Tortus Bay

2.14: Displaced, part 1

Hey, this is Kara. Haven't talked to you in a few days. I heard you took off. What happened? Well, I guess it doesn't matter what happened. That's not why I called, if that's why you didn't answer.

Jamal says you were pretty down that night. I told him he was an idiot for ordering you the car. Guess you probably would have figured it out yourself eventually. You got yourself here well enough. He says you'll be back. I told him that I'm not so sure. He doesn't know about Niles. Nobody does, if you're curious. That boy is one of the only people around here who knows how to keep his private life private.

But what did I say? I don't care what happened. I called to thank you, for everything you did to help out with the exhibit. We couldn't have set it all up in time without you. It's too bad that you won't be there for the event. I would kick Niles out, if you wanted—okay, okay, I'm done with that.

A lot of shit got dumped on you. Nobody blames you for needing a moment to catch your breath. Or longer than a moment. Know that you can come back whenever, and we'll be waiting. Okay? Try to take care of yourself out there.

***

Henry wasn't met with a force field beyond the boundaries of Tortus Bay. There was no immediate compulsion to return, or any homesickness. Of course, it would have been odd if there were. He'd only lived there for a month. Looking back on that time, it felt much longer. Every day seemed so full.

Jungston was the same as it ever had been; A village, only slightly larger than Tortus Bay, but which he'd occasionally heard referred to as "the city." He stayed at a hotel there for one night, and enjoyed a pleasant chat with the woman who owned the place. She talked about the troubles of growing up in the area, and opined on the general rarity of visitors. She'd never heard of Tortus Bay before, and their conversation came to an abrupt end shortly after he brought it up.

The urge struck him to ask her what possible end could be served by making up a fake village, but decided against it. He didn't know her, and she ran the only hotel in the village. So he acted dumb, dumped his backpack in his vaguely mold-smelling room, and made a few calls.

At first he used his cell phone, but nobody answered. Not his mom, not his dad, and not Ray. Then he switched to the hotel phone. None of them would recognize the number that way. Still, none of them answered. Not his mom, not his dad, and not Ray. They were all busy people. He didn't leave any of them a message.

That night he thought about nothing, but watched the light of the bedside lamp slide off the stucco ceiling. Thoughts came to him, in that way, but he let them slip away into whatever ether from which they had come.

What was he doing? How long would he do it for? How long could he do it for? When he needed money, how would he get it? Were people ever happy, roaming the road from hotel room to hotel room? Were people ever happy, going back home? Were people ever happy?

He could write a book. People would think of it as fiction. He could tell them the truth. Seldom few people believed the truth, even back in Tortus Bay. He could force someone to come back with him, to show them what was happening in that strange village. But some people lived there, and still never saw it.

How stupid did a person have to be, to run away from magic?

***

The next day he moved on to Greenfield, which was perhaps large enough to be called a city. That, or his perception had become skewed much faster than he imagined it would. His driver seemed disinterested in small talk. They listened to a country music station the whole way. He had him stop at a Super 8 on a street outside downtown, and the teenager at the desk inside didn't seem any more inclined toward conversation.