Ignition Read online

  I roll into Wallerton midafternoon. Just past the town sign is a church. One block down is another, of a different denomination. Down a side street a synagogue stands opposite another church. I pull into the parking lot of the only decent hotel in town—as indicated by my phone, all hail the Internet—across from which is an Interdenominational Community Sharing Center, whatever that means.

  I’m not surprised by the density of religious buildings here. People are sensitive to lauvan to different degrees but the closer they are to a center, the greater the sensations. Since no one knows about the lauvan, people chalk up their feelings to the religion of their choice and seek solace there. And who knows, maybe one of them is right. Just because I can see what’s causing spirituality doesn’t mean I know why.

  My hotel room is clean and plain, and I only pause long enough to empty the contents of my satchel onto the bed. I put my map back in for reference and take the satchel back to the car.

  ***

  It’s a beautiful day. Sunlight beams down on grassy meadows of mountain wildflowers, cheery pinks and yellows making me smile despite myself. The grasslands are surrounded by dense forests which glow a deep opulent green in the afternoon sun.

  I roll down my window, relishing the fresh mountain air buffeting my face. Even at these altitudes I can tell spring is on its way. A fly zooms into the car through my open window and bashes against the windshield in a frantic attempt to free itself. I sigh with resignation. I’ve learned over the years that there’s no such thing as perfection. There is always something, however minor, to keep us from complacency. I try to embrace this fact, but sometimes I don’t want a fly in my car on a gorgeous day.

  “Out, you crazy thing.” I search through the air for the fly’s erratic lauvan with my free hand. When I have them between my fingers, I fling the fly out of the open window.

  With the distraction of the fly, I almost miss the sign for the road to Lake Carnarvon. My car veers off the highway with a squeal of tires and some kickback of gravel from the shoulder. Honking bellows from behind me.

  “Oh, lighten up,” I say out loud. “You’re fine. No one got hurt.”

  The lake is ten minutes down the road, which turns to dirt pretty quickly after I get off the highway. I’m driving a route that wraps around the Three Peaks Provincial Park, Mt. Linnigan being the disruptive peak in question. In this fashion, I should drive perpendicular to the majority of the lauvan-cables on their way to the center. I’ll come across one sooner or later.

  And here one is. The cable looms huge on the road ahead, and glitters in the sun with a thousand refracted lights.

  I pull the car smoothly to the side of the road, then bump over hummocks of grass and narrowly avoid a large rock that presents itself out of nowhere. I turn off the engine and step out of the car. The sun instantly warms my bare forearms during the short walk to the cable. The only sounds are the chortle of a solitary raven and the ticking of my cooling car.

  It’s time to examine the cable. The lauvan coil and twist sinuously around each other, but there are far too many sick lauvan among the healthy ones, maybe one in every twenty.

  There’s not much to gain from looking, beyond the extent of the infection. I need to feel out what I can. I need to plug in.

  A deep breath, and I slowly insert the outstretched fingers of both hands into the swirling lauvan. Nausea hits me full force, but I’m prepared and swallow hard to control it. I close my eyes to find out what I can.

  The cable takes my mind away toward the center. I float down the thousands of lauvan, doing my best to avoid the sick ones that are omnipresent. The center approaches, but before I reach it I am brought up short. My progress slows to a crawl and it’s not hard to know why—the lauvan around me are horribly tangled and knotted beyond anything I’ve seen. There’s a huge blockage of energy flowing to the center. If all the cables are like this one, it’s no wonder Mt. Linnigan is unstable. There’s no way I’m getting through this blockage any time soon. I pull myself back to my body, which shakes from the effort of holding back the nausea.

  I breathe hard to stay in control. Once my stomach stops clawing its way into my throat and sits grumbling in my abdomen, I reach my hands out again, but not to the cable this time. My fingers reluctantly grasp a single yellow lauvan trailing out from the cable. I need to find out where these infected lauvan come from—maybe that will help me find a solution.

  This lauvan goes no great distance. There’s a certain distinct hum of energy in my fingers that I equate, through long experience, with a close origination point. I might as well follow it to the end in person. Maybe then I can figure out exactly why the lauvan are sick.

  The glistening yellow thread leads me back past my car and across the dirt road. It loops around a pothole and over a large boulder on the side before it passes into the woods. I sigh and check the hum. It’s only a little farther—I shouldn’t have to trek for long.

  As I suspect, the lauvan continues for twenty paces and then disappears. Leaf litter covers the end. What could possibly be under there? Given the foulness of the lauvan I expect a poisoned river or a burning oil streak, but nothing appears out of the ordinary.

  I brush away moldering leaves, anxious to find the root of the infection. Once the area is clean, the lauvan clearly descends into—a flat rock. There’s nothing remotely strange or terrible about the rock. It’s simply a rock, part of the fabric of the Earth.

  That can’t be it. I fall to my knees and scrabble at the soil to dislodge the rock. Perhaps something terrible is hidden beneath it.

  When I free the rock from its earthen embrace and shift it to one side, there is nothing but a depression in the dirt where the rock used to sit. The lauvan descends into the soil and disappears from sight.

  I sit back on my heels, flummoxed. Unless there is a secret burial chamber filled with noxious gases deep beneath my feet, I can’t account for the infection. And it’s unlikely that every sick lauvan has a gas chamber at its end.

  I kick leaves over the hole in a fit of petulance and storm back to the car. I don’t understand anything. All I see are dead ends and unexplainable mysteries. I like being the one who knows everything—it’s my constant state of being, after all. I’m not used to being stumped anymore. It’s not a particularly pleasant state of affairs, not something I’ve missed.

  I pull the car out in a cloud of dust and protestations from my wheel axle, and zoom off to find another cable. Maybe they’re not all blocked.

  Maybe Arthur will come back one day, too. I guess I’m a sucker for the long shot.

  The next cable is just down the road. When I plunge my hands deep into the swirling lauvan and travel toward the center, my passage is blocked once again.

  I try another cable, then another. Each time, I immerse myself wrist-deep in lauvan only to find knots near the center. When I come back to my body at the fifth cable I can’t hold back the nausea anymore. I fall to my knees, retching, until my stomach empties itself and settles down.

  This is ridiculous, a fool’s errand. Every single cable attached to this center has a restricted flow of lauvan. I’ve established that now—there’s no point in making myself ill over it. There’s a small access channel to the center through each cable, but not much. I wish suddenly, painfully, for Josephine. She knew everything about me, and we used to discuss problems with lauvan together. It’s been such a long time since I’ve talked in depth to anyone about my abilities—or just talked deeply about anything, really.

  I lift my head and the setting sun blinds me momentarily. I raise a hand to my eyes. Is it so late already? I’ll have to try again in the morning. Maybe over dinner I will come up with a plan.

  Yeah, and look—there’s Arthur now.

  ***

  I’m starving. My lunch consisted of a limp sandwich on anemic white bread from a gas station near Hope, and even that came back up in the aftermath of my lauvan explorations.

  I drive into town and roll through the main stri
p. It doesn’t take long. If I blink I might miss it. There is a grand total of one bar cum restaurant with a flickering neon sign advertising “BEER” in blue capital letters. Further out on the highway I know there is the requisite row of fast-food chains, but that doesn’t appeal now.

  That narrows down the choices. I double back and slide in between a battered red pickup and the concrete wall.

  Inside is lively, but many diners are on their desserts and getting ready to go. It’s cute for a small-town restaurant—they’ve tried to bring it upscale with low lighting, trendy brick-red walls, and a proper dining area with comfortable chairs, but they’ve kept their small-town vibe with a discreet display of license plates on a wall beside the bar counter.

  I sigh in contentment. This is better than I expected. Finally, some real food. Steak, I think, if the kitchen can manage it. Hopefully they don’t supplement the meat with too many vegetables. I don’t understand the current fascination with all foods green. I survived and thrived on meat for centuries—why would I eat vegetation best left for rabbits and deer? I’ll take a stab at looking at my map, too, but the thought doesn’t thrill me. I’m at a loss with this center. Tomorrow, I’ll jump in and start hauling lauvan around, just to do something.

  ***

  I throw my maps and scribbles down on the table after dinner, frustrated and tired. I don’t know what’s happening, and it doesn’t look like the answers are going to appear to me tonight. I lean back in my chair and survey the bar. It’s still early and I have no desire to retire to my cheerless, uniform hotel room just yet. Perhaps there’s some old farmer who wants a chat, or a bored barkeeper—

  —or a solitary woman with long, curling auburn hair just brushing a gorgeously round ass accentuated by tight white jeans.

  Maybe this evening doesn’t have to be such a wash after all. I look the woman up and down appraisingly. She’s dolled up with extra makeup and huge hoop earrings as if waiting for someone. Strangely, her posture and lauvan show no anticipation or tension. She’s definitely out of place. I mean, who wears white jeans? In a town where the majority of people work in the local pulp mill, this woman wants to go places. My bet is on a steady diet of Sex and the City during her formative years.

  She chats comfortably to the barkeeper while she finishes her martini. I gaze at her a moment longer, then make up my mind. I gather my papers into my satchel and casually stand. Ten steps take me to the nearly empty bar counter, a carefully considered distance away from the woman. Too close and it’s too obvious. Too far and she might not hear me or feel comfortable speaking. I’ve played the game for a while now. Experience—also known as trial and error—is the best teacher.

  I catch the barkeeper’s eye.

  “One more for the road,” I say, then wince inwardly. What an old thing to say. No one drives after drinking anymore—that’s a phrase from decades ago. I amend my words. “Got to have something to cheer up my hotel room. Why is it that all hotel rooms are the same, no matter where you go?”

  The barkeeper chuckles while he draws my beer, but doesn’t engage. Good. There’s a space for someone else to speak.

  The woman takes the opening.

  “What brings you to town?”

  I take a sip of beer. When I look at her, she’s turned toward me with an elbow on the bar and a coy tilt to her head.

  “Oh, just passing through on my travels. Thought I’d stop and see what this volcano was all about. See what passes for excitement in Wallerton on a Friday night.” I look down at the woman’s empty glass. “What are you drinking?”

  “Dirty martini,” she says, giving just a hint of emphasis on the word “dirty.” Her lauvan start to coil around her body intriguingly.

  Dirty martini. Just the sort of drink a small-town girl might order to seem sophisticated. Did I call it or what?

  “Another martini here, please,” I say to the barkeeper. I add to the woman, “Please don’t make me drink alone.”

  She laughs, a deep, rich chuckle.

  “Never fear. When tall, dark, and handsome buys me a drink, I know my manners.”

  Tall might be a stretch in this century. At best I’m average height—but I can take a compliment. I raise my beer and we clink our glasses together. It’s funny how some customs last for centuries.

  “So, what do you think of Wallerton and our famous volcano?” The woman takes a sip and adds, “I’m Anna, by the way.”

  “Merry. You have a pretty little town here. It reminds me of Selfoss in southern Iceland. The mountain views, the tiny main street, the glacier-fed river.” As I suspected, Anna’s eyes glow and her lauvan twitch with interest. I’m new and exciting and she wants to get out of this town, if only by proxy.

  She takes another sip of her drink, feigning disinterest.

  “What’s Iceland like?” she says offhand.

  She can’t hide from me, though. Her lauvan are active, almost reaching toward me with her yearning to know someone different, go somewhere different, be someone different.

  “Everything is crisp and clear.” I try to paint her a picture with my words. She leans toward me slightly, involuntarily. “The mountains keep their snow all year, and the summer sun glitters on the crystal-white peaks all night long. The glacial lakes are an impossible milky green, and underwater cliffs descend to unknowable depths. In the winter nights that last all day the stars burn brightly enough to see by. And the northern lights…” I sigh a little, and look into Anna’s eyes. Her mouth is partly open and she gazes at my face, her eyes longing. She lays a hand on my arm. Her swirling lauvan immediately twine through my own and my breath hisses in with the sensation. Our eyes lock and I can see we’re both thinking the same thing—I’ve got you now.

  “That sounds incredible,” she says. Her breasts rise with her breath and don’t come down, supported by her arched back. I remember my third wife, Clotilde, telling me that a woman will position herself in that sensual way either involuntarily through desire or voluntarily to foster desire. Anna knows exactly what she’s doing—she saw me looking and reveled in it.

  “Have you traveled a lot?” Her fingers slide down my arm.

  “All over.” I grab her fingers and stroke each separately, one by one.

  “There’s one place you haven’t visited.”

  I smile. I know where this is going.

  “And where might that be?”

  She leans in and whispers in my ear.

  “My place.”

  The bar stools are still spinning when the door slams shut behind us.

  ***

  Anna’s hair spreads across her pillow and her eyes are softly closed, lit by a streetlight streaming through the uncovered window. Her sleeping breaths are quiet and peaceful, lulling me. Something tries to keep me awake, something I forgot to do. It’s fighting a losing battle. Sleep beckons, and I can’t be bothered to figure out the mystery.

  CHAPTER X

  Dreaming

  A young man bobs awkwardly before me, a shapeless fabric hood twisted in his over-knuckled hands. His eyes dart to my face before they find refuge in my scuffed leather boots. The lauvan around his guts writhe in nervous discomfort.

  “Well? What is your name, and what can you offer us?” I try to keep my voice pleasant, but am inwardly exasperated by the man’s—more a boy’s, really—fumbling manner and lack of confidence. Arthur asked me to select a few additional servers and helpers for the Lúnasa celebrations in a few days. He invited many of his father’s old allies, and wants to put on a good show of hospitality. He can ill-afford the expense, as the harvest is not shaping up to be as plentiful as hoped for, and his father’s funeral feast was more extravagant than was truly necessary. But he can’t afford to show weakness in front of the other lords, who are more than ready to write him off as a shadow of his father, despite his victories to date.

  The poor harvest resulted in more hands than are needed to pull in the crops. My call for extra help in return for silver is well answered. The young man
stands at the forefront of a ragtag group of about ten men and women at the gate to the courtyard, which is enclosed by a barricade of sharpened stakes. The old Roman villa that Arthur calls home lies within, surrounded by stone buildings for livestock and the people of the household.

  “My name is Gower. I am strong, my lord,” he murmurs to my boots. I sigh silently. He brightens and almost looks up. “I’m good with animals, too. Everyone says so.” His face reddens and he returns to my footwear.

  I scrutinize him with narrowed eyes for the benefit of the watching group of hopefuls. The man does appear strong, despite gangly arms sprouting from newly-broad shoulders. At the mention of animals, his lauvan relax and spread as if searching for the creatures that are not so complicated to deal with as humans. I give a small, sharp nod.

  “Very well. You may tend the visitors’ horses when they arrive, and help the swineherd until then.” I point to a side gate leading to the barnyard.

  The man’s face flushes again, this time with evident pleasure. His lauvan glow briefly.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  He shuffles off and I continue my interviews. I deem a dour-faced young woman with tidy gray lauvan coiled neatly around her hands fit for the kitchen, and a pretty one with lively lauvan as a server for the feasting. I send an older but hearty-looking man to help with firewood collection and other odds and ends. Most of the rest are too old or feeble to be of much use, and I dismiss them via the kitchen. The cook is a kind, matronly woman, well used to providing scraps to local hungry children. The applicants will at least go home with some bread for their troubles.

  The last of the group at the gate is a very pretty young woman. I look her up and down and am well rewarded. Her tightly laced dress accentuates a small waist and breasts curving in perfect globes that strain against the fabric, heavier and larger than I expect for a woman her size. Her long dark hair is loosely braided and coiled as is the custom, but she has allowed pieces to artfully escape and brush her smooth browned shoulders. Her richly colored lauvan of lavender coil slowly and smoothly in and out and around her body. I wonder if I have ever seen anything move with such sensual grace. When my eyes finally travel to her face, her eyes sparkle deviously with the full knowledge of her effect on me.