When was the last time I had a hangover? Buddy couldn’t remember. But that’s what this feels like. He lay still for while, acclimatizing. Felt his new world coming into focus before he dared open his eyes.
What will they see?
Strange question that, as if his peepers were a pair of marbles placed on somebody’s mantle with all the other knickknacks, and would open to a scene emblazoned on their retinas.
On Harry and Bernice’s mantle at VORland’s End? he imagined.
How strange! he objected. Hardly what he’d expected, to become a prized trophy on display next to the figurine of The Skirling Scott, amidst the photos of the Sanderson’s ancestors and progeny—Harry’s Auntie Phipps looking displeased, as ever.
Strange, but relevant, Buddy supposed.
When he finally did hazard a glimpse at his new world, though, the Sandersons’ mantlepiece shrine dissolved. He found himself lying on his back, looking up at…
Wood. He studied the grain, tight and straight. hardwood. Oak. The slab was fastened to a wooden frame, its right angles snugged tight with iron fittings, which held its legs in place…
No! he laughed, the imagined contractions of his diaphragm and lungs not emitting any sound, really. Not even a wheeze. Under the table? Surely not? He swivelled his head round, confirming his first impression.
How the hell did I end up here? he wondered, aware before he’d completed the thought that no one would answer. Ever!
Bottles, rattling and clinking; the squeak of a wonky wagon wheel; a door opening. “You pedal slow,” someone said… Hong Hing? “Have lots of time to think.” For a couple of seconds, more rattling and clinking, then an overly dramatic groan. “Oh no!” Hong Hing lamented. “How you get wagon down steps?” Buddy smiled, remembering the scene; Harry gasped. “No!” he wailed in despair and disbelief.
Buddy rolled out into the aisle of Hong Hing’s, but the shop disintegrated like coloured mist before he could right himself. Suddenly he burst into the air above Chemainus, dipping and diving over a collection of buildings huddled round the harbour. Like being inside a video game, he thought, wondering who was at the controls.
The topography remained stable, but its surface seethed with change: buildings sprouted like time-lapsed fungus, then rotted and decayed just as quickly; streets branched out, the exposed ganglia of a growing community; horse-drawn wagons morphed into chugging trains, then became sleek ’50s showboats; clearcuts appeared like mange in the surrounding hills, until second growth, then third growth fuzzed over the scars.
Barnstrum! Buddy found himself at the edge of The Outdoor Gathering, standing beside Eleanor, watching Catherine and the other children play; Catherine suddenly looking their way, laughing, waving; Barnstrum smiling back unhappily, tortured by his eternal separation from his love-child.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. The airy swish of White Raven’s wing brushed his cheek, and he glanced out over Stuart Channel, following her weaving trajectory toward Penelakut Island.
And there she was, off to starboard, arms spread wide in greeting. She danced, whirling round and round, transforming again into a creature of light, airborne before her people rushed out of the forest to discover her rumpled cape atop her favourite knoll, overlooking the Salish Sea.
Then he heard it! Not a sound you’d expect a phantom to make. The unmistakable yipping of an excited dog. Then a boy, calling out… “Gypsy! Gypsy, come!”
Buddy jolted round, found himself peering into the pervasive gloom of a dense forest. The dog wouldn’t listen; the boy followed, deeper and deeper into the entangling underbrush.
And Buddy had to follow, too.
Arthur! he called, his shouts propagating through the expectant air. Arthur! Wait!
He plunged after them into an overgrown trail that led up from the E&N right of way, caught a glimpse of the boy running, running over the packed earth and twisted roots, chasing his best friend.
Arthur! Buddy cried out, urging the boy to listen because he knew something awful was about to happen and that the boy would never, ever laugh again, at least not as a child…
And that the boy’s name wasn’t really Arthur.
Next: Wake-up Call