Skip to main content

The Space between Atoms 32

 He threw his arms around Lindsey.  “Mich!” he called, “I can’t believe you’re here!”

“Get off me!” she growled, worming out of his grip.  “An’ it’s Claresta here.”  She looked around to ensure Terah’s rashness hadn’t been seen.

Although chastened, he couldn’t get the smile off his face.  “Maybe someday I’ll use your real name.  So Claresta, how’d you come to be here?”

“Look, Cal, let’s step inside.  Phew!  No plumbing!”

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company.”  He pointed to the fire.  They settled on the floor.

“I been here before,” she began.  “I prefer to be on my own, but when I was first tryin’ to figure it out the guys from Dickinsheet welcomed me in.  Bein’ who I am, I was afraid I might get raped, but these guys are perfect gentlemen.  Gave me the best house in town.  We all got along well, but I needed my space.  When I got on the road, outta that garage the other day, I recognized where I was an’ came straight here.”

“We didn’t have any backup plans.”

“I couldn’t tell ya how to get here.  I dint know myself until I saw the road.  Dickinsheet’s far enough from everything to be inconvenient.  I suspect authorities know about it, but nobody here’s causin’ trouble, so they figure it’s like stirrin’ up a hornet’s nest in the woods.  Hornets ain’t botherin’ nobody out there an’ if they move into town they’ll cause trouble.  The guys are nice enough.”

“I thought you were gone for good.”  Terah stared into the fire.

“Yer talkin’ like we’re a couple or something.”

“More like partners,” he said, although inside he knew he was lying.

“I can live with that.  Just don’t go huggin’ me an’ shit.  I won’t put up with it.  I was kinda hopin’ you’d find this place, but I couldn’t exactly leave a trail a breadcrumbs.  You followed the stream?”

“Yeah.  I walked in the water a good ways, and I think I broke my scent trail.”

“That’s a good boy.”  She looked around.  “They gave you the crappiest place here.”





“It’s shelter.”

“Look, I got plenty a space but the guys won’t take too kindly to me invitin’ the new guy to move in.  They’re kinda protective of me.”

“I understand.  Do you still want to head to the convent?”

“Eventually.  Thing is, this place is well supplied and fairly secure.  The guys pool all their resources.  There’s no towns nearby, but when others pass through they contribute what they got.”  She nodded at his pack.  “From each accordin’ to his ability, to each accordin’ to his need.”

“You’re not going to leave without letting me know, are you?”

She looked at him hard.  “You can’t think of me like that, Cal.  We ain’t never gonna be more than friends.”

“I have no other friends, Claresta.  I won’t ever try anything funny.  Promise.”

“Grab yer pack an’ I’ll introduce ya around.”

“They don’t mind that you came to me?”

“The guys that were here before remember me.  They trust me.  When they told me at last night’s gatherin’ that a new guy came in, I thought it might be you.  I told ‘em I’d check ya out.  Hell, I’ve known you for a week now.  Kind of gettin’ used to you bein’ around.

“Dickinsheet’s kinda, I don’t know, enchanted?  They say there’s no honor among thieves, but these guys are more moral that most people I’ve met.  An’ while there’s not much in the way of utilities an’ services, they treat each other with respect.  Kindness even.”

“Hagrid’s a bit intimidating.”

“He’s big.  I’ve never heard him say an unkind word, though.”

“He warned me away from your place last night.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?  I’d be glad to have ya move in—you were respectful in the asylum except the night ya attacked me.”

“Wednesday.  I was trying to stop Wednesday from harming you!”

“Whatever.  I’d be glad to have ya move in but the guys wouldn’t take kindly to it.  As much as I like ‘em, they’re guys.  Minds take over the narrative—if they knew we shared the same house they’d make assumptions.”

Every time Lindsey dunned the idea, Terah felt a quick stab.  If only they could stay together long enough she’d start to feel the same.  He hoped.  “I understand,” he nodded.  “I’ve got my own mansion here.”

She looked around.  “They put most newcomers here for the first night.  There’s places in better repair.  We can get you set up with one of those.  But first, a few rules about this place.

“Respect each other’s property.  We share things like food communally, but you don’t go into someone’s house without bein’ invited.  Nobody’ll steal from ya here.

“Help out when asked.  The guys support each other.  Some of the houses are pretty well weatherized.  Some places are okay during the summer—natural air conditioning—but this place is special.  Last night was a test.

“How many houses are there?” Terah asked.

“Depends how ya count.  About a dozen roughly winterized.  Another ten or so mostly roofed over.”

“How many people?”

“Shifts over time, but some a the guys like it so much they been here for years.  I think there’s seven of ‘em, includin’ Hagrid.  Right now another three, includin’ me.  But some more rules—

“If ya donate yer food nobody’ll question when ya take something from the store.  Just because we’re vagrant doesn’t mean we’re, well, savages.”

Terah started at the word but said nothing.

“I’m the only female here.  None a the houses have workin’ plumbin’, as ya can tell.”  She waved a gloved hand in front of her nose.  “When I’m here anyhow, there are separate waste stations.  In fact, this is one of ‘em.  Men’s room.  Years back the guys dug a kinda latrine—one of ‘em was an engineer—where the toilet pipe empties.  There’s a kind of leechin’ bed out back.  Ya hadda notice the way this house is the only one on this street.  Rest of the houses are over on the left a ways.”

“It’d make more sense to put a leeching bed down by the river, below the clean water source.”

“If they’d had a backhoe I’m sure they’d of thought of it.  Anyway, there are probably some guys would appreciate a visit to this place right about now.  Pick up yer stuff and I’ll introduce ya around and show ya to yer new home.”

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Dusty

  My, this thing is dusty.   My fans—hi, Mom!—perhaps believe me to have perished in the pandemic.   No, it was nonfiction’s fault. Since the pandemic began I’ve had two nonfiction books published and have written a third.   With a nine-to-five job something’s got to give.   Unfortunately it’s been fiction. Well, the groundhog didn’t see his shadow yesterday, so it must be safe to come out.   I shuffled away the rejection notes and began submitting again.   I’ve got a backlog of weird stories and maybe some new publishers have emerged? The thing is, don’t you just hate it when you’re in the mood to submit and some lit journal has its window for submissions firmly shut?   My last story, “ The Hput, ” was published about three years ago.   Oh, I’ve submitted since then, but with no traction.   Well, it is winter. I’ve got a lot of stories lined up.   I’ve been sending them out again, dreaming of making a dime at what I love doing best.   When you’ve been writing for half a century, you l

The Same Old Story

After a story is rejected from a literary magazine—a rather frequent occurrence—I always revise it.  For stories rejected half a dozen or more times—a rather frequent occurrence—the stories can shift substantially.   In a version of the old saw that “this is the axe used by George Washington to chop down the cherry tree; it has had five new handles and three new heads,” I wonder if the story is the same after such revision.  I write in the flush of inspiration.  The story comes to me roughly complete. The literati say “no,” and I assume the fault must be my own.  I knuckle down and start trying to revise to their liking.  The action changes.  The ending changes.  The characters change.  Is it the same story? Is the fault that my addled brain seems to have trouble telling a story someone wants to read?  Is it the curse of an internet that makes writers of anyone with fingers to type?  I started writing fiction four decades ago.  If I’d tried to start publishing then, perhap

Makes the Wold Go Round

It’s all about the money.  As any real writer knows, we write because we’re compelled to.  I suspect it’s only after someone tastes success that s/he gets cynical enough to write for money.  That doesn’t stop agents and publishers from trying, though. My Medusa novel was under contract with a publisher.  This was about five years ago.  After dallying around for a couple of years, the publisher cancelled the contract because the editor who’d signed it up had left the press.  That’s hardly a legitimate reason; in fact, it defeats the purpose of a book contract all together.  I’ve not been able to find another publisher since. Nearly every rejection letter says something along the lines of “It’s well written, but it’s not for us.”  They mean they don’t see enough dollar signs.  I’m not naive—I get it.  I would, however, appreciate just a little compensation for the hundreds and hundreds of hours I put into my writing.  Self-publishing is too much work on top of work.  There