CHAPTER 13

Hyde Cremshaw knew these mountains  like he knew his Remington 798 hunting rifle. Every wooded curve and bend, every angle and shape made in the varying daylight, every smell and sound. And like his old Remington, Hyde liked the way the forest felt in his unyielding grip. Because Hyde was always in control. And no one could tell him otherwise. No one.

            Oh they’d tried to, time and again, squeezing him and pushing him with all their might, but no mold could hold Hyde. It was kind of like back in middle school. Good ol’ Coolidge Intermediate. What a joke that had been. Exactly what was supposed to be learned from a bunch of prissy teachers who’d never done a thing outside the stark white walls of their sterilized classrooms? They’d probably never fired a gun in their entire lives. Or skinned a deer. Or even set a trap, for that matter. What could they possibly teach him?

            School? Ha. Prison, more like. A prison for the mind, a prison for the body. Nothing to be learned. So maybe Hyde had meant to teach them a thing or two. Lesson one: how to put better locks on the vending machines. Hyde snickered, remembering the look on the counselor’s face when he dragged Hyde into the detention hall. He’d been angry. His face was like a fat ripe tomato and Hyde imagined little grey steams erupting from his ears and nostrils like some kind of Looney Tunes character. Well, sir, if you really wanna keep students out of the machines, don’t put locks on ‘em that can be picked by any ninth-grader with a paperclip and half a brain, Hyde had retorted, making tomato-head man go even redder.

            What had he gotten for that escapade? Two weeks’ suspension? Three? Did it even matter? It felt like he was home more than he was in the classroom in those years, and that was exactly how Hyde liked it. More time to tromp through the woods behind their house looking for unsuspecting game to up his kill count. Squirrels. Rabbits. An occasional raccoon or opossum. If it showed its smug face and Hyde spotted it, it was fair game as far as he was concerned.

            Of course that was the small time stuff, long before Hyde knew what it meant to shoot a real rifle and bring down the big game: the deer and moose and mountain lions that roamed around aimlessly through the woods. Hyde could still feel his pulse quicken as he steadied the crosshairs on the beast, saw it exhale its last narrow column of steam on a cold morning when the light was just coming through the canopy.

            Pap!

            It was like the period at the end of a sentence. A death sentence. And Hyde had put it there. That was power. True power. If life had dealt him a bad hand, at least he had this–his warm Remington, a whiskey flask lifted from his stepdad’s pickup, a brisk morning, and plenty of game.

            The leukemia had been swift. Hyde had been diagnosed when he was fourteen, during one of his many ‘unofficial school breaks.’ His mom had forced him into seeing the doctors. He’d eventually consented because he thought she just might die herself if he didn’t. Not that it mattered anyway. The doctors (whom Hyde distrusted second only to teachers) had said the only solution was radiation therapy, and Hyde wasn’t about to spend the last days of his life with someone pointing a hi-tech laser gun at his head. Not that they could afford it even if he’d agreed. His mom had cried and screamed, and that had been difficult to deal with, but eventually she realized, like everyone else eventually did, that Hyde’s days were coming to an end, and that he might as well be left on his own to live the remainder of his days the way he wanted.

            And so Hyde won. He lasted longer than the doctors had predicted, and as his classmates went on to high school and joined the football team and enrolled in advanced placement classes getting ready to chase their dreams, Hyde was already living his, stomping through the underbrush sniping at targets or setting the traps for them that he’d learned to build from books in the library. He was happy, after all, and eventually his mom stopped whining.

            Hyde had felt the last day of his life approaching. Little by little, he’d been losing strength each week, and it had taken every ounce of what remained just to sit up in bed. His arms, legs, and chest were covered in black and purple patches. He felt sicker than ever, but he wasn’t about to go out laying down. He skipped breakfast, grabbed his rifle and a case of shells, and headed out for the last time. The usual crisp smell of mountain air wasn’t there that day. Hyde could only smell himself. It was not unlike the scent of a fresh carcass he’d once found in the woods. The smell of life gone.

            Hyde cleared his throat and spit blood. He saw it, ignored it. Just one more kill, he thought as he stumbled through the thicket, over rot wood and rough stone, creaking things and dead leaves. Hyde felt it all mush together under boots that were too big, boots he hadn’t bothered to tie tight on feet that had withered with the illness. Stupid body, he said.

            That’s when he saw it, not sixty yards at his ten-o’clock. A buck. It was huge, bigger than anything Hyde had ever seen. Even bigger than any his uncle had shot, and he’d shot some monsters back in the day. Hyde crouched slowly, his knees trembling under the pressure, wiggling with strain. Just one more, please.

            Hyde rested the muzzle of his rifle on the edge of a mossy stump. Perfect. He set his cheek against the stock, felt its reassuring warmth. He watched the image of the buck flutter into focus behind the glass of the scope. It was a mature buck, with scuffs and scratches all along its towering branches of antlers. Hyde could see its muscles rippling beneath its golden coat. Healthy. Strong. Hyde felt a final rush of power flood through his veins. He could feel something leaking from his nostrils onto his lips and then dripping to the dead forest floor and he knew it was blood. The last of him, draining straight to the ground where he stood. And Hyde felt, in that instant, a strange connection to the buck, because on this day it, too, would die.

            See you on the other side, he whispered. And with that, he pulled the trigger and fainted.

            Two centuries passed in the time between two gasps of air. Hyde stirred to life. He was no longer looking at sunlight rippling through tree branches, he no longer felt damp illness gnawing at his bones. Everything was new. And yet somehow, familiar. The scent of freshly cut pine timbers filled the room. A closet near his bed smelled of treated leather. This was a woodsman’s home and Hyde was a guest. Only why or how he couldn’t possibly know.

            On the other side of the door waited Trey and Margaret Dresden. They ran one of Bighton’s most remote welcome centers and, like the Lewis family, had done much to prepare for their guest’s arrival. Hyde’s living quarters were larger than most, and had been equipped with all sorts of ‘antiques’ from his era meant to preoccupy him when we wasn’t having his lessons. But no guns. Hyde asked if the center kept a rifle locker and was genuinely shocked to know it didn’t.

            This is a peaceful place, they’d told him. We have no need of guns, no need to kill or protect ourselves.

            Hyde had slept poorly the first few nights, wondering what kind of place didn’t allow its citizens to arm themselves. It was all he wanted to talk about for the first whole week, and when he realized it was exasperating his hosts, he decided to free himself of their care. Surely someone in these parts would be able to help him. And so, equipped with a stolen backpack, a folding pocket knife, and cans of pickles and beans, Hyde departed early one morning.

***

            Had the sun still been shining as Daniel and his father descended the mountain trail, they’d have been greeted by the sight of a town glistening as brilliantly as the flickering dips and peaks of a sea against a sunset. It was the glass that was responsible for this.

            Bighton had been settled decades earlier by a glassmaking couple who hailed from the Far East. Their shimmering creations had continued to develop and evolve over time, resulting in materials that were more durable, easier to produce, and with functionality and style as never seen before.

            For the observatory’s roof on Bighton Hill, they’d designed a massive, layered convex glass, which acted as a kind of monstrous magnifier which, when combined with a standard tripod telescope, allowed viewers access to scenes never before glimpsed by human eyes.

            For the Bighton library’s windows, a special ultraviolet absorption glass was constructed, which helped preserve the books and manuscripts that were to be used for decades–if not centuries–to come. For residences, a light-sensitive, self-tinting glass was installed on the East and West sides, helping to keep homes lit while sustaining a comfortable temperature.

            And so on. For good reason, Bighton was often called ‘Glasstown’.

            As it was, the digital readout on Daniel’s wrist blinked ’11:05’ as they finally set foot in the town of Bighton. They’d been walking for nearly fourteen hours. The glass on the buildings now shone dimly with the reflected light of the roads below, like drowsy eyes ready for sleep.

            Charlie and Daniel shuffled through Bighton’s broad main road which, unlike Clive’s streets, had been recently paved with shorn slabs of grey slate and mortar. Daniel admired the way the hard stones felt against his tired feet, which had been gnawed at by the uneven ground of many miles of mountain path.

            Daniel’s father turned into one of the side streets off the main road, walked a few paces, and came to a wooden door, which creaked open as he leaned against it. He gently pushed against Daniel’s pack, leading the young man into a doorway. Above the door hung a sign etched in glass: Jensen’s Inn.

            The inn was filled with a thousand glorious odors and set off an immediate flood of salivation in Daniel’s mouth. There were some familiar scents layered in–fruit pies and fresh bread among them–but there were other smells too, some completely new,  smells rich and spicy and herbal, so that Daniel’s mounting anticipation quickly overcame his utter exhaustion.

            The modest dining room was almost empty at this late hour, save for a table in the corner where a couple huddled solemnly over salad bowls. There was movement from a long horizontal window at the far wall where a man shuffled busily from one task to the next. Daniel spotted what looked like an oven and a sink, but everything else was as foreign as the smells wafting from the kitchen.

            Less than twenty minutes later a woman set a monstrous Portobello and blue cheese pizza down on the table in front of them. Charlie said a quick prayer and the two grasped hungrily at the first of many slices.

            “So, what’s our plan, now that we’re here?” Daniel asked between mouthfuls of hot, gooey mozzarella.

            “We need to ask around, see if anyone’s seen Jack or Harold,” Charlie responded. “We can do that in the morning, though. We won’t be able to find many out at this time.”

            “Yeah, I was surprised how empty the streets here were. I guess people sleep earlier here?”

           “It’s all the glass. Many of the residences’ roofs have glass panels. It doesn’t keep out the light, so when the sun gets up, so do the people. When the sun sets, they call it a day,” Charlie explained.

            “Interesting. A whole town’s sleep pattern determined by its architecture. So, do we have an idea of where they might be headed?” Daniel grabbed at his second slice, no less hungry than he was upon arrival.

            “Well, according to Sophie’s inventory, they only took a couple of day’s worth of canned foods. I’d imagine they’ll look for a way to stock up.”

            “So the bazaar, then.”

            “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. Although we might as well ask the sister that works here. Maybe she’s heard something.”

            Charlie raised his arm and called the woman over, pulling up a seat from an empty table and offering it to her. She smiled courteously with the slightest bow and sat. Daniel noticed as the couple at the other table paused momentarily from their salads and glanced over. The woman wrung her lightly floured hands on a red towel cinched to the belt of her apron. The name “Monica” was embroidered on the lapel of her shirt.

            “What can I help you brothers with?” She beamed.

            Charlie introduced the two of them and explained: “We’ve come here under rather unusual circumstances, actually. You see, we help manage one of the welcome centers on the outskirts of Clive–“

            “Oh, you must be Charlie Lewis,” the woman said, her smile suddenly brightening.

            “Yes, that’s right.”

            “You’ve got quite a name for yourselves. One of the first here, isn’t that right?”

            “Well not here, exactly,” Charlie redirected.

            “Close enough! Clive, Bighton, they’re basically the same town. Now what can I help you with, Brother Lewis?”

            “Yes, well. Our recent guests, see... Well we’ve had a bit of an issue with them, and...”

            The woman’s smile began to melt and her brow creased slightly. “What happened?” she asked gravely.

            “I guess there’s no way else to put it–they’ve run away.”

            “Run away!” The woman gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth as if scared by the sound of her own voice. The salad couple turned again.

            “Yes, yes, I’m afraid so,” Charlie said quietly.

            “But why?” She asked, clearly horrified.

            “We’re not sure yet,” Daniel piped in. “We’ll ask them when we find them.”

            “How very, very strange...” the woman said, as if losing herself in her own thoughts.

            “Yes, we don’t completely understand it either, but we’re hoping for the best,” Charlie said, trying to smile.

            “Oh, it’s not that. I mean, it’s terrible that you’ve lost your guests, but... You’re not the first.”

            “What? You know of others?” Charlie’s voice had raised a notch and he leaned forward into the table. The woman nodded her head slowly, eyes darting back and forth between son and father.

            “From this town?” Daniel asked. Monica nodded again. Then she spoke.

            “And they’re right over there.” The woman craned her neck and pointed at the couple sitting quietly behind their empty salad bowls.

***

            “Honestly, we don’t know what we did wrong,” the woman said. “He’s just a boy–only fifteen–but he’s a stubborn thing.” Her husband daubed his mouth with a cloth towel and patted her gently on the shoulder.

            “We did our best, dear,” he said with a tone of reassurance.

            “How long ago was it?” Charlie asked. He’d taken a pen and pad from his pack and was jotting notes.

           “You mean when did he disappear? It wasn’t long after he came back. He’d only been around for a few days. That was all. Then he was gone,” said the wife, still distraught.

            “And when was that?”

            The man paused, tilted his head, and counted out numbers on his fingers. “Almost two weeks now.”

            Two weeks! Charlie felt dizzy. So Jack and Harold weren’t the first, and it might take a lot longer than he’d imagined to track them down. The thought was not comforting.

            “And how about you?” The wife asked Charlie.

            “Just this morning,” Daniel said. “My dad found their rooms empty when we went to get them for breakfast.”

            “Oh, it’s just too terrible. Turning their noses up on, on... on all this!” The woman raised her palms and let them fall heavily into her lap.

            “Well, we don’t know that for sure, not yet. We’re trying to stay positive,” Charlie said. The four of them fell quiet and gazed into the empty salad bowls on the table. There were sounds of water running over pots and pans from the kitchen on the other side of the horizontal window where white light spilled into the dimly lit dining room.

            “Hey, where are you from anyway? I feel like I haven’t seen you around these parts,” asked the husband suddenly.

            “We’re from the mountain center east of Clive,” Charlie explained.

            “They’re that Lewis family,” Monica said as she whisked by, removing the dishes unhurriedly. She’d been hovering curiously at the edge of the conversation until then.

            “The Lewises’s Center...” the wife said, wrinkling her face. “That’s funny.”

            “What is?” Daniel asked.

            “Just the other day we got a call at the switchboard from there. I occasionally volunteer as an operator. Anyway, it was pretty late at night, and this call came through.”

            “And?” Charlie prodded. He’d stopped writing and was staring at the woman intently.

            “It was a strange call. This man was looking for someone in a city that didn’t exist. Somewhere in England.”

            Daniel and Charlie exchanged a glance and then fixed their attention back on the woman, not wanting to miss a detail, not a syllable. When she’d gone silent for a few moments, Charlie said:

            “Cambridge, perhaps?”

            “Yes! That was it. Cambridge. And I tried to connect him. I made a call all the way out there, all the way to England, and they told me there was no one there. The city is gone. And I remember having the strangest feeling about that call, because after I explained to the man that I couldn’t connect him, he just hung up. Just like that!”

            Daniel looked at his father. “That’s got to be Harold.” Charlie nodded.

            “Did he say anything else? Anything you can tell us at all?” Charlie pleaded.

            The woman shook her head. “Sorry. I was rather distracted that day. I’ve had so much on my mind lately. And that’s what I had thought, after I hung up. Is this another runaway? And now I know! It’s just so awful.”

            “Where’s your center located?” Daniel asked the husband.

            “We’re in the mountains, too, north of here about seven miles. We’ve been coming into town a few times a week, hoping to run into someone who’s seen him.”

            “And? No leads?”

            “Nothing. I get the feeling he’s probably sticking to the woods. I doubt he’d make his way to a town like this.”

            “Why’s that?” Charlie asked.

            “Kid was a hunter in the Old World. Liked to shoot stuff and live in the wilderness. His name was Hyde.”

            “Oh, dear,” the woman spoke again, another wave of distress approaching her. “What do you suppose will happen to them out there? Can Jehovah forgive something like this? You don’t suppose he’d just... Rule them out, do you?” The woman made a slight slicing motion with her hand.

            Charlie looked at her, and then at her husband. He didn’t have an answer. No one did.