with an archaically designed clasp. I took the seal before anyone else saw it, knowing if I gave it to the authorities I might never see it again or have a chance to study it. I believed then, and still do, that keeping it for you would somehow protect you.

  I made sure the seal was not stolen property from any museum collection. And based on the authenticity of its construction and language style, I would rule out the possibility of it being a fake. Still, questions remain.

  The blue star birthmark on your left ankle was my reason for naming you Terry – not Teresa or anything else. You’ll see why in my translation below. I’ve made the syntax conform to our speech, but the content is the same.

  I do not mean to upset you, but if this seal has bearing on your life and origins, you should be aware of it. I will likely die before fully deciphering its meaning, but I will continue to search for it until my last day. I wish you were old enough for me to explain how important I believe this to be. All I can do is pray to whatever gods there are that you will be safe from harm. And hope that you will continue my search.

  Richard Conn - Your loving father.

  Seal translation:

  This child is named Tiriqan. Her powers are many.

  The gods have marked her left ankle with the star of Inanna

  Blessed and cursed, she is the hunted one

  Giant wings of darkness forever seek to find her and end her life

  Floored, speechless, and rocked to the bottom of my soul, I read the letter over and over, thinking about the things I saw, the things that were said, and the things I learned when I was there in Sometime.

  I slide the letter back into the envelope, tuck everything into the tea box, and carry it to my room — where it will stay.

  In some ways it feels good to be back. Even school seems like a relief after all I’d been through. But the unexplainable events continue to haunt me. I can’t talk to anybody about them. No one would believe my story. And I’m in no mood to be sent in for psychiatric evaluation.

  What would some shrink say about the mysterious bull harp sounds I hear on certain days? Like the vibrations that are cascading through the air right now. Deep and rich, building in intensity.

  I wish Jerrod were here. And not just to talk to.

  I march down Twenty-first Street determined to come to grips with this bizarre thing that’s hijacked my life. Reading my Dad’s letter every night gives me the courage to keep searching and to try and believe it all.

  Only I can’t help asking: Why me?

  I pass a little white terrier that licks my fingers as its owner scoops its poop from the curb and drops it in a nearby Dumpster. I try to focus on the sweet dog instead of the familiar looking trio rounding the corner at the end of the street. But some things take time to change.

  My neck and shoulders tighten as Cheryl and her posse swagger toward me. The pleased look in Cheryl’s eyes tells me El Bitcho clearly has me in her sights.

  Chin jutting forward with that cocksure bossy attitude of hers seeping from every pore, she stands there blocking my way. Her buds converge from the sides to cut off any route for my escape.

  She moves in so close her nose is practically touching mine, and I can feel her breath on my face. “Where do you think you’re going, loser?”

  “Anywhere I please.” The words just pop out of my mouth.

  Cheryl’s face contorts in shock. “What did you say?”

  “Move your fat butt. Or I will.” At first I have to struggle to hide my own shock that I’ve said this.

  But then everything shifts. Humming vibrations surround me, and the world moves in slow motion.

  I watch her shoulder drop down just a hair as Cheryl prepares to launch a punch to my face. But it never makes it off the pad. I slap it away so hard it spins her halfway around. That’s when the bull lyre’s chords start to pick up. Its energy flows through every part of my body. I point my hand at Cheryl’s chest and raise my arm. She lifts at least ten feet up into the air as if responding to an invisible tractor beam emanating from my fingertips.

  “Oh. My. God.” says one of her not-so-tough
-after-all peeps.

  I smile. “Now, where to deliver her?” I remember the sweet little terrier I’d seen moments ago. With a single, arching motion of my arm, I send a freaked out Cheryl sailing over the dumpster’s edge and crashing down into a pile of garbage garnished with savory dog poop.

  Statement made.

  Cheryl’s two buddies, or most likely ex—buddies, hightail it in the opposite direction. They really looked very shook-up. Don’t think I’ll be hearing from them again.

  I ignored a couple witnesses standing across the street with their mouths hanging. As if they’ve never seen tele-transportation before.

  Well, get used to it. Cause the new kid on the block has some new tricks.

  I continue my walk home, an odd lightness in my stride. The guttural, crackling sounds of a motorcycle approach from behind.

  It pulls up alongside me. “Want a ride?”

  “Jerrod!”

  He gives me a breathtaking grin and tosses me a helmet. I hand him my schoolbooks, strap on the helmet and climb on.

  Jerrod glances over his shoulder at me and says, “Hold tight.”

  I blush and wrap my arms around his solid torso.

  Then we’re off and running.

  Together.

  Maybe I don’t understand who he is yet.

  Or who I am either.

  But I’ll figure it all out.

  Sometime.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This short story is a prequel to Inanna’s Mark, Book 1 of the Sometime series that will be coming out this summer. I’ll be creating a special Sometime website, but meanwhile, if you would like to be notified when the first book is released, you can leave your name on my mailing list at https://www.aliciastreet-roystreet.com.

  ***

  Alicia Street writes in several genres, both solo and in collaboration with her husband Roy Street. In 2009 they won a Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Mystery/Suspense. Alicia spent many years as a professional dancer and choreographer, but now she channels those creative impulses into the DANCE ‘N’LUV romantic comedy series. She is a compulsive, omnivorous reader and enjoys chatting about books with cyber-friends. Follow her on Twitter: @AliciaStreet1.