THE RISE AND FALL OF WATER a novel by David Wildman (chapt 1)
~~~~ 1 ~~~~
A drop of sweat swings off my nose.
Buzzing things dive-bomb my face.
Two teenagers in front of me are arguing about a computer game.
“You know I won!”
“Yeah? Well I got proof in my phone here says…aw shit!"
That’s my own doing.
I collected all their electronic devices in a canvas bag before we left.
Now, we’re making our way en masse down a woodland path behind the school. They’re all desperate to find something in nature that could pass as literary inspiration for their next assignment, mostly because I’ve made this paper count for half their grade. It’s harsh, but necessary, due to the sudden epidemic of fake-parents excuses when their last stories were due.
“Shit! I just got bit!”
That’s Brenda, a student who volunteered to act as my guide and my eyes.
We’re near to approaching the river, the immutable barrier where we’d all agreed it was really, really important to turn back.
Boris, the organizing voice on my SeeingiPhone, says inside my ear: “The bridge is one-hundred and-twenty three steps ahead. By unique mathematical symmetry, that is also the distance of the fall to the bottom.”
I zone out for a few seconds pondering the kids’ parents, the squirming rats' nest of indignation that would descend on us all once they learned someone had the unmitigated gall to put their child in danger.
The thought rips me back into the moment.
“Hey! Guys!”
But it’s too late.
The briny odor of the rushing river fills the air and turns my stomach.
Suddenly I’m hijacked by a shouting mass of teenager that laughs and clomps its way onto the wooden bridge.
High above, the wind gets in on the fun, darting around with a thrilling scream.
The temperature falls, impossibly, dropping a few degrees a second.
“This is really creepy all of sudden.” Brenda is now gripping my hand like it’s a life raft.
Something splatters on my shoulder.
That’s enough of this bullshit.
“Stop throwing things!”
I pluck the object from my shirt, roll it between my fingers. From the oval shape it seems it might be a chocolate Easter egg, except that it has a smooth, sticky coating.
Holding it up, I ask: “What is this?”
“Eww! It’s someone’s eye!”
Two balls of ice choose this time to tumble from above, like a snowman taking a dump.
Then we’re ambushed by a heavy barrage of frozen pellets, blasted from heavenly-based machine guns.
Kids scatter to the safety of the trees.
I stand there at the guardrail, letting the hail clobber me.
It feels like something’s moving beneath my skin.
A woman’s voice rings out in joy among all the noise and confusion.
“Oh Blake! Don’t be afraid! Come here!”
“Who are you?” I shout.
All I hear is my own voice out in the stormy world.
But then, inexplicably, muscles tighten, and I’m standing there, teetering on top of the railing.
“Yes, that’s it! Yes!”
I grasp fistfuls of air, trying to keep my balance.
“Get the fuck out of here!”
“Don’t worry, Blake darling. Soon you’ll remember everything! This will all make sense…”
A flicker of a vision.
Steel scaffolding, unpainted, climbing up to nowhere.
I’m in a bed that is gradually tilting forward. Below I can see, actually with my eyes, a dark abyss, lightning dancing and twirling around its edges.
I’m falling…
But then I stop, suspended, until finally my feet touch down on the bridge.
I hear a hint of movement.
“Talk to me! Please! What just happened?”
When there’s no answer, it occurs to me to ask Boris.
I jab my hand in my wet pants pocket.
There’s a pattering of footsteps moving quickly away.
“Hey! Come back!”
It’s a struggle, but finally I’m able to yank my phone out and face it toward the now distant sound.
“Boris, who is that?”
“No information.”
“What the hell do you mean? Someone was right there!”
“Sorry Blake. As you understand, in your pocket my sensory detection is limited. No further information is available at this time.”
Man, I’m sick of hearing him say that.
But then again, it’s really kind of pathetic on my part how I think of him as a friend.
A familiar scent of pine drifts by, temperatures are returning to the balmy climes we’re used to in November.
Footsteps approach. “Are you okay Mr. Symington?”
“Don’t worry, Brenda, everything’s fine.”
God I hate lying to kids.