The Semaphore

Pontis kept reminding himself that there was nothing not of this world.

He had dreamed of this his entire life. In fact, he dreamed of it so regularly that there was a part of him now, as he soared high over the Lowoods—his hair whipped back from his face, his eyes streaming with tears from the rushing wind—that was convinced this was a dream. Not just this, but everything since he left Lowood Den. It was all too unbelievable, too strange. At any moment he would wake in his bed, the smell of bread baking in the kitchen, his sister drawing at the table or on the floor in her room. He would go find Ien at the pond, evade Ien's brothers, run errands for his Ma, and return to school in the fall. Life would go on as it had for sixteen years.

But for now he was flying, and even if it was a dream, he was going to enjoy every moment of it.

There is nothing not of this world.

He was flying.

Varia had been chattering nonstop in Pontis's ear for the last hour, ever since he'd leapt from the bridge. At first she went on and on about the look on his face. It was priceless, she said. She wished he could see it. She told him the coat's program was called Pteromonara, and then went on excitedly to list other programs she wanted to try: Heliopause; Shalaam; Obeir; Apnea; Linga; Luuz; Acephalos. There was one called Fothner, she said, that would draw objects toward them like a magnet. Then she started asking Pontis to describe to her how he was feeling, to describe the sensation of flight. He did his best, thinking words like glorious and liberating and powerful, though no single word or sequence of words could do it justice. And no matter what words he used, Varia continued to push for more and more details. Then, as the Lowoods broke below into scattered clumps of trees and eventually dissolved into low grassland speckled with outcroppings of rock, Varia fell into silence.

For awhile, Pontis focused on the rush of the wind, the sensation of weightless speed, his tiny shadow racing along the ground far below, but then, after Varia had not spoken in some time, he began to worry.

Are you okay? he thought.

Varia did not reply at first, and when she did her voice was withdrawn.

'I'm sad,' she said.

About what?

'About not being able to feel it. I can't feel the flying. I'm experiencing it, and I can understand how it's working—in ways you wouldn't be able to even if I explained them—but I can't feel it. My whole life I've imagined being able to fly—everyone has—and now that I finally am, it's not even happening to me. I guess that's what it is. My whole life I've imagined being able to fly. But I don't have life anymore. This is something else…'

Pontis gazed out where the horizon disappeared into hazy blue. He did not know how to respond. It pained him that Varia was suffering—suffering in ways he could not understand. He wanted to comfort her but was afraid he would say the wrong thing. Pontis had dealt with death; his father had died, and he had watched his Ma grieve and grieved with her. People had used many words to console their grief. But his father had not returned, and in some ways that was easier. He had gone to whatever void awaited them all. All except Varia. This was not simple death. It was something for which the words of consolation had never been invented. And yet—and it pained him to think this—Pontis was glad that Varia was here. He was thankful that his friend was not gone forever, that he could hear her voice, that they could go through all of this together. He knew she was sad, but he was relieved not to be alone. It was so selfish of him.

'I'm glad to be with you too, lovey-boy,' Varia said then.

Pontis grimaced. He would never get used to sharing his thoughts.

I'm sorry, he thought. You weren't supposed to hear all that.

'I'm glad I did,' Varia said. 'I know how much you care about me. And I'm learning how to be here, wherever here is. Sometimes it's hard. Sometimes it's lonely. But mostly I'm just grateful. That I'm here with you.'

Pontis smiled down at the rushing grassland. A long ribbon of road essed along, a smattering of pink and yellow houses gathered ahead. There was a field lined with rows of crops, and then a little further an old quarry, abandoned, it seemed, for a long, long time. It opened like a mouth toward the sky, its dark throat swathed in shadow.

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Pontis pursed his lips. So, about you being able to hear my thoughts…

'Yeah?'

How much of my thoughts can you hear? Like, how deep does it go?

Varia was silent for a moment, and Pontis could almost hear the smile stretching across her face.

'Are you worried about those little fleeting images you have of Ien all day?' she asked, amused. 'Ien's hair reflecting the sunlight. Ien, shirtless, dripping with pond water. You and Ien sneaking into your apartment when no one is home…'

Oh no… Pontis scrunched his eyes shut, his face growing hot despite the cool air.

'Relax, lovey-boy. I'll take it to the grave…or wherever I go next. Besides, you might think you have a dirty mind, my young friend, but you don't know what dirty is. If you could hear my thoughts… That would give you something to be embarrassed about.'

Like what? Pontis thought.

'Nice try,' said Varia. 'Maybe someday your consciousness will be uploaded into an ancient weapon, and I'll get to wear you. But until then, you'll just have to use your imagination.'

Pontis grinned. Up ahead, the horizon solidified into an expanse of blue, and the smell of salt filled the air. Along the coast, still barely visible, towns crowded against the sea. Pontis tucked his arms at his sides and accelerated toward them, realizing as he did so that if he'd wanted to, he could fly ten times faster than he already was.

#

Hamlin Lee lowered his wheelbarrow when his back began to cramp. He walked, hunched over, into the shade beside his shed and wiped sweat from his brow. Briefly, his vision swam with little specks. The heat was unbearable. Balinda had warned him over and over that if he insisted on doing manual labor in the middle of the day, at his age, it was only a matter of time before he keeled over from a heart attack. But she was always nagging him about something. Even when he was a young man she'd insisted he was going to dislocate a shoulder or sprain an ankle or break his back if he kept working so hard. But what was he supposed to do? This driftwood wasn't going to clear itself. And besides, he'd made it this far; if he keeled over now, he had his Pa beat by ten years, and his Grandpa beat by twenty. Plus, if he died then Balinda couldn't nag him anymore. He massaged his knuckles, which throbbed all day and all night, and then hefted himself off the side of the shed and started back to the wheelbarrow.

There was something in the sky. At first, Hamlin thought it was a large seabird, swooping toward the coast. But it was traveling much too fast, and it was bigger than any seabird he'd ever seen. He squinted into the sky, shielding his eyes with his forearm. Whatever it was, it was bright green, glinting in the sun like glass. Hamlin took hold of the handles of his wheelbarrow.

The giant green bird cut suddenly at a sharp angle and started right toward him. He wondered if he should run, or yell and wave his arms at it, to startle it away. But before he could do anything it landed hard on the heath mere yards away, rolled across the grass, and then stood upright and smiled.

The seabird was in fact a boy wearing a green coat, which fluttered despite the still air. The boy's thick hair was blown back from his face and littered with twigs and leaves. He could not have been much older than fifteen.

Hamlin's mouth opened and closed. He considered the distinct possibility that he had, in fact, keeled over from the heat, and was now hallucinating this boy in green who descended from the sky. His hands gripped the rough handles of his wheelbarrow. His old heart thudded against his ribs.

"Sorry to bother you," the boy said then in two voices without moving his mouth. "But do you know how to get to Tecca?"

Hamlin blinked, and nodded, and pointed to the north.

The boy looked northward. "Is it far?" he said, his mouth closed.

Hamlin shook his head. "…Just… it's… Five mile up… The docks…"

The boy grinned. "Thanks so much," his two voices said. He turned to the north and seemed about to leap, but then he paused and tilted his head, as if hearing something Hamlin could not.

He turned back to Hamlin. "Do you need a hand with that wheelbarrow?"

Hamlin tried to swallow but his throat was too dry. He shook his head.

"Are you sure?" the boy asked, and Hamlin thought it sounded like his voices were coming from the green coat.

Hamlin nodded minutely, still pointing north, his hand refusing to respond to his brain's commands to lower.

"Alright," said the boy—or the boy's coat. "Thanks for the directions."

He leapt then into the air—five feet—ten feet—fifty—a hundred—and rocketed off through the sky until, within seconds, he was gone from view.

Hamlin continued to point after him. He remembered the stories his Grandpa had told him when he was a child. Outlandish tales about a savior in green, who had battled the Blisstaker for the soul of humanity. Even as a child, Hamlin suspected the stories were pure fantasy. But he had just seen a boy fly out of the sky. A boy dressed in green. Was he losing it? Should he go tell Balinda? He could hear her reaction: "You're dehydrated! You need to drink more water! Your brain is drying up!"

His hand returned slowly to the wheelbarrow's handle. Whatever had just happened, Balinda would dismiss it. Everyone in town would dismiss it. Best keep it to himself. Things were hard enough without everyone thinking he had lost his mind. He lifted the wheelbarrow and started up the path toward the ditch. Maybe he did need to drink more water. That was the most likely explanation. Because there was no way on earth—not even a remote possibility—that he had just met the Semaphore.