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The sounds of the city
scared her, as usual.
She wondered how people
who lived in the cities could think at all. The combination
of combustible fuel and electronic noise was enough to make
anyone go mad. The sounds of the earth, the birds and brush
of the wind against the leaves, were all drowned out by the
constant hum of technology and mass of humanity. She tried
not to think of it, knowing that there was nothing she could
do to stop the noise.
Instead, she focused on
her breathing, willing her muscles to relax. And after a
moment, calm flowed through her once again.
She had not visited a
city for almost twenty years. She knew if she stayed too
long in once place she would be in danger. In danger of
herself, for one. She knew that her mind would become
clouded if she interacted with others for an extended period
of time. She became attached too easily. Or at least, that
was what she had been told.
The more obvious threat
was of discovery, when she stayed too long in one place.
They had eyes in many places, the Elite did. They were
subtle, and had slipped under her radar more than once.
It was a beautiful day,
June 21st, marking the summer solstice in the
northern hemisphere. The day also marked the death of
Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, whose compositions she still
strived to see in their original colors. Before she had
left home, she had looked up the date in a concordance, but
already knew that Nikolai’s death was on this day. Many
years before she had heard Flight of the Bumblebee, and was
enchanted by its lilting notes.
“Can you see me?” a
child was asking her, his eyes huge and staring.
She leaned forward,
allowing herself a small smile. “I’m not sure,” she
whispered.
“I’m making myself invisible today,” the boy said quietly.
“I bet you can be invisible too.”
She nodded, solemn.
“My name is Ian, what’s
yours?” he asked. He hung on to the corner of the bright
metal food stand on the park corner, his mother or nanny
engaged in a lively discussion with the vendor. The boy’s
eyes were very green.
“Anastasia,” she
replied, still whispering. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
The boy nodded and
looked out at the park, where a group of teenagers were
pushing and shoving each other, their clothing torn and
their hair made up in wild spikes.
“You can be invisible,
too,” he repeated, still watching the teenagers.
The mother/nanny
finished yelling at the vendor, grabbed two foil packages
with one hand and the boy’s hand with the other. Ian
shuffled along, trying to keep up.
Ana watched, sorry to
see him go. It was not unheard of that people could make
themselves invisible, and she had wanted to hear more of
what the boy had to say. It would cause a stir, though,
running after them. And creating a scene was rarely in her
best interest.
She briefly debated
burying a hot dog from the vendor. It had been a long, long
time since she had eaten one. She remembered her first
taste of a hot dog, at the Fair. The juices from the sausage
running down her wrist, caught by the white souvenir gloves
the vendor had been giving away. The hot dogs of today were
puny in comparison, chopped up mystery meat in a cheap
casing. The smell rising from the cart, though, toyed with
her. She had been traveling for two days without food, and
knew that if she stood too long next to the metal cart she
would cave in and purchase one.
“Dog?” the vendor asked
her, gesturing with a pair of metal tongs, smiling. He had
a Spanish accent.
“No, gracias,” she
responded, walking away.
As Ana walked slowly
down the tree-lined path, she found that she had missed the
company of other people. In the past, she had been away for
longer periods. She wondered why this time was different.
She watched an old woman sitting on a bench, her pocketbook
clutched firmly to her chest, throwing breadcrumbs to a
gaggle of birds. A young couple, arms entwined around each
other’s waists, whispered private thoughts. A woman pushed
a covered baby stroller, chattering away on a tiny phone
pressed to her ear.
Ana had missed these
simple sights of human interaction. The everyday moments
that made up other people’s days. Moments that were strung
together like some complicated piece of fabric, stretching
out into a number of days.
She laughed quietly to
herself, realizing that her thoughts might be reflecting her
advancing age. They reminded her of her Grandmother Lucia’s
musings toward the end of her life, when she had fallen
sick. “Anastasia,” she had told her in her cracking voice.
“Life becomes a different hue when you become older. Its
colors are faded, yet most precious and filled with light.”
It was interesting, Ana
thought, that her thoughts had now turned. She thought she
had lived long enough that these feelings would have already
made an appearance.
It made her uneasy.
Although people had not
changed much since her last visit to the city, technology
certainly had. Many people had tiny cell phones pressed to
their ears. Some people even had devices attached to the
top of their ears, and spoke into the air as if a person was
standing right next to them. Ana thought that these people
were mentally unstable until she listened in on one of their
conversations, and realized that the ear device was part of
a telephone.
The cars had changed, of
course. They had become sleeker, yet strangely conformed.
The blast of their exhaust was still the same, as was the
annoying sound of their horns.
The essence of the city,
though, remained constant. The buzz of energy beneath
everything, humming throughout glass and metal and
concrete.
She had kept up with
technology in her quiet home in the country. Having a huge
amount of cash on hand helped her stay on the cutting edge
of what science and consumerism had to offer. The little
satellite dish hidden on the roof had provided her with
access to the internet, and therefore, to most things
current.
It was different,
however, seeing it out in the open, as other people used
it. What a difference a few years had made. It made her
wonder what would appear in ten years, or twenty. In
another fifty, she knew, the jump would be dramatic.
She glanced at the piece
of paper in her hand, even though she had already memorized
the address. From her internet searches, she knew that the
address was located in a white-collar business area
downtown. Tall buildings rose above her on either side,
although these were not the tallest she’d ever seen. The
sidewalks were crowded at this time of day, tired office
workers escaping for a bite to eat and a glimpse of
sunshine.
Caught up in the rhythm
of walking with the crowd, she almost missed the turn on
Fourth Street, and had to maneuver her way around a tight
crowd of Japanese tourists huddled around a map.
“Gomen nasai,” she told
them, wincing at her rusty Japanese. “Excuse me,” she
repeated in English this time. The men stopped and stared
at her, so she hurried on her way, adjusting the bag on her
shoulder.
The address she was
looking for was half a block down, between a ten story
office building and an old delicatessen with a living space
above. A long line snaked out of the deli, and her stomach
rumbled as she watched a couple come out of the door
gripping huge sandwiches in their hands.
Maybe later, Ana
thought. When business is done.
The address was a five
story cream-city brick, with a short stairway out front
framed by a wrought-iron rail. She gripped the metal with
her right hand, her bag swinging lightly beside her. I’m
here, she thought. I’m here in this place once again. She
closed her eyes and tried to calm her racing heart. She had
been disappointed so many times in the past, and she did not
want to experience it again.
She made her way up the
stone steps, appreciating their construction. This was an
old building, finely made by craftsman with materials that
were no longer available. A small bronze plaque sat to the
left of the huge wooden doors, with one white button in the
center.
Glancing back at the
street, she watched the traffic move back and forth on both
the sidewalk and the street.
She leaned forward and
pushed the button.
A bell sounded, deep and
resonant somewhere far away. The sound pleased her, as it
reminded her of old machinery and wiring, chains clanking
past encased in grease, wires thick with insulation.
Although the bell was old-fashioned, she had not failed to
notice the small camera tucked into the corner molding high
above the door. Someone had kept the original bell, but had
not neglected modern security devices. Looking up at the
camera, she did not smile, but focused on her breathing.
After a few long
moments, the intercom crackled.
“I have found what you
are like,” a voice sounded. Young, female. Sounding tired.
Anna reached over and
pressed the white button on the intercom. “The rain,” she
responded, looking up at the camera.
There was another pause,
and Ana moved back a step, placing her bag on the concrete.
She would wait a minute, maybe two, then leave. She had
been in this place before, and knew how the tangible the
fear could affect someone. To come face to face with a
similar human being was daunting, to say the least. She
felt a line of sweat make its way down the back of her neck,
but she ignored it.
The door buzzed and she
heard the latch click open. Picking up her bag, she
entered.
It was cool inside, and
smelled faintly of almonds. Closing the heavy door behind
her, she made sure it latched securely, although she
suspected in would close automatically. She was highly
aware of security, and how to protect both herself and her
surroundings.
The e-mailed
instructions had indicated to go up the stairs to the third
floor. The hallway was plain, decorated in old tile and
fading wallpaper. Additional cameras were installed in each
corner, and rotated as she moved. A small table sat flush
with the wall, with a pen and an intercom set on the
scratched surface. Ana suspected it was for deliveries.
The steps were lined in
faded tile, also. A checkered green and yellow pattern. She
knew there would be something imbedded in the stairs, for
protection. Wiring that could provide a burst of
electricity for curious deliverymen, perhaps. She felt
nothing, though, as she grasped the wooden hand rail and
made her way up.
A doorway was fitted
onto the first floor landing, with an intercom and camera in
place. The door buzzed and she continued upward. She was
faced with an identical door on the second landing, and was
buzzed through as she approached.
The door on the third
floor was radically different from the décor Ana had seen so
far. It was mahogany, with brass fixtures. A single
graceful tear-drop shape was carved into the center of the
wood, stained a deep red.
Ana stepped onto a mat
on the floor, directly in front of the door. She had an
idea it was another security measure. She stood patiently,
hands at her side.
After a full minute, the
door opened and rich golden light spilled out into the cool
hallway.
The woman was
younger-looking than Ana thought. She had the face and body
of a teenager, but her eyes suggested the age of someone
much older. Ana knew it was difficult to disguise things in
the eye. She also knew it must be difficult to look so
young, in a world where she might be labeled immature or
even a child.
“Your journey, it was
well?” she asked Ana, opening the door wide.
Ana smiled, stepping
into a foyer. The light really was amazing here. The
walls seemed to glow with it.
“It was long, but well
worth the effort,” Ana replied, stepping aside so that the
woman could close the door.
“Come, I’ve set tea on
the table.”
The woman led her
through a short hallway to a huge room beyond. Ana stopped
stared. It took a lot to surprise her, but the room did
just that.
The walls and ceiling,
indeed, were imbedded with some kind of photoelectric
material. They gave off a soft buttery light that infused
the entire area. Huge plants dotted the room, their trunks
reaching to the ceiling above and their leaves bathed in
subtle lighting from below.
Ana had been in
bio-domes before, and the effect was similar. A small
stream meandered through the plants and benches, and she
could see fish swim among the rocks. Paintings lined a few
of the walls. A Monet on one, a Pollack on another. The
landscape blended with the paintings to create a fluid
atmosphere that was pleasing to the eye.
The woman directed her
to an area set up with a small table set for formal tea.
She gestured to an iron wrought chair and Ana sat down,
setting her bag next to her.
“It was an interesting
choice of poems,” Ana said, referring to the code words the
woman had sent her for identification at the front door.
“Is Cummings a favorite?”
The woman hesitated,
then reached for the teapot.
“He was a complicated
man,” she said, pouring two cups. “Much more complicated
than he appeared. I thought that the complexity of his work
reflected the flavor of our meeting today.”
“Some say that his poems
are too simple,” Ana said.
“We both know that many
things in this world are not as they appear,” the woman
replied, and took a seat at the table.
Ana leaned back,
enjoying her tea. She recognized the delicate taste of a
rare white tea exported out of China.
“So, how do we begin?”
the woman said, pushing her teacup away. Leaning back, she
folded her hands in her lap. To anyone else, she was oddly
serene, especially for one so young. Normally younger
people had an edge to their gestures and facial
expressions. They were new to the world, and fears and
insecurities often bubbled to the surface when faced with a
new situation. This girl sat motionless; however,
possessing a stillness that Ana knew would be disconcerting
to other people. Ana was not disconcerted. The girl’s eyes
calmly assessed Ana.
“When I was a girl,” Ana
began, pushing her own cup away, noticing the smooth route
it traveled on the marble table. “Charles Darwin published
his ‘Origin of the Species’.”
The girl stared at Ana,
her breathing even.
“My father took me to
hear a man named Lincoln, who was running for the U.S.
Senate at the time, give a speech in the Springfield
Illinois statehouse. I was not supposed to be there, of
course. I was tucked away in a corner of the Hall of
Representatives dressed in my best cotton white dress with a
lace collar. My father was a photographer, and was there to
memorialize the event for his good friend Mr. Leonard Swett.
My mother had died from consumption a few weeks earlier, and
my father did not want me to stay at home alone, so he
brought me along as an assistant. I was happy to help him
with his photographic equipment, which was heavy and black
and smelled like film developer.”
Ana smoothed a crease in
her pants, surprised at how easily the story flowed.
“’It will become all one
thing or all the other’, the tall, gaunt man said at the
beginning of his speech. Above everything else he said,
that phrase rose to my attention.”
Ana adjusted herself in
the seat, taking a deep breath. “He was talking of the
nation-state issue of slavery dividing the country at the
time, but his words can be used in other circumstances, I
think.”
The girl nodded, almost
imperceptibly. “It will become all one thing or all the
other,” she said softly.
“My father was dead the
following year, and I was passed along from relative to
relative until I landed in a home for wayward girls in
Wisconsin,” Ana said. “A dreary place made up of brick and
shadows. Always cold and damp”
“So,” the girl said
suddenly, leaning forward. “Do you wish to become all one
thing, or do you wish to remain divided?”
“I am here,” Ana said.
“And you let me in.”
The girl looked up at
the canopy of leaves, her brown hair cascading down her
shoulders. Her face was unlined, but her eyes turned dark.
“I have seen many
things,” she said, her voice low. She looked back at Ana.
“Terrible, wonderful, and ordinary things.”
Ana nodded.
“I have woken up in
dozens of homes, and seen the sun rise on every continent of
the world. The weight of so many experiences is heavy upon
me. And still, I don’t know how to begin.”
Ana reached down to the
bag beside her. It was a plain cloth sack, really. One she
had made herself out of a faded denim cloth that had a
history all its own.
She brought out a piece
of wood formed into a stamp shape, about two inches across.
An intricate design was carved into the wood, a flower and
leaf pattern. Ana set it on the table, next to the china.
It looked organic surrounded by the china and metal and
glass. Out of place.
The woman reached out to
touch the piece of wood, but looked at Ana first.
Ana nodded, encouraging
her.
The woman picked it up
with both hands, setting in on her lap.
Ana had thought
carefully about what to bring to the meeting. She could
have brought a wooden puzzle for children in the shape of a
tiny rocking chair. A wire and wood rug beater, which she
actually still used on occasion, although the wood was
starting to show its age. Marbles made out of clay, the red
and purple paint faded but still visible. A set of
sadirons for ironing, each weighing ten pounds.
She had chosen the
butter stamp because it represented something she had not
done in a hundred years or more. To take the time to make
her own butter was foreign to her now. A memory that
surfaced only occasionally. Ana knew that any of the items
she brought would most likely trigger some kind of memory
from the woman who now sat across from her.
“I remember watching a
mother sing a song as she churned butter with her children,”
the woman said. “I had been traveling across the country,
exploring the new land, and came upon a farm with a family
of eight children. Another four had already died before the
age of three. They asked me to stay, just the same, even
though they barely had enough to feed two children instead
of eight. I slept in the barn.”
The woman looked up at
Ana, eyes shining in the ambient light. “I left them five
gold pieces before I left. I put it in a jar where she
kept her town money. I never left anything of value before,
and haven’t since. It was the graves, I suppose. Four tiny
crosses stuck in the ground behind the barn. I could see
them through a crack in the wood as I tried to sleep.”
She set the butter stamp
back on the table.
“My name is Ruth
Dickinson,” she said. “And I have lived over three hundred
years. I have buried twelve husbands and have no children.
I don’t know if I am a human being or something else birthed
on this planet or the next.”
Ruth looked aside,
towards the windows overlooking the city.
“I have taken a chance,
as I’m sure you must know,” she said, not looking at Ana.
“A chance I have taken before, by revealing a life hidden
from almost all that I have met.”
“I understand,” Ana
said. “For I have also taken that risk. And have suffered
for it.”
Ruth stood suddenly,
throwing her napkin on the table. “Come,” she said. “Let
me show you something.”
Ana followed her through
the thick foliage, marveling at the mosaic of stone and tile
formed into a graceful path under her feet. She was an
artist, Ruth. Ana could see her creativity tucked into each
corner of the space. Ana herself tended towards the natural
world, preferring to experiment with her garden and
medicinal plants.
Ruth led her to a
picture window tinted a metal gray. Ana suspected that they
could see out, and no one could see in.
They stood together,
looking out at the traffic below. It moved fluidly, with
the starts and stops of cars and the people flowing across
sidewalks and over the street. It was odd, watching them
without the noise and smells. She felt a sense of freedom,
of floating above the past.
“There are others, you
know,” Ruth said, placing her hand against the glass. “We
are careful, our kind. I think too careful. But I suspect
you have ventured out more than most.”
Ana looked out, watching
the ebb and flow of humanity pass before them. “Yes, there
are others,” she said. “There are also others that search
for our kind, fearing us and wishing us harm. There are
tenets held, with those of us who know each other. Things
held to be true.”
Ruth looked at her,
finally, her eyes glistening.
“You are not alone,” Ana
said. “You now know this to be true.”
Ruth let her hand fall
from the window, her eyes still fixed on the ground below.
“And you have already
begun.”
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