Sublime Messages

Eleven, B

The Hills resembled a moonscape that afternoon, a hazy backdrop of massive vanishing rock layered against the pale sky. The dirt road down which Vanessa drove needled across the dusty earth. Bushy bits of dark vegetation bubbled up along either side but grew sparse as the land stretched out. They rode in silence, the heated conversation they'd had in the bookstore registering as anomalous, now. They'd left Lone Rock along Old Portal Road, heading out toward the trailer park neighborhood Vanessa had visited earlier that morning but turning off the main road about a mile before reaching it, near a decrepit gas station. Damien spoke only to give her instructions; a country music station played quietly to fill the awkwardness of their silence, and neither felt inclined to change it.

Vanessa's thoughts ran in an infinity loop, no beginning or end, just coursing into and layering atop one another. She'd be foolish to completely trust Damien, and not just for his pubescent whims—she sensed even now his hesitation to show her what he knew. But more important than the origins of Damien's reluctance was Vanessa's sense that if she didn't figure some things out, she was bound to lose what little sanity she clung to. For the life of her, she could no longer recall what aspects of her past were accurate. There'd been her foster parents, who'd died, and there'd been her father, who'd taken her away. But she didn't think he was her father, now, after all. His face, she couldn't visualize it! Only his voice, deep and commanding. He was always commanding . . . asking questions . . . telling her to try again, and again, to use her gift . . . but gift of what? What commands? What questions?

"Show me how, raksasa . . ."

"Watch it!"

Damien gripped the steering wheel, turned it sharply toward himself.

"Brake!"

Vanessa did, shaken out of her daze. The car came to a quick stop; she'd almost dipped off the side of the road. Her apologies seemed only to exasperate Damien, who huffed and exited the vehicle. Vanessa sat in the quiet for a moment, saw him lean against the passenger door, noticed the smoke entrails curl around him as he lit up.

This was stupid, she realized. She didn't know this man at all. He was erratic and fickle, one minute behaving as if he knew her intimately and the next acting a complete stranger. His intentions were far from understandable. Was he really interested in helping those kids over in Palm Valley, or was he helping himself? He could murder her out here in the wilderness, and no one would ever find her body. Time travel? No. It was impossible. He had to have been lying to her.

And yet . . .

She shoved open her door and climbed

out of the car, leaned atop the roof and looked across at Damien who had, indeed, lit a cigarette and appeared to be reveling in it. He didn't glance back at her, said only, "Rules, all right? If I show you this thing, you can't tell anyone."

Vanessa did not reply, curled a lip he couldn't see anyway.

"And . . ." Damien took a drag, hovered the cigarette near his lips while with his thumb he scratched beneath his nose, "and you can't try anything with it, yourself."

Her chin propped on her arms, which were crossed on the roof, Vanessa again remained quiet.

This time, though, he noted her silence. "I'm serious. I need you to promise or I'm not showing you."

"I can't promise you anything."

Damien turned to look across the roof at her. His eyes burned with something too strong for her to read. The air between them whispered with desert energy, a breeze crackling past. "What are you going to do, then? What's your thought?"