Both of Me

At the rest stop.

  But I experienced them as shadows, fading in and out of dreams, dreams that filled with Elias and London in equal measure. Yet Mum I did not see, and I awoke wondering if I would ever see her face again, or if she had died to my dreams as well.

  “Well, we’re here.” Izzy stretched. “Niagara Falls. So much traffic in and out, it’s a very public place to hide. Does that suit you, Elias?”

  He craned his neck to see out my passenger window. “I’ve heard of this place. Let’s check it out.”

  We eased out of the truck and wandered along the rapids, a river growing wilder and wilder until it vanished, plunging into mist and foam. I knew people had risked the drop. Elias plunked a quarter into the observation telescope, and Izzy walked along the shoddy rail. She kept glancing over the edge, I knew, to find a way down.

  “You’ll die.”

  “Maybe,” she answered quietly.

  I squeezed her forearm. “And that doesn’t cause you to think twice?”

  Izzy exhaled. “Because he’s looking for home just like me.”

  “What? Who is?”

  “You once asked me what I wanted to do with Elias. He’s looking for home, just like me. He makes me believe I just might be able to have one again someday.”

  I gently rapped the rail. “His home is in Minnesota.”

  “If you believe that, you’re clueless.”

  It was silent a long time. “See that mist? That’s me.” She swept back her hair and caught my gaze. “For years, that’s been me. There’s no reason for where I’ve been. None for where I’m going. I go east because you go east. But sooner or later —”

  “You’ll go home.”

  “Home?” she asked. “To whom? That’s why I’m running. What do you think I did to my parents?”

  I frowned. “It was fierce?”

  “It was fierce. And it was final.”

  I thought of her gun barrel in my face. “I’m going to ask. Anything to do with your guitar case?”

  She scratched her head. “Dad played guitar. Mom heard him, and she fell in love on the spot. The two of them were special. Most girls would say I couldn’t ask for better parents.” She peeked down again.

  “Then why did you, you know . . .”

  Izzy smiled. “The day I was born, my dad hung a Harvard pennant on my basinet in the newborn nursery, and he gave me the middle name Ivy. By the time I was sixteen, I had met Harvard’s president five times, and taken more than a dozen trips to campus. It’s why I know the road we’re traveling so well. My dad became their largest donor, in exchange for a small guarantee. My acceptance.”

  “At least he was involved in your —”

  “I hate Harvard,” Izzy said. “Does anything about me say Harvard to you? Alaska. Now there’s a place. There’s adventure. Harvard? All so I can meet some wealthy Harvard monkey who cares more about his political correctness than he does about me? Harvard? It wasn’t about me, London. He wanted me to marry Harvard. Some dream.

  “You, though, you have purpose, a twisted, half-real one, but a shared one, you know? You and Elias — who would have thought? You’ll probably end up together . . . Have a real odd kid with a messed-up accent. But life’ll be good.” She faced me. “Least your dad’s life doesn’t define yours.”

  I closed my eyes. “Izzy, I want to tell you —”

  “Back to the truck.” Elias gestured toward the car park.

  I walked beside Izzy, the Great Undoing weighing heavy on my mind. She had no roots. Telling her would be like talking to the wind. It might be safe.

  Izzy took my arm, and I pushed down the urge to pull away, as I had so many times before. “That story about Orion.” I frowned. “That business about danger in the first Salem and a Hephaestus bloke with the forge waiting in the next . . . Is that real?”

  She scoffed. “Is any of this real? We’re following the plans of a mentally ill guy who thinks he’s on a crusade for a deceased queen. We’re looking for some Lightkeeper and following a star map to get there. It’s as least real as that.”

  I quickened my step to reach Elias, but felt Izzy’s hand on my shoulder. “But that’s okay. I don’t mind living in somebody’s hallucination as long as it feels real. You better love him. You better love him as much as you love yourself, ’cause I’ll go to the end, whatever that means, for that.” She pulled me near. “But if you don’t. If you’re just playing . . . If you’re just doing this to humour him or to add pages to your little diary, then I’m gone.”

  I glanced up at Elias.

  “Do you love that idiot? Either one of him. Don’t matter to me.”

  Love. A word for fools. “I need him. He’s my everything right now.”

  “Liar. You’re your own everything. Just like me.”

  “I need time to sort it out,” I hissed.

  “Well, jolly good and cheerio.” Izzy slapped me on the shoulder, and shook her head.

  Love.

  I love part of Elias.

  I love things about Elias.

  I love half of Elias.

  I love Elias.

  I tried them all, terrified of the one that fit.

  CHAPTER 23

  Salem, New York.

  Beautiful.

  “I need to reach the forge. The forge of Hephaestus. Can you direct us to the forge?”

  Good morning. Excuse me. May I have a moment of your time . . . All very good ways to begin a conversation, but as I watched Elias accost women on Main Street, it struck me how acceptable his ways had become. I had lost all sense of bizarre, and appropriate no longer held meaning for me.

  We needed guidance to reach a fleeting memory. Why not get there by following stars and asking to reach a mythical forge?

  “The forge, huh? You know you’re in New York.” A woman frowned.

  “I know I’m in Salem.”

  She seemed to be thinking. Good heavens, this knackered-looking lady was actually attempting to recall the location of the forge of Hephaestus. What a kind soul.

  “I don’t know anyone by that name, but, wait . . . you might be talking about the hippies. The forge of the hippies. I know something about that.”

  “Where is that?” Elias asked.

  “Salem Art Works. Back down the road you followed in. There’s a big commune of them. Lord only knows what they do there, what they have there. There might be a forge of some sort.”

  Elias bowed. “I want to thank you for your help in this time of sorrow for us all. The queen would have been pleased with you.”

  The queen likely would not have cared.

  He took out his sketchbook and quickly completed yet another drawing. He handed it to the woman.

  “Why . . . why thank you.”

  “You . . . are welcome.”

  Elias ran back to the truck. “The locals know Hephaestus by a different name: Hippies. Back up the road.”

  Izzy glanced at me, and I shrugged. “And being here is important? My ‘manual’ says nothing of this place.” I held up my diary, and shook it in the air.

  “Perhaps those interpretations have become uncalibrated. Perhaps they no longer align to my map. Izzy brought us to this point.” Elias turned. “Izzy, do you have any more to say?”

  “Wait!” I frantically leafed through my travels. “In this diary is all we need. See, I have this!”

  I glanced down at the page selected at random.

  “Forget it,” I said.

  “No.” Elias leaned over. “I want to hear. The stories in that book may still be invaluable.”

  I shut the diary, but Elias was quicker, his hand slipping between the pages. “Please. Read.”

  I bowed my head. “I can’t. There are no words on the page. It’s just an idiotic picture. Nothing like your sketches.”

  “A picture . . .” Elias tugged at the book, and I released it. He opened back up to the spot. I searched for an emotion on his face. Any emotion.

  Anything.

  “Who are they?”
r />   He placed my precious diary on his lap. Izzy craned her neck to see.

  “I told you I can’t draw.”

  “Who are they?” he repeated.

  I pointed. “Well, that was the queen. My best attempt at the queen.”

  Elias nodded solemnly. “You captured her essence.”

  “So that there, that would be the king. Sean. My dad.”

  “King Sean. Strange, I never knew him by that name. And the little ones?”

  I smiled. “They aren’t so little anymore. The tall one is Teeter, and that’s Marna.”

  “And you. Is this you off to the side?” He pointed. “You sketched yourself too lightly. You hardly can see your shape.”

  “Well, that’s how I jolly well wanted to sketch it!” I quieted. “That’s how I did it.”

  Elias softened. “No need to get upset. I understand it’s always the artist’s choice.” He blinked and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. “Is that . . .” His finger found it. “Is that another kid?”

  Izzy, silent the whole time, now gazed at me. “The one beside you. The one even lighter than you. Who’s that one?”

  Elias squinted. “There is someone there. I see the outline. No face. No features. Who’s that?”

  “Nobody to mention!” I grabbed my diary, slammed it shut, pushed out of the truck, and ran forward. I ran until the red brick buildings of Salem vanished from sight; until I was surrounded by beauty and mountains and leaves so vibrant they took my breath away, and the beauty fueled my sorrow.

  I reached down and grabbed a handful of the fallen. So beautiful. They fell so early. So soon. Before they had a chance to be seen or loved or . . .

  My legs churned forward, a new mantra filling my thoughts: I am not abandoning Elias. It may have appeared so, but it was not true. Nothing about me was true.

  I veered into a leaf-filled ditch and panted. Was this place filled with bear and mountain lion? The wondering entered but caused no fear. I alone did that.

  Hunted; I felt hunted by a crouching truth that crept nearer by the day. So I would keep on running, because if I slowed, it might catch up. I might just run into myself.

  I shivered and wished I was eight again.

  “Rough night, Clarita.” Izzy’s face slowly came into focus. “Help me out, boys.”

  Strong hands lifted me up, continued to carry me under the arms and beneath the knees. “Gently, into the cart.”

  “Elias?” I asked.

  “We’ll get you back to him soon enough.”

  I stretched my neck to see the unknown speaker, but in the dark, he was simply shadow.

  “Well, London, you do have a flair for the dramatic.” Izzy sat cross-legged beside me, her guitar case resting on her lap. “Okay. We’re set. Easy now.”

  We lurched forward. I remembered the feel. I had felt it several times in Asia and Africa, where carts were pulled by mule or camel.

  I pushed up on my elbows. “What am I in?”

  Izzy shoved me back down and covered me with blankets. “Stay down. Get warm. Horses. They’re horses. Yeah, it’s weird, but just go with it. These guys only get around on bikes or carts — earth-friendly, you know? I didn’t figure you’d want to trust your balance.”

  “And El —”

  “Waiting for word. You are mighty fortunate that my tracking abilities are top notch.” She handed me my diary. “Beside you on the road. Just think, if I hadn’t found you, then you wouldn’t have an argument to look forward to, but as it is . . .”

  “An argument?”

  “Oh, Elias is pretty upset. Something about an attack in a tower.”

  I groaned. “I see.”

  Two months ago, I thought my trip had ended.

  That’s when I saw a tower rising in the distance. I ran toward it and knocked at the gate that surrounded.

  The door had opened slowly, following the clicks of many locks.

  “May I help you, child?”

  I looked at the monk, uncertain. It was a strange question, and not the type I was used to hearing. Especially not in Cartagena.

  A beautiful city on the Colombian coast, Cartagena had held no warnings in Dad’s journal. Yet, trouble found me just the same.

  “I’m not sure.” I glanced down at my clothing, ripped as it was.

  He stepped out beyond the monastery gate, looked both ways, and pulled me inside before relocking the cast-iron lock.

  “But you rang our bell.”

  “I ran into a tiny scrape. I’m Clara Blythe, daughter of Sean Blythe.”

  The monk’s face softened. “There are no tiny scrapes in Cartagena. Sean’s daughter. Well. How is the builder of our chapel?”

  I said nothing.

  “Come, follow me.”

  We entered the clay building, encountering the faces of several concerned men, one quite young; quite the handsome bloke.

  “Manuel, escort our guest to the tower room.”

  The young monk smiled and led me deeper in and then around and finally up. He opened the door at the end of a long hall and pulled the chain on a single light bulb.

  The room was small: just one cot, one dresser, and one chair. One crucifix on the wall.

  I dropped my bag onto the floor. “What will it cost me to stay for a night?”

  Manuel folded his hands behind his back. “This is not a hotel.”

  “But everything comes with a price.”

  “Not the most precious things.”

  Shouts down below.

  Manuel glanced at me. “Who looks for you?”

  I said nothing.

  “It may help us to know.”

  A gunshot blast. Clear and distinct.

  Manuel’s face tightened. “What have you brought on us?” He quickly left, locking the door behind him. I glanced at the crucifix.

  “Not friends.”

  Raised voices echoed beneath my feet, disappeared and then reappeared in the hall outside. They neared, and I removed my diary. When they burst in, I would at least appear at peace. I would not give them the satisfaction of causing visible fear upon their arrival.

  And they would arrive. I didn’t understand the Spanish spoken two hours ago. That the bloke who promised me a safe room for the night near Bocogrande had returned seeking much more? That had been clear.

  That I had fled down Avenida San Martin with torn clothes, severely embarrassing my attacker, now clear as well.

  This would not end peacefully.

  I prayed.

  I stared at the small crucifix and prayed, all the time listening to shouts just outside my door.

  I don’t suppose it to be your typical prayer:

  “Well then, God. My name is Clara. We’ve not spoken for years. I admit, I am not entirely certain you can help me, hanging on the wall as you are. Your position always seems rather . . . ungodlike. Right now, I would prefer a Zeus with several thunderbolts.”

  The doorknob rattled.

  “If you saw what I did with Little T, then I suppose we can consider this conversation over. Especially if you’ve minded me over the years. But perhaps you were busy when I lived on Marbury. And earlier tonight. And yesterday. Perhaps you are feeling generous toward those who should be in the slammer.”

  I paused, and thought of Dad. “Not that you’ve shown much generosity toward him.”

  More doorknob rattling.

  “However, I do not have access to Zeus. I seem to be stuck with you.”

  I then reached for a pen; the next minute blurred, but the one that followed was oddly clear, and I recorded the words I heard in my diary:

  And I, my dear Clara, am gleefully stuck with you.

  I read the line, so foreign to my world, over and over. I read it aloud and mouthed each syllable. I ignored the row, and turned the phrase over in my mind, until the sentence blocked out the argument outside my tower door.

  And when next I looked up from my reading, there was no argument. The night was silent.

  I rose and pres
sed my ear against the wood. No movement in the hall, and I quietly slipped out. Downstairs, there were overturned tables, broken chairs, and smashed glass — and a group of monks at prayer.

  “I . . . I never meant to bring trouble. I heard the shot. Is someone, did someone . . . Where did they all go? I heard them outside my door.”

  Manuel alone peeked up. “We are all fine, Clara,” he said, and lowered his head.

  “Okay then. I’m going to sort this all out on my own. It’s best not to bring you into it.” I jogged upstairs, grabbed my bag, and turned to the crucifix. “Perhaps you might come in handy.”

  That night, I stole God from a monastery.

  The cart jolted away the memory, and I started and calmed. The crucifix was still tucked in my bag, a relic, a souvenir from an unexplainable scrape.

  I clung to the mysterious phrase as I bumped nearer to Elias.

  My dear Clara, I am gleefully stuck with you.

  Those words; too much to believe.

  I’d only heard them once.

  Even if they were rubbish, how I wished I could hear them again.

  CHAPTER 24

  I drifted through many countries that night, the gentle rocking teasing out many memories, but eventually I woke, my body warm and my mind clear. I sat up and eased against Izzy, ever the vigilant mate.

  “Morning,” she yawned. “You’re probably wondering where you are, other than in a back of a cart, so here’s what I understand. First, the hippies, though I wouldn’t call them that. I also wouldn’t call them gypsies or nuts, as apparently many in town do. Artists. That’s what they are. This is a communal community of artists. And they’ll take us in.”

  “Without knowing anything about us?” I asked, rubbing my hands over my jeans. I was in tatters. “They aren’t monks?”

  “None that I’ve seen, although your antics didn’t allow me to explore the place as I’d wanted to. Salem Art Works. That is the name of it. These guys up front? They’re working artists here. Helpful, don’t you think?”

  The sun yellowed the tops of the mountains, and then oranged the middle, and finally purpled the roots. And in a moment imperceptible, morning came, and autumn leaves exploded along the road before me.

  “Good timing. Breakfast,” one of the guys called as he turned right onto Cary Lane.