The Druid

Chapter 1

Alan Alasdair Carlisle sang and the birds listened.

He sang at the Strip, a piece of jutted land that Alan was convinced nobody but him knew existed. This land was richly green except for the flowers and the berries. The mistrusting foxes, the audience of blue jays and cardinals, the surreptitious things that didn't want to be seen but took care to be heard--they called it home.

He sang because he always did and always could, and therefore his low baritone and exciting melodies were life's gifts to him, to be used. Alan used to never begin song around an audience. Melody was one of the few times that the brain and the heart agreed to work together to create, so he always viewed singing as a spiritual affair. It was incredibly odd to Alan--and not because of the type of spectators--the first time he acquired an audience ten years ago.

Today's song was "Through the Oak," a Scottish song his father used to sing him. Alan couldn't remember a single word, so he made his own. The melody was easily recalled.

Alan lived on New Island, Michigan, the world's first successfully inhabitable artificial island. Fifteen miles off the western shoreline of Michigan, the island hosted a population of just over two-thousand, a small city by 2032's standards.

He sang until his throat started to scratch. By then, the sun had moved considerably west and the humidity had thickened. He felt guilty because a hummingbird had just arrived and Alan would have to leave her without song.

"Sorry," he said, as he stood up. He reached for the sky in attempt to free the kinks from his back and hips, one of the cons of sitting against a tree trunk for three hours straight. He never finished the chapter from his father's book: The Celtic Reality.

The book belonged to Alan's father, but he was also the author of the text. Before his death, Alasdair Shannon Carlisle was a history professor and author. The only memories Alan had of his father were the round spectacles that clung to the bridge of his nose, his crooked smile, and the melodies he used to hum before bedtime.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. The blue jays abruptly alighted and, oddly, the rabbits scurried away at the same time the red foxes did. Alan remembered perfectly--and this was six years ago--the day when a red fox and a grey bunny arrived, side by side, to hear his song. Their arrival stopped him mid tune, and out of fear the fox would kill the bunny, he abruptly began singing again. And for an hour or two, the predator and prey sat beside each other, listening. It was on that day Alan realized the natural world was not as it seemed.

Dude, you watching this?

The text was from Will Ming, one of his best friends. Alan and Will had been close friends ever since Will immigrated here from China in third grade. Will's real name was Wu-Han Ming, but everyone just called him Will for obvious reasons.

No, I'm at the Strip. What's up?

Alan dropped his phone and stripped off everything except for his boxers. He was sure Will was talking about some sort of E-sport game and he had better things to do than endure a rant. The surreptitious birds whistled as they always did when he stripped and he waved at them before running towards the ledge. Perhaps the main reason why nobody but Alan swam here, other than the two-mile hike through the woods and cemetery, was that most people would assume it would be impossible to climb back up. There was no natural ladder or clear-cut steep to climb. The closest sandy-enough shoreline was a quarter mile--not exactly a convenient swim. And the boulders nestled against the base of the stone ledge gave the impression of a dangerous jump.

Well, Alan knew better and so he dove into the icy-cold water. Even on warm, humid, sunny days, Lake Michigan was frigid. Alan waded as he stared off into the offing. He lived for these moments because in the tranquility of nature, life tended to reveal its secrets. He submerged himself and counted as he held his breath. His record was one-hundred and twenty seconds, a record that almost cost him his life. That was a story for another day.