The Storyteller (19 page)

For years, they recorded their observations, but couldn't determine anything significant other than the fact that Luna was a wombat who glowed and whose body was impervious to the following things: dry ice, acid, flamethrowers, lava, bullets, chain saws, bubonic plague, and those machines that crush cars at the junkyard.

Meanwhile, Luna was listening to their voices through the speaker and figuring out quite a lot about them. She was growing brighter in more ways than one. On the surface, she was sedate, enduring whatever tests they put her through and waddling around without complaint. But that was only because she was formulating a plan, and when her plan was finally ready, she put it into action.

She did something the scientists found particularly strange. She starting drinking water, lots and lots of water. For years, she only went through a hamster bottle a day, but all of a sudden, the robot had to refill her bottle once every few hours.

Which was strange enough, but here's the strangest thing: she wasn't peeing.

The scientists could write off the glowing and her ability to withstand death as mutations, but the ingestion of liquid without the expulsion of liquid seemed impossible. From the infrared, they could tell she wasn't overheated and sweating the liquid out.

“So where did all the water go?” DeeDee asked after the fifth day of constant drinking and not a drop of pee.

“I guess she's got a big bladder,” Yan said.

Gladys, Hogan, and all the other scientists laughed, but it was actually the most accurate observation anyone had made about Luna. She did have an exceptionally large and exceptionally flexible bladder. Also, she was exceptionally determined.

Because on the sixth day, she let loose. When she did, she had what it took.

She got up on her hind legs and peed on the walls. But she didn't pee like some dog that wasn't housebroken. She peed with purpose.

The thing about infrared light is that it displays heat. Luna's glow did not produce heat, and other than the robot, she was the only thing in the chamber. The only hot writing source she had was pee. And she needed enough to write the message:

I AM LUNA, A PERFECTLY FINE WOMBAT, AND I HAVE A SOUL.

A stunned silence gripped the scientists. No one had expected this.

DeeDee spoke to Luna through the microphone. “Luna. Can you understand us, Luna?” she asked.

Luna had enough pee left to write
YES
.

The scientists gasped. “Get that wombat a drink!” Gladys commanded.

*   *   *

For the next few months, they spoke to Luna. To give her bladder a rest, they devised a gadget that looked like a pacifier with a laser on the end. Luna could hold it in her mouth and write on a board that would absorb the heat. The scientists could see the writing using their infrared cameras.

Luna's vocabulary was limited, but she was able to tell them her basic story, confirming that she was indeed Mr. Nickelsworth and explaining that she didn't know where she was originally from or why she was the way she was. She was just Luna, a phosphorescent wombat.

There were many discussions—in private, of course, away from Luna's ears—about what to do with her.

They had studied her about as much as they could and they observed that her glow was getting even brighter, so bright that it was penetrating the walls of her chamber. She would have to be moved, but they couldn't imagine where.

“I have an idea,” said a marine biologist named Hiroto Hangawi.

Hiroto blabbed on and on about the importance of the oceans and how that related to the survival of the planet—
blah, blah, blah, science talk, science talk
—but what his plan for Luna basically came down to was this:

Luna might've been a wombat, but she was also the brightest light source anyone had ever encountered on Earth. Not to mention the fact that she seemed to be immortal, or exceptionally resilient, having lived at least one hundred years and having survived a horrific car accident and their rigorous tests. Hiroto wanted to send her to the darkest corner of the Earth: the bottom of the ocean.

“When she returns, we can find other uses for her,” he said. “But for now, we are sitting on top of the ocean. If we can't learn anything more about her, let's see if we can learn more about our planet.”

There was a vote and Hiroto's plan won by a hair. A hair was enough.

“We should at least inform Luna about what she's getting into,” said DeeDee, who had grown quite fond of the wombat and had voted against putting her in such obvious danger.

“Of course,” Hiroto said. “It's essential. Because she must tell us what she sees.”

So they explained to Luna that they'd be sending her into the deepest part of the ocean, the Mariana Trench. The Mariana Trench is nearly seven miles down, over a mile lower than Mount Everest is high. It is terrifyingly cold and dark, and the pressure would crush almost every living thing on Earth. At one point, a heavy-duty exploratory submersible had been sent to the bottom to collect data. The two men inside reported they actually found signs of life at those seemingly inhospitable depths, but what they didn't tell the general public was that they also found a hole.

They only revealed the information about the hole to a small collection of scientists, Hiroto Hangawi included. This was because the hole frightened them. Its shape was not natural. It was the shape of a body, with arms, legs, and a head. Like a little human. Which probably meant that they weren't the first intelligent beings to reach such depths. They didn't know what was in the hole, or how deep it was, but they knew it was too deep for their submersible to withstand, and that didn't matter anyway, because it was also too small for any submersible, even a tiny one, to fit through.

But it wasn't too small for a glowing, indestructible wombat.

“Will you see what's in that hole for us, Luna?” Hiroto asked.

“I will,” Luna said by writing with her laser pacifier.

“Only if you want to,” DeeDee said.

“I want to,” Luna replied.

This was the truth. For years, she had stayed hidden in that barn. For years, she had been locked in that chamber. When she was Mr. Nickelsworth, at least she gave the world some smiles and laughter. She still felt the need to contribute in some way. This was the best she could do.

They designed a harness constructed from the world's most indestructible materials mixed with bits of Luna's fur and skin for extra strength. They made multiple thin cords out of the stuff too, each one at least fifteen miles long. They wove the cords into a tether, attached it to the harness, and put the harness on Luna.

On account of the fact that, even underwater, Luna was too bright to provide photographic images, they had to rely on her telling them what she saw when she came back. That is, if she came back. They'd do their best to get her down as far as they could. The submersible that originally found the hole would be her guide. They clipped her to it, set the coordinates, and turned on autopilot.

“The submersible will unclip you as soon as you hit a depth of thirty-six thousand feet,” Hiroto said. “Once you reach the hole, you're basically on your own.”

“And you're okay with that?” DeeDee asked.

“I've always been on my own,” Luna said. “This is what I was meant to do.”

“Good girl,” Hiroto said, and he sent the robot in to attach Luna's harness.

Without thinking, DeeDee hurried after the robot, and the other scientists didn't know what was happening until she was in the chamber, hugging Luna.

“You're a wonder, Mr. Nickelsworth,” DeeDee cried. “Worth a billion dollars, at least.”

She couldn't say anything more, because the light was so bright that it knocked her unconscious. And by the time DeeDee woke in the rig's medical center, the submersible was unclipping Luna at the body-shaped hole.

DeeDee was blind.

Luna was as far away from humans as she'd ever been.

TO BE CONTINUED …

 

W
EDNESDAY
, 12/20/1989

AFTERNOON

Like Justine Barlow, that human magnet for dead baby birds, I, Keri Cleary, have decided to start jogging. Supposedly, it's good for your head as well as your heart, and both of mine need a bit of help. School was uneventful, and the news is yet another crapfest (we're fighting with Panama now?). So I put on a sweat suit, hat, and gloves. I grabbed what I thought was my Walkman and hit the slushy streets.

It wasn't my Walkman, of course. It was the stupid walkie-talkie. I put it on anyway. I don't understand a lot about frequencies and I thought maybe I could get a radio station if I fiddled with the knob. All I got was static.

Instead of bringing it back and swapping it for the Walkman, I just wore it. I didn't want to go inside and have Dad see my outfit and ask what I was doing. It was better to jog and find out if I liked it and shower the sweat off and then only answer questions if absolutely necessary. Besides, static isn't so bad to listen to. Beats listening to your thoughts when your thoughts are a scramble of stories and you're having trouble telling what's real and what's a dream and what's a coincidence and what's basically what.

If you never jog and you suddenly jog, it's not easy to jog. Didn't help that it was below freezing out and the slush was now ice and my lungs were burning because they were working so hard trying to stay warm. I also had to keep watching the ground because I didn't want to slip and I definitely didn't want to see any more dead baby birds.

It all added up to surrender. I was ready to quit almost as soon as I reached the Loomis house, which isn't very far at all. There was a pickup truck in the driveway, the first vehicle I'd seen there in a few days. The back was weighed down with bags and boxes that were held tight with bungee cords. I changed my pace from a slow jog to a fast walk, which is basically the same thing for me. And that's when it came through the headphones. A voice.

“Knock knock … knock knock … knock knock…”

There was no reply, so the voice replied to itself, in a slightly nasally tone.

“Who's there?”

“Dorian Loomis.”

“Dorian Loomis who?”

“Open the door, Ian, Lou misses you!”

It wasn't funny. I'm not sure I even understood it. I mean, who the hell are Ian and Lou? Is that even a punch line?

“Yep,” the voice said. “It's Dorian Loomis. I go by Luminary or Bush Baby. The Red Baron sometimes. But right now this is me speaking as me, as Dorian. Speaking to anyone who cares to listen.”

I cared to listen. I hurried a little farther down the road, past the Loomis house and the Carmine house, because Mrs. Carmine is a total busybody who's always sticking her nose into things. To catch my breath, I sat on a big rock next to the sign for Seven Pines Road at the corner of Harriman. I listened.

 

THE RECOLLECTIONS OF DORIAN LOOMIS

Sometimes you gotta talk. To anybody. To the air, if that's what it takes. I know this ain't my regular routine, but routine can drop you so deep in a hole that you can't dig out, and you can't live in a hole your entire life. It's all my way of saying that I'm done. I'm gone. I tried to do life the regular way, with family and an address. What good did that do?

None. Absolutely none.

I can't talk to my brother. When we were both really young, we were all right. Got into adventures. Ran all around town causing a ruckus. He was funny. He could be fun.

Not these days. Not these years, actually. Ever since we both went and grew up. Ever since before that.

And his wife? Oh boy, beautiful woman, but I hesitate to even call her my sister-in-law, 'cause she don't exactly act sisterly. She's strange. I've seen all sorts of darkness in my day, so I know she has a darkness. Anyone who knocks 'em back like she does has gotta have a darkness. Anyone who hides things like she does has gotta have a darkness. Only I don't know what her darkness is, or where it's from.

The fact that the two of them could pop out such beautiful children is a testament to … hell, I don't know. Flowers grow from manure. Best way I can explain it.

I should shut up, though. Talking ill of people who took me in is no way to talk at all. But then again, I also can't stay with them anymore. Not with the way they handled Ma's passing, like it wasn't nothing at all. Not how they dealt with her suffering, like it didn't matter at all. Not with the way they ignored my niece, with the way they've handled everything since she … left.

Yes,
left
. Call me naïve or clueless if you want, but I don't think she was taken. I think she left. I know her brother and sister think that too, because they've told me. And if we find her … when we find her … I hope that we can figure out what's best for—

Look at me. Now I've gone and said too much. Gotten too personal. I bet many of you can relate, though. Veterans. Guys on the long haul. Family is never easy, but it's extra tough for ones like us. We live our lives the only way we know how to live 'em. Alone.

Not an excuse. An explanation.

Which makes me think of this other guy. He's younger, but maybe he's a bit like us. Maybe he's more alone than even we could imagine. He had a brother, like I got a brother, but he lost him. It wasn't his fault, losing his brother, but I know he feels like it was his fault. That's how it always feels when someone you love is there and then gone. You coulda done something different, something better. It'll drive you up the wall thinking about the possibilities, and that no doubt got the best of him.

I used to talk about this stuff with my niece. She clued me in to the idea of alternate realities. Like, there are infinite versions of the world. Each a bit different. Existing, I don't know where … somewhere. And an alternate reality is created every time we make a choice. The choice might be simple. Eggs for breakfast or pancakes? Even that can determine your reality, the entire course of your life.