Shadrach (Shadrach Acres #1)

Strange Fruit

I will meet my kids this morning.

It is a little after three A.M.

I sit on the side of my bed wrapped in a fluffy, but a bit damp in places towel. Yesterday was long. I lounged in the shower and soaked my feet in warm water and vanilla-honey Epsom salts. I remember coming out to start my bed routine. I find my serum and moisturizer in the bedside caddy, slather my face in it and unwrap my hair. 

I connect my phone to the speaker, put on some relaxing music and faint. The warm shower and foot soak did their job a little too well. I fall into a sleep so deep and soothing that it encourages me to dream - a strange, vivid dream.

Oranges, leaves and branches - as far as I can see. I am standing in a room, where orange trees grow straight from the polished marble floor in mounds of rich, dark soil. These are young trees - not quite saplings - yet they hold fruit - fully grown oranges. 

The room is somewhat dark, with tall windows covered in floor to ceiling curtains, slightly parted. Pure white light streams in. The furniture that I see is heavy and carved - the walls lined with endless shelving and several attached ladders. I squint and notice the books - leather bound and leafed in gold. I'm in a library - a vintage library that is also growing orange trees. 

I shake my head as I turn slowly on my heel. This library-orchard has no end. I see walls from side to side but from end to end, nothing. A swirling haze. I look up; the stacks soar into infinity. The same slow-churning mist obscures the endless rows of volumes far above. I stare into it for a long moment.

 I don't feel spooked here; I am curious. I look over, almost as if cued, at a tree that is sagging under the weight of its  fruit. I am not sure what to do, except approach. I take small, tentative steps towards the tree. An orange falls and rolls a short distance. I am close enough to pick it up and I decide to peel it once I have it.  I reach but stop, distracted.

A great rush of air rustles the trees as a crackling roar splits the air. The tree has burst into flames; leaping violet fire engulfs its branches. The tree straightens itself. This is not a fire that destroys; it restores. The tree unfurls several inches as white blossoms uncurl and bloom. I look around me - every single tree is thriving in this fire. 

I stand and gape, mesmerized. This is beautiful. I snatch up the orange and notice that the air holds a very familiar scent: ozone. I breathe in deep. It smells as if it might rain and I look up into this strange rooms not sky. The mist is circulating faster now, blowing across like scattered clouds. There is a rumble and a clap. A white hot bolt shoots across the not sky like lightening and strikes the  - earth? 

The room is gone - there is now only the grove and a shrouding mist. The trees still burn and the streak drives into the ground.  Something has been born of the lightening. It approaches, formed of violet flames, lean and elegant and low to the ground. 

I hear it, that voice again, the voice I have heard in my dreams over and over. Off in the distance - but also in my head. 

A growl. Let. Me. In.

I tilt my head and consider the orange. If I just press my thumb hard enough, the peel will give way. Slow and dreamy, I press.

"Yeeess", the voice growls. "Learn", it says. I frown. Learn?

I press my thumb harder into the fruit. I do it again, and it finally breaks. Juice shoots out and I drop the fruit, studying my wet hand. As I raise it to look, it seems to buzz and a coolness races from my finger tips down to the elbow and back again. As the sensation races back up my forearm, it bursts into indigo and violet flames. I black out.

The voice again. I feel my bed beneath me but cannot move.

Let. Me. In. 

I gasp for air. I am not afraid, but excited. I feel weight on my chest, and there is no denying a voice, not in my head but right next to my ear.

LET. ME. IN.

I spasm and jerk - now that I can move, I instinctively flip over. I feel the side of my bed dip and spring back. I tear myself from the covers, stumble onto the floor and I scan the room. 

Nothing. All I hear is the fan spinning and distant traffic from the main road through the small opening in my bathroom window. I flip on the lamp and the over head light. I steady my breathing, and pause with my hand on the wall switch. 

My hand is covered in a wet sheen. I pull it back as I flex my fingers and press the tips together. They snag and stick. I smell and then finally, for science,  lick my finger.

Acidic. Tangy. Orange juice.