THE MONUMENT: 12
“We would have to travel both day and night,” the eldest Journeyer says, reflexively twisting his gnarly hands around his wooden walking stick. “It would be a first—to Journey now, mere weeks after completing our annual Journey.” He contemplates the eyes of a dozen or so elders seated before him, each looking to him for a solution, for a decision. All have expressed their opinions and the rift between them is deep: the purists believe their Journey must go forward, returning them to the Monument the following year; versus the others who demand some kind of action. He has listened attentively and with a heavy heart.
They will go if he chooses to; or they will mourn their loss and move on, should he say so. But right now, it all seems so much bigger than him and his life and their rituals, leaving him grasping for answers in an ignorant sky. They could go back and look for the child, and perhaps find some closure. But that may also lead to more and greater questions, should they be incapable of finding her. They could stay the course, honoring her life by continuing with theirs. They could return to the Monument, because it is the center of their lives, and ultimately, of their deaths. He must choose, and he must choose soon. A thought enters his brain that he just can’t shake. He is not certain where he encountered the phrase, but its staggering repetition alarms him: “The Future Is Unwritten.”
“We will leave within the hour,” he decries suddenly.
Sideways glances and a low chatter erupt among the tribesmen.
“We will return to our Monument, and from there determine our course of action.”
Some whoop and applaud his noble decision; the detractors obediently stay silent. They all know it will be an arduous trek, as they must cover a lot of ground quickly, if they are to keep any hope of finding Starlet alive, but they steel themselves to following the eldest’s mandate.
Looking up at the moon, the eldest Journeyer recites the Six Tenets in his mind. He has never felt such doubt, and hopes this is not apparent to the other Journeyers in his words or deeds. He must be strong for their sake. To quell his thoughts, he begins chanting the Tenets out loud, and the others join him, their voices a unified and resounding chorus of hope.
“Now, let us return to the bonfire and share our sorrow with the tribe.”
Upon rejoining the others, he sees the dismay on their faces wash away as they prepare to make a move, and yet the twisting in his gut reminds him that ultimately this is all his fault.
“Mel,” the caller’s voice is breathy and urgent.
“Yes. Who’s speaking?” she asks.
“Stephanie Fairbanks never showed.”
Shit. “What do you mean ‘never showed’?”
“I mean, I waited for her out in the fucking desert for hours, and she never showed.”
“Have you been able to find her?”
“No.”
“I don’t know if this is good news or bad news…,” she states frankly. “But it is imperative that you track her down.”
“I’m on it, Mel. But I can’t promise anything.”
“We’ll speak again soon.” She hangs up and taps her fingernails on the desktop. She curses, then with a half-hearted laugh, mutters, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Curses again. With a sigh, she swivels to face her computer and types in an Internet search for everything that is known about Stephanie Fairbanks. Maybe I’ve missed something, she thinks.
Looking at a professional headshot of Stephanie, her blond hair perfectly styled, her makeup flawless, the exact amount of white teeth showing between the lips of her mirror-practiced smile, Mel hardens her gaze and glowers at the image. Stephanie is everything that Mel isn’t. Except smart, she thinks.
She performs a cross search, looking for anything referencing Stephanie and that obscure prewar song by the Rolling Stones. Of the myriad Monument-related message boards out in cyberspace, Stephanie had only posted on a few before she found what she was looking for. The Village Green Preservation Society: A group of radical thinkers who believe everything in the modern world parallels something in the prewar world, and therefore must be preserved at all costs in order to one day fully understand the meaning of life. Their strongest evidence is the fourth Tenet and its supposed link to the Rolling Stones’ song by the same name. I can’t believe these people actually believe this crap, Mel scoffs. But she reads through it all again, for what feels like the hundredth time, looking for clues or anything she may have missed in her earlier research. If there’s anything she’s learned about Stephanie, it’s that she would never just vanish. Something had to have gone wrong.
“Excuse me, Mel?” one of the assistants asks. She had been so silent that Mel had forgotten she was sitting across from her at one of the other computer terminals. Mel cranes her neck to see her. She’s another cute young thing, like that bitch Stephanie, Mel thinks, eyeing her black clothes and puppy-dog expression.
“What is it?”
“Xu is on his way back with blankets and pillows.”
“Good.”
“He said maybe twenty more minutes.”
“Fine.” Mel resumes reading the message boards, parsing Stephanie’s posts. There are accounts of people with out-of-body experiences and other supernatural behavior. Mostly anecdotal bullshit, Mel huffs. Stephanie describes hearing voices in her head and having strange feelings. This girl’s got nothing solid. At the bottom of the page, several new posts have been added about a change in location for the group’s meet-up to visit the Monument. Stephanie has not posted since the change was announced, and Mel wonders if she even knows about it. If they can’t find her first, Mel will have to send someone to both places locations. She hopes it won’t come to that, but…
Roger! The best tracker in the business, he can find anyone. But she knows he won’t agree to help her. And she’s not sure she could trust him, anyway. Mel thrums her fingernails on the desk again, thinking.
When Xu arrives with the linens, Mel snatches them and rushes down the corridor to London’s office. She raps on the door, then unlocks it and enters. They sit on the floor, the child resting on Roger’s lap. He’s asleep, his head hanging off to the side; but the girl is wide awake, staring directly at Mel with forlorn eyes. She tosses the pillows on the floor then unfolds the blankets and lays them out on the ground, forming a makeshift bed. “You can sleep now,” she tells the girl, whose pale blond hair is mussed. She doesn’t move. “I need to have a conversation with Roger. It is important that you let the grownups talk.”
Starlet wiggles in Roger’s lap, nuzzling more closely to his large chest.
Ignoring the child, Mel shouts, “Roger!”
With a shake, he wakes up, startled and confused. He puts a hand on his short, wiry hair then yawns with a loud exhalation. Blinking sleepily, his gaze follows her from her impatiently tapping high-heeled feet, up to her thick ankles, strong calves, knee-length skirt, the paunch of her stomach below her waistline and the roll of fat visible above it, the tight-fitting sweater whose V-neck displays her abundant, squished-together cleavage, and finally her stern face, softened by the flesh under her chin but is always in its permanent-scowl mode, topped by a short bob of jet black hair. Still fighting his fatigue, he mumbles a thank you for the blankets.
“Oh, wake up. We need to talk,” she bursts.
Roger gently lifts Starlet from his lap. She is reluctant, but he sets her on the floor and stands up. Over in the farthest corner of the bare room, Mel asks for his help.
“Mr. London has another job for you. Track down a woman by the name of Stephanie Fairbanks.” She pauses, trying to read his face. It is expressionless. “She must be stopped in order to carry on with the plan.”
Roger registers her words, his dozy mind slowly processing them.
“I have all the information you’ll need. But you must leave at once.”
“Wait,” Roger sputters. “I’ve barely slept.” He gapes at her incredulously. “And we haven’t negotiated a payment, and, and what about Starlet? I need to speak with London about all of this.”
With a slight hesitation, Mel replies, “He can’t be reached right now. Tomorrow he should be at the Monument and perhaps he can contact you then, but you’ll have to leave tonight. Name your price.”
Roger considers this. “I’m not letting that little girl out of my sight.” He gestures at Starlet. “And I want double my usual rate.”
“Fine,” she replies, trying to keep her voice steady. “You can sleep on the plane.” Collecting their dirty dishes, she takes the tray and heads for the door. “I’ll be back when it’s time to go.” She storms out. A few moments later he hears the tinkling of the keys, trying to relock the door, and then a crash from out in the hallway.
“Fuck.”
Roger hears Mel curse and, as he settles into the blankets, he holds Starlet safely in his arms, listens as Mel leans against the door and scrapes up the broken dishes. He smiles.
They will go if he chooses to; or they will mourn their loss and move on, should he say so. But right now, it all seems so much bigger than him and his life and their rituals, leaving him grasping for answers in an ignorant sky. They could go back and look for the child, and perhaps find some closure. But that may also lead to more and greater questions, should they be incapable of finding her. They could stay the course, honoring her life by continuing with theirs. They could return to the Monument, because it is the center of their lives, and ultimately, of their deaths. He must choose, and he must choose soon. A thought enters his brain that he just can’t shake. He is not certain where he encountered the phrase, but its staggering repetition alarms him: “The Future Is Unwritten.”
“We will leave within the hour,” he decries suddenly.
Sideways glances and a low chatter erupt among the tribesmen.
“We will return to our Monument, and from there determine our course of action.”
Some whoop and applaud his noble decision; the detractors obediently stay silent. They all know it will be an arduous trek, as they must cover a lot of ground quickly, if they are to keep any hope of finding Starlet alive, but they steel themselves to following the eldest’s mandate.
Looking up at the moon, the eldest Journeyer recites the Six Tenets in his mind. He has never felt such doubt, and hopes this is not apparent to the other Journeyers in his words or deeds. He must be strong for their sake. To quell his thoughts, he begins chanting the Tenets out loud, and the others join him, their voices a unified and resounding chorus of hope.
“Now, let us return to the bonfire and share our sorrow with the tribe.”
Upon rejoining the others, he sees the dismay on their faces wash away as they prepare to make a move, and yet the twisting in his gut reminds him that ultimately this is all his fault.
*
“Mel,” the caller’s voice is breathy and urgent.
“Yes. Who’s speaking?” she asks.
“Stephanie Fairbanks never showed.”
Shit. “What do you mean ‘never showed’?”
“I mean, I waited for her out in the fucking desert for hours, and she never showed.”
“Have you been able to find her?”
“No.”
“I don’t know if this is good news or bad news…,” she states frankly. “But it is imperative that you track her down.”
“I’m on it, Mel. But I can’t promise anything.”
“We’ll speak again soon.” She hangs up and taps her fingernails on the desktop. She curses, then with a half-hearted laugh, mutters, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” Curses again. With a sigh, she swivels to face her computer and types in an Internet search for everything that is known about Stephanie Fairbanks. Maybe I’ve missed something, she thinks.
Looking at a professional headshot of Stephanie, her blond hair perfectly styled, her makeup flawless, the exact amount of white teeth showing between the lips of her mirror-practiced smile, Mel hardens her gaze and glowers at the image. Stephanie is everything that Mel isn’t. Except smart, she thinks.
She performs a cross search, looking for anything referencing Stephanie and that obscure prewar song by the Rolling Stones. Of the myriad Monument-related message boards out in cyberspace, Stephanie had only posted on a few before she found what she was looking for. The Village Green Preservation Society: A group of radical thinkers who believe everything in the modern world parallels something in the prewar world, and therefore must be preserved at all costs in order to one day fully understand the meaning of life. Their strongest evidence is the fourth Tenet and its supposed link to the Rolling Stones’ song by the same name. I can’t believe these people actually believe this crap, Mel scoffs. But she reads through it all again, for what feels like the hundredth time, looking for clues or anything she may have missed in her earlier research. If there’s anything she’s learned about Stephanie, it’s that she would never just vanish. Something had to have gone wrong.
“Excuse me, Mel?” one of the assistants asks. She had been so silent that Mel had forgotten she was sitting across from her at one of the other computer terminals. Mel cranes her neck to see her. She’s another cute young thing, like that bitch Stephanie, Mel thinks, eyeing her black clothes and puppy-dog expression.
“What is it?”
“Xu is on his way back with blankets and pillows.”
“Good.”
“He said maybe twenty more minutes.”
“Fine.” Mel resumes reading the message boards, parsing Stephanie’s posts. There are accounts of people with out-of-body experiences and other supernatural behavior. Mostly anecdotal bullshit, Mel huffs. Stephanie describes hearing voices in her head and having strange feelings. This girl’s got nothing solid. At the bottom of the page, several new posts have been added about a change in location for the group’s meet-up to visit the Monument. Stephanie has not posted since the change was announced, and Mel wonders if she even knows about it. If they can’t find her first, Mel will have to send someone to both places locations. She hopes it won’t come to that, but…
Roger! The best tracker in the business, he can find anyone. But she knows he won’t agree to help her. And she’s not sure she could trust him, anyway. Mel thrums her fingernails on the desk again, thinking.
When Xu arrives with the linens, Mel snatches them and rushes down the corridor to London’s office. She raps on the door, then unlocks it and enters. They sit on the floor, the child resting on Roger’s lap. He’s asleep, his head hanging off to the side; but the girl is wide awake, staring directly at Mel with forlorn eyes. She tosses the pillows on the floor then unfolds the blankets and lays them out on the ground, forming a makeshift bed. “You can sleep now,” she tells the girl, whose pale blond hair is mussed. She doesn’t move. “I need to have a conversation with Roger. It is important that you let the grownups talk.”
Starlet wiggles in Roger’s lap, nuzzling more closely to his large chest.
Ignoring the child, Mel shouts, “Roger!”
With a shake, he wakes up, startled and confused. He puts a hand on his short, wiry hair then yawns with a loud exhalation. Blinking sleepily, his gaze follows her from her impatiently tapping high-heeled feet, up to her thick ankles, strong calves, knee-length skirt, the paunch of her stomach below her waistline and the roll of fat visible above it, the tight-fitting sweater whose V-neck displays her abundant, squished-together cleavage, and finally her stern face, softened by the flesh under her chin but is always in its permanent-scowl mode, topped by a short bob of jet black hair. Still fighting his fatigue, he mumbles a thank you for the blankets.
“Oh, wake up. We need to talk,” she bursts.
Roger gently lifts Starlet from his lap. She is reluctant, but he sets her on the floor and stands up. Over in the farthest corner of the bare room, Mel asks for his help.
“Mr. London has another job for you. Track down a woman by the name of Stephanie Fairbanks.” She pauses, trying to read his face. It is expressionless. “She must be stopped in order to carry on with the plan.”
Roger registers her words, his dozy mind slowly processing them.
“I have all the information you’ll need. But you must leave at once.”
“Wait,” Roger sputters. “I’ve barely slept.” He gapes at her incredulously. “And we haven’t negotiated a payment, and, and what about Starlet? I need to speak with London about all of this.”
With a slight hesitation, Mel replies, “He can’t be reached right now. Tomorrow he should be at the Monument and perhaps he can contact you then, but you’ll have to leave tonight. Name your price.”
Roger considers this. “I’m not letting that little girl out of my sight.” He gestures at Starlet. “And I want double my usual rate.”
“Fine,” she replies, trying to keep her voice steady. “You can sleep on the plane.” Collecting their dirty dishes, she takes the tray and heads for the door. “I’ll be back when it’s time to go.” She storms out. A few moments later he hears the tinkling of the keys, trying to relock the door, and then a crash from out in the hallway.
“Fuck.”
Roger hears Mel curse and, as he settles into the blankets, he holds Starlet safely in his arms, listens as Mel leans against the door and scrapes up the broken dishes. He smiles.
...continues tomorrow...
posted by jay x at 8:07 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home