Haven: Book Seven of "The Liminality"

Chapter 19 - Wanderlust

It's not very often that the Sing comes uninvited and wakes me up out of a sound sleep. I'm used to being the visitor, not the visitee. The brevity of the encounter makes it impossible to suss out who was behind it. It was just a tease, just a brief glimpse of some ... woman, I suppose... and then she's gone, leaving me in that dark cottage wondering what the fuck just happened. It leaves me all discombobulated.

Was it Karla? How is she getting into the Sing from Scotland? She's never been in the Sea of Souls without a medium. I know it wasn't Gaia. She never dabbles in the hidden realms. It's just an anathema to her. Urszula? Doubtful, even though she used to hang with some Old Ones back in the day. Lille? Maybe it was the Sing itself, collectively, making me think it was a single person. Overall, a confusing situation.

I leave my bed to fret about the cabin, fixing myself a cup of tea that tastes more like fermented mushrooms than Early Grey. I miss Lille. I settle back down after an hour or so, but I can't fall back asleep. I just lay around and wait for the sun come up. Nights like these really make me miss Gaia. Just having her here to listen to her breathing would have made a huge difference.

I'm thinking, next time she makes the offer, I'm going to take her up on re-visiting the new realm to see what's what. I'm starting to feel the old wanderlust again. Not to mention, it would give me a chance to spend some time with her for a change.

Perhaps, in the meantime, I can make the rounds of this realm, see who's still here and what they're up to. Being holed up in the hollow has left me out of touch with everything. I had needed some quiet time after losing Dad again in the war with the Makers. It had left me feeling a bit scarred. But I'm whole again and ready to make myself known.

I'll trust Serendip to pass the news about the new rift to the defense council, whoever they are these days. I'm just going to do my own thing and wander and see with my own eyes what's left in this place, because beyond my general environs, I don't have much clue. I know that the killfire took out some prime breeding grounds for bugs—the megaforests that grew in the deeper valleys of the foothills. People tell me that much of the interior escaped damage, but this I need to see for myself. I need a refill on hope.

Back in the day, patrols stopping by the hollow usually consisted of a full squadron of a good half dozen dragonflies. Now it's mainly solo operators like Serendip, flying a mantid of all things. I sure hope that the killfire won't be making any species go extinct. These bugs are Root's greatest resource, as far as I'm concerned. No offense to Pinky, but he's no bug. He's just a wannabe.

I go down to the pond and try hailing Tigger with my homemade siren. It's basically a can-sized whistle attached to a rope and swing it around my head till it whips up this unearthly squeal that can be heard for miles. It certainly catches the attention of my cross-pond neighbors, but I repeat the call every few minutes and there's no sign of Tigger.

Not surprisingly, Pinky shows up, though, in all his abstract entomological glory. Despite his apparent independence and agency, he's got no choice but to respond to my will as he's my avatar. He is a part of me. He is compelled to obey and much as my right hand can be summoned to scratch an itch.

No offense to Pinky, but I'm a bit disappointed because I was hoping to have a spin with Tigger. Nothing beats the thrill of swooping through the clouds on the back of a giant dragonfly.

Though, avatars can be reconfigured to my will. Pinky can't be beat for comfort once I get him set up right. Pinky doesn't like me doing this. He would rather be a bug. But he's got no choice. I get him ready for travel by turning him into my dad's old Ford F150 extended cab pickup. All it takes is a wave of my arms and an outward burst of will to get him ninety percent of the way there. His colors shift, his buggy appendages re-absorb and he bloats up into what looks like a crude clay model of Dad's truck. The tires aren't exactly round, the windshield isn't very clear and the body panels are lumpy.