Falling Sky Page 3
“I notice that you do that a lot,” his instructor said while he observed Ian’s behavior.
Ian’s attention instantly snapped back to his teacher. “Do what?”
“Whenever there’s a silence or when we’re going to talk about a big subject you have to be doing something with your hands, or be looking somewhere else, mostly at your reflection. You seem to want to detach yourself from the situation.” Wasley smiled only with his lips; the expression did not reach his eyes, and it made Ian feel uneasy, as if the professor was disappointed with him.
“I think we’ve spent too much time with each other, Mr. Wasley.” Ian tried to wipe away the greasy line from the surface of the table, but only created a larger smudge.
“Yeah, probably. But that’s not what I’m trying to say.” Mr. Wasley put his glasses back on but let them slide down the bridge of his nose. He had to angle his head downward to see Ian clearly. “This nightmare may be more important than you think. You’ve researched nightmares on the computer, but I doubt you’ve given it any personal thought.” He leaned in close. “You’ve read about nightmares, but you haven’t given any thought to your own. Did you look up any specific details of yours?”
“No, I haven’t.” Ian blinked hard and focused his attention on Wasley. “Why?”
Wasley looked around and then spoke in a low voice, “You’re probably not the only one that had a nightmare. I need to know the details of yours, so we can give it the thought that you haven’t.”
Ian nodded, sighed, and then leaned back. He began to talk and, to his surprise, the words flowed easily. The only other time he remembered talking so fluidly about something that bothered him was when he’d first told his mother about the anxiety he felt every day at school. Coincidentally, they had talked around the same table just after breakfast. She’d laid a comforting hand on Ian’s and smiled softly. It’s going to be okay, you’re fine, she’d said and the words had echoed warmly through his mind for some time afterward. Soon after, she made an appointment for a therapist. He hoped to achieve a similar result with Wasley: an explanation that would make him feel less insecure.
When he described the dream, Ian lingered on the details of the field and the frantic, thick layer of clouds. “It was a dream, but everything seemed more real than anything that I’ve seen when I’ve been awake.” Wasley’s interest peaked when Ian started to describe the man who had appeared in the field, and how his expression had remained so calm in the midst of the chaotic storm. After Ian recited the man’s ominous message, Wasley held up his hand to stop him from relating any further details.
“Did he say ‘Phineas’?” he asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m positive. Why?” Ian looked up, and felt his lips purse in an expression of interest and partial confusion. Wasley laced his fingers together and placed them behind this head.
“Have you heard that name before, Ian?” When Wasley addressed him by his name, Ian felt his brow furrow.
“No, I haven’t. Does it mean anything important?” Ian didn’t avert his gaze to the reflection in the table. The smudges that he had left previously wouldn’t have let him anyway, but that didn’t cross his mind. The possibility of his dream having some importance captured his full attention.
“Well, as I remember, the name originated from Greek mythology: a king of an ancient city, or something of the like. But the man I’m thinking of was a controversial figure whose existence is still debated today among particular circles.”
“Who was –?”
Wasley interrupted the incoming question with a raised finger. “Supposedly, he sat on a hilltop for several months during the war.” The professor’s icy blue eyes focused on an indistinct point behind Ian. The usual warmth flowed out of his face and its expression didn’t invite questions but instead demanded that he carefully listen. “This was before The Dust started to erode the world’s structures. He sat there and predicted the end of the war, and when his friend finally found him, Phineas said that the Earth would be ruined and humanity must migrate underground.”
Ian nodded as he revisited his dream, and imagined the man sitting on top of a hill surrounded by the vicious grass. He wondered if those rolling hills were the ones Phineas had occupied while he formulated his prediction. Perhaps it was the same location where he thought of the omen he related to Ian, and Phineas was some kind of eternal prophet who silently calculated the fate of humanity. Maybe he never left the hilltop, but instead became a permanent fixture, melding with the chaos of the winds and the clouds which endlessly raced against the sky.
“His friend brought the message to other people and they ultimately decided that it was the best course of action.” A smile broke through Wasley’s stone façade. “Of course, you won’t find this in any history book. It isn’t an official account of the government’s decision to rebuild. Those texts would most likely tell you that Senator So–and-So heroically lead the citizens to salvation from the crumbling cities.” His smile lingered for a handful of moments while he brought his hands back down into his lap and quietly chuckled. Ian noticed that his instructor’s eyes glazed over with the cloudy film of nostalgia, and welled up slightly.
Ian finally found his voice. “What do you believe?”
Wasley blinked and quickly wiped away the small, unformed tears that hung on the outer edges of his eyes. “Me?” he asked, surprised. “Well, because of recent developments, I’m more inclined to believe the legend of Phineas. But I can’t say for certain.”
“What developments?” Ian let his hands fall into his lap as he leaned forward.
“It seems that other people are having the same nightmare as you.” The moment after Wasley spoke, the fine hairs on Ian’s arms and the back of his neck stood on end as a wave of gooseflesh spread across his being. The statement was charged with a static energy.
“Really? Who?” Ian experienced a moment of clarity. The conversation provided the missing piece to a question that Ian’s mind had been straining to find for the past day. He had wanted to feel validated and to know that he didn’t stand alone in that grassy field.
“Word has come to me of other people. I’m not surprised you haven’t heard the rumor. You...” Wasley paused and attempted to find an appropriate phrase, but appeared to have failed, and resorted to shaking his head.
“Since I never leave the house?” Ian smiled. He knew his instructor wanted to avoid stating Ian’s situation so plainly.
“Well, yeah.” Wasley regained his composure. “Anyway, there’s someone I know who is a member of many circles and knows many people.” He looked around as if the kitchen had suddenly become unsafe for such conversation. “Some people don’t even use the Somnium, or have stopped using it since having that dream. They believe that Phineas did, in fact, warn the world and, furthermore, is trying to warn us again.” The professor shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair and placed his elbows on the table. “I didn’t really give the notion much thought, but now I’m ready to open my mind to the possibility of an oncoming disaster.”
Ian nodded slowly. “Who are these people?”
“I’ve never met any of them personally, only the guy who told me about them.” Wasley produced a scrap of paper and slid it toward Ian. “He calls himself Prophet.”
Ian took the paper and unfolded it to see: Prophet 3:00
P.M. hastily scrawled at the top above some numbers and words that looked like directions. “What’s this?”
“I’ve talked to him and he agreed to meet with you tomorrow. That’s the address where he’ll be, it’s a small coffee shop located about a block away.”
Ian folded up the piece of paper and stuffed it into the pocket of his blue jeans. “How am I getting there and are you going to come with me?”
Wasley smiled. “By walking, and no.”
“Walking? I don’t know how to find the address!” Ian’s palms immediately became moist, and left more smudges on the table as they slammed down on its surface. “You need
to go with me!”
Wasley rose from the chair and then placed his hands on Ian’s shoulders. “Calm down, Ian, this is your choice.”
“What do you want me to do?” He asked, letting his shoulders slump.
“Like I said, I want you to make the choice. You have all night to think about it.”
Ian nodded his head and rose to follow his professor to the living room. “Mr. Wasley?”
He turned around to face Ian. “Yes?”
“Why are you taking an interest in this? Why does it matter to you, especially if you don’t know if it’s actually true or not?” Ian’s voice cracked as he said the last syllable.
“Remember when I told you that I don’t experience much excitement in my life anymore?” A smile spread across his face as he explained, “I think it’s pretty exciting. Plus, if an earthquake was to destroy the city I live in, I think my other reason is obvious.”
Ian took a step toward Wasley and asked, “But why do I have to go by myself?” A palpable wave of panic washed over his body and caused his hands to tremble.
“Because I have to teach a class at three.” The professor placed a hand on the door knob and was about to turn it before a thought interrupted him. “Have you ever been swimming?”
The question caught Ian off guard. The tremors in his body momentarily subsided. “What?”
“Have your parents ever taken you swimming at the community pool?” Wasley took his hand off of the door knob.
“No, I haven’t been swimming or been taken to a pool. Why?” Ian spat the question out, and it sounded harsher than intended.
“Okay.” Wasley laughed. “Well, when I was young I didn’t know how to swim and was afraid to get near the water.” He stepped away from the door and took a seat on the arm of the sofa. “My mom would jump in and float around to show me how easy and fun it could be, but I still didn’t want any part in it.”
Ian took a seat on the back of the sofa and situated himself so he faced Wasley.
“One day, I walked to the edge of the pool and looked at my reflection in the water. I remember that it looked so deep, almost bottomless. Of course I knew it wasn’t but still.” He cleared his throat. “I turned around to run back to my mom sitting in one of the chairs tanning, but instead I ran straight into my dad. He grabbed me by the waist and just tossed me into the deep end.”
Ian smiled as he imagined a young Wasley being tossed into the water. He couldn’t quite imagine his instructor as a child, but pictured a small red-headed child with some freckles. They both shared a laugh before he continued.
“Needless to say, there was a lot of crying and splashing going on. My dad pulled me out and after some more crying and some coughing I was alright.” He stood up. “The point is that eventually I learned how to swim. If it wasn’t for my dad tossing me in, I don’t think I’d ever have touched the water. If you want to face your problem, you need to jump right in.”
“I thought this was about saving humanity, not my shortcomings.” Ian let himself fall backward. He landed on one of the soft pillows arranged on the sofa.
“It’s about both. If this whole ordeal turns out to be nothing but a wild goose chase, then at least something good would have come from it.”
Ian heard the door open and it quietly squeaked on its hinges.
“Just one more thing.” Wasley paused to see if Ian was still listening.
“Yeah?”
“When you go to bed tonight, don’t use the Somnium. Maybe you’ll dream again.” The door closed.
Ian sighed deeply and stared at the ceiling for the next half hour.
Chapter Eight
The wind tore through the field, blew back Ian’s hair and made his entire face numb. He didn’t start out in a black box this time. Instead, he woke up in the field, his face caressed by frantic blades of grass. He sat up and drew his knees to his chest in an attempt to preserve some of his body heat. The man walked up to Ian.
“Did you tell the others?” His voice sounded clear in Ian’s ears. It cut straight through weather and he heard every emotionless syllable.
“Are you Phineas?” His own voice, however, disappeared.
“Who I am is of no importance,” he replied and began to turn around. “We’ll meet under the heavens, before the sky cracks.”
Ian watched him as he walked away, disappearing into the horizon as he headed down one of the hill’s slopes. As before, the clouds caught fire and consumed everything around him in a blinding flash. He closed his eyes tightly and threw his arms over his face. When his eyes opened a darkened bedroom ceiling greeted him. He turned his head toward his nightstand and noted the absence of the Somnium’s green lights. The nightmare had returned as well as the cold sweats, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t even spring out of his bed this time, but laid there and let the beads of sweat make their way down the sides of his face. They created little imperfect black circles in the already dark blue sheets. The dream wasn’t parasitically attached to his thoughts. He focused, instead, on the realization that he had reached his decision.
When day broke, Ian dressed and made sure to put the piece of paper Wasley gave him in his jean’s pocket. After breakfast his father inquired about Ian’s professor, “Isn’t Mr. Wasley supposed to be here by now?”
“Oh…” Ian searched his mind for an excuse. “He said that he’d be at the school late, so he won’t make it today.”
“Fair enough,” his father remarked. “I guess you have a day off today.” He smiled at his son before exiting. Ian noticed that he didn’t say good bye to his mother and, strangely, she didn’t seem to care much.
“Are you going to visit Grandpa today, Mom?” Ian asked, knowing that her departure would create the only window of opportunity for him to leave. She’d be gone for most of the day, so maybe he’ll be back before her as well.
“Nope,” she replied, “they’re going to try a new type of treatment for his cancer today. He won’t be available for visits.”
“Oh,” his heart sank. He pushed his chair out and took his dishes to the sink, “That’s good.”
“I don’t have work either. So, I get to be here all day with you.” He heard the smile in her voice as she walked into the living room. With a quiet sigh, he sat at the dining table and met eyes with his reflection. Maybe between the both of us, we can figure something out, he thought. As could be predicted, the house didn’t seem as cold with his mother’s presence. He sat and basked in the figurative warmth she emitted, even though she had left the room. For a moment the nightmare, and all its implications, disappeared. The tension that gripped his chest eased a bit, and Ian took a deep breath.
We still have to go, a part of him, speaking through the reflection, said.
Ian nodded, but didn’t move. He heard his mother’s bedroom door shut; soon she’d be in the shower. Immediately he began to run through a list of excuses he could use when he would be inevitably questioned about his absence. He blinked hard and shook his head; however his reflection’s expression remained stoic.
It’s now or never. The facsimile didn’t leave him anytime to question his sanity. It’s up to you.
Ian rose and moved into the living room. He stood until he heard the water start to run and its sharp resulting splashes. The tension returned to his chest. He held his breath as he approached the door and placed a hand on the shining knob.
He let out the breath and turned his wrist. The door opened a crack, allowing a slice of yellow to enter the house. When he stepped out, his senses became enveloped by the bright light, which was similar to the burning sky in his nightmare. Ian let the door close quietly.
He stood outside for a few moments to let his eyes adjust to the sudden change of light. Unlike the homes, which used florescent light bulbs, the city’s illumination came from a full spectrum light source that mimicked the sun. Its warmth felt soulless and sterile like the bright green, neatly trimmed trees that were unnaturally symmetrical in shape. Perfect rectangles of gras
s flanked the sidewalk overflowing with people.
Most walked alone but Ian could see some walked in groups of two or three. The bright greens and blues overloaded his senses almost to the point of fainting. He took a step back and grasped the door knob for support; he turned it but it wouldn’t budge. He searched his pockets for the keys but realized he had left them in his room and the door had been programmed to auto-lock whenever someone leaves. He turned and faced the sidewalk full of people, stepped forward and, with a deep breath, joined them. A moment ago, while he stood at the door trying to control his panic from boiling over into a full nervous breakdown, the people had seemed completely indifferent and didn’t look in his direction. When he stepped onto the sidewalk, he seemingly drew their attention. The rational part of his mind knew the people were actually as indifferent as before, however the other part of his brain convinced him differently.
Ian’s legs had trouble finding balance, as if the ground was coated with a rubbery substance. He felt the pedestrians’ stares like needles prodding the back of his neck. His anxiousness became tangible as a painful knot in his stomach. His chest tightened, restricted his airways, and his breathing became louder. They can hear me, he thought, they can hear me breathing. Stop it. The trees and grass provided a brief distraction; they posed as a picturesque background to the city. It reminded him of the illustrations he saw in children’s books: colorful pictures dominating a page with three or four boldfaced words.
City workers grew the plants naturally, and then meticulously trimmed and groomed them until they resembled a caricature of nature; completely devoid of any uniqueness. Ian imagined that no one had a favorite tree, and no trunk bore carved initials inside of hearts, made by couples in the fiction his professor sometimes brought him to read. He felt a sudden urge to reach up and snatch a handful of leaves from one of the perfectly shaped branches, but fought it. The very thought almost threw him off balance. He tried to imagine his mother and father on either side of him as he walked, like they did whenever the family ventured to the market, but the image wouldn’t materialize.