Ether

ETHER

by

Kristine Williams

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ETHER

Smashwords Edition.

© 2008 by Kristine Williams. All rights reserved.

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Ether

And here are the keys to the house.

Daniel accepted the collection of keys to his late uncle’s house with a sad nod of thanks to the estate lawyer.

Now, can I offer you a drink?

Sure, why not? He took a seat in front of the desk and reached out to straighten the nameplate. Jonathan Miller, Attorney-at-Law. It was a bit worn around the edges where the wood had met the floor a few times, and the etched metal was peeling up on one corner, but it had served a good purpose for twenty-odd years and would continue to do so with little effort.

How’ve you been? Jonathan handed over a generous glass of scotch and sat behind his desk. What’s it been? Eight years? Ten?

Nine, I think. Right before my duty started. Daniel tasted the whisky, enjoying the brief instant of flavors before the back of his throat lit on fire. He’d spent eight years in the air force working as a surgeon during the war. It just wouldn’t look good if he couldn’t handle one mouthful of single malt.

Your uncle was so proud of you.

It wasn’t all that glamorous, you know. Daniel shrugged. My entire tour was at Ramstein’s medical facility. I didn’t see any action. He glanced at the glass in his hands. Uncle Frank was so great, though. He wrote me every week. Handwritten letters, just to say hello and tell me about all the little things I was missing.

I’m sorry you didn’t get back in time to see him one last time, but I can assure you no one knew.

He’d seen it so many times before. Soldiers unable to get home in time when word came in that a loved one was ill. Family called to a bedside an ocean away, arriving an hour too late to say goodbye. Daniel had been wrapped up in the trappings and paperwork involved with resigning his commission, taking days to visit comrades and a few weeks to attend seminars in Europe while the military was still footing the bill. It wasn’t until he’d landed at JFK that the letter informing him of his uncle’s hospitalization found him.

By the time he caught a flight out to Seattle, it was too late.

He raised his glass. To Uncle Frank.

Jonathan’s glass went up in salute. Uncle Frank.

Daniel swallowed quickly this time, braced for the burn. He did cough just a little, but Jonathan took no notice.

You know, we had Frank over every Christmas while you were away.

He mentioned that. Daniel nodded. Said your kids were a real delight.

Jonathan laughed. That guy would sit in front of the fireplace and tell the kids those wild stories about his exotic travels. They were enthralled. So were Jane and I, frankly. The man could really entertain.

Yes, he could, Daniel agreed with a smile. I remember some pretty crazy tales when I was a kid. He could bring them to life in such a vivid way, I often felt like I’d been there, with him, even though I knew they were all made up.

There were times I wondered. He spoke with such certainty, he could repeat a story you'd already heard a year ago, and damn if it never changed one bit, like you'd expect with a tall tale. Jonathan gave a sad sigh, then shook himself. If I may be so bold as to ask, what are your plans now that you're back home?

Daniel took a deep, slow breath to give himself time to consider his words. Right now, I'm not sure, he admitted. I was toying with the idea of staying here, hanging a shingle and going into private practice. His ears liked the sound of those words, finally spoken aloud to something other than the dashboard of the car. There was a spot right downtown -- the old Miller hardware building -- up for sale. I put a bid in on it two days ago, but heard this morning that I was outdone by a bigger wallet.

Jonathan nodded. I'm not surprised. Our little town is growing up, fast. Real estate is selling at inflated prices, tourists are flocking in and the young up-and-comings are moving here in droves. Oh, I doubt it'll last more than ten or twenty years, then we'll see another downturn as some other small town pops up on the popular culture radar. But right now, we're the hot ticket. He sat forward and put his empty glass on the desk. Listen, I'm having lunch next week with Eddie Boyle, from Boyle and Nash Reality. I'll chat him up about properties coming on the market, see if I can sneak you in on a good fit before it hits the listings.

I'd appreciate that, but I do have a limit on funds. Daniel set his glass on the desk. Granted, if I can stay in Uncle Frank's house, there's one expense I don't have to worry about.

Well the house is paid for, and the taxes are current. It's in your name now.

Daniel stood and walked to the window on the left of Jonathan's desk where he could glance down at the main street two floors below. The town hadn’t changed on the surface, not since his last visit home, but there was an underlying current bubbling all around. You could feel it in the air when you walked down main street to the formerly quiet café on the corner, overlooking the marina. There were more cars in any given parking lot, more new houses being built nearly everywhere you looked, and businesses remodeling and reinventing themselves for a new, younger market.

I think Uncle Frank would have liked the idea of me coming back home, starting a practice, serving the community he loved so much. Daniel scratched his head and laughed shortly. I sound like a Hallmark card.

Jonathan stood and gave Daniel's arm a brotherly pat. For good reason. He picked up the empty glasses and walked them to the drink cabinet. Now, will you come over for dinner this week? Jane would love to see you.

I'll give you a call, Daniel replied. Thanks for the scotch, and everything. I know Uncle Frank thought of you as a friend first, and his lawyer second.

And I hope you do, too.

They shook hands, exchanged polite nods and proper goodbyes, and Daniel headed out to the parking lot behind the building, where his late uncle's car was waiting. It was a nice ride, as far as classics went. A fully restored, 1969 Mustang, fire-engine red with black leather seats, lovingly returned to near-new condition. The trunk and back seat currently held all that Daniel possessed in the world, just a few clothes and some medical equipment that had been presented as gifts throughout his early career.

Today, he had reason to wish it was a convertible. The sun was out, there wasn't a single cloud as far as the eye could see, and the temperature was reaching up to the mid seventies. A rarity for an early October day in the Pacific Northwest that helped lighten his mood on the drive out to the house. Situated outside of town, it rested in a quiet space of farmland five acres wide, surrounded by evergreens. Daniel had spent summers here, regardless of where his father was stationed at the time. He and his cousins -- also shipped to Uncle Frank's farm for the warm summer months -- would waste away long hours exploring the wild forests, foraging for frogs and crickets down by the river, and chasing their imaginations through the fields until darkness overcame even their young eyes.

It had never really been a farm. There was a barn, built somewhere back in the 1800’s, that his uncle maintained for safety’s sake, and piles of hay that were really nothing more than years of grass clippings from mowing the massive yard. There were bits of leather from old horse carriages hanging off near-rotting beams adding to the look and feel of an old working barn, but nothing larger than a St. Bernard had wandered those stalls in the last two centuries.

The woods were what had held Daniel’s attention as a boy, full of mystery, so thick the daylight could be lost by early afternoon. He’d spent his childhood convinced there were alien creatures living among those old growth trees, monsters of unspeakable terror. But every time he came close to finding one, it would slip out of sight, evading capture in the undergrowth and making a clean escape.

Uncle Frank’s stories of adventure, travels to exotic, strange lands added fuel to the fire every night. Tales of ships that sailed the skies, swamps where the trees fed off the blood of wandering humans, and a fog that shot arrows. He could always back up those wild stories with detailed illustrations, and often an artifact or trinket he’d brought back with him.

Daniel laughed quietly to himself as the memory lay out before him like a red carpet, from the garage to the steps of the old farmhouse, beckoning him back to happier days. He slipped the key into the front door and felt the old familiar creak of rusting hinges vibrate through the doorknob into the palm of his hand.

A scent greeted him instantly, the mixture of earl gray tea and vanilla-laced pipe tobacco that had been Uncle Frank Harper’s signature smell. He dropped his duffle bag and flicked on the lights.

You never were one for change, were you, Uncle Frank?

The living room looked exactly as it had the last time he’d seen it, right down to the old quilt draped over the back of the couch. Daniel wandered around the room, soaking in the memories so there’d be no room left for the guilt. The old carved mantle still held photos of him, both in and out of uniform. There were framed images of his cousins and their families, his late parents, as well as every pet Frank had ever owned, fed or let sleep in his barn.

Above the fireplace, hanging off an old piano wire like a rock climber clinging to his last hand hold was a mirror, framed in silver sporting an intricately etched pattern. Frank said it was from a mystical land, where shimmering pools of water were so clear and crisp, you couldn’t see passed your own reflection, which would swallow you up if you didn't turn away quickly.

Sharing space on the many bookshelves in the main living room were trinkets and carvings. One of Daniel’s favorites, an old pirate sailing ship hanging from a large zeppelin-like balloon, sat next to a worn, first edition collection of the works of Edgar Allen Poe.

He touched the wooden ship and remembered the day his uncle showed it to him, full of excitement and wonder. It was a sailing ship, he’d said. One that sailed the skies above, but not like the old blimps we knew. No, this one had no lift, or heated gas. It could glide, surfing the air itself as if it were solid matter, the balloon holding the ship aloft. Massive fans in the stern pushed the great air ship forward, while a rudder operated from the steering wheel allowed the captain to change direction as easily as a pirate on the seven seas.

Daniel ran his fingers over the blades of the fan, then gave them a quick push, watching as they spun. He never could get the real story out of the man, where he’d bought the toy or how he’d managed to make it himself. Uncle Frank stood by his tales, each and every one of them. But when pressured or pushed, would merely laugh and shrug, caring little if he was believed or not.

There were jars filled with beautifully polished rocks and several sparkling crystal formations here and there, holding up books. Among the first editions and hardback classics, rested a collection of journals Frank had loved so dearly. Daniel pulled one out at random and carried it to the kitchen. He'd brought a few groceries, bachelor food and some fruit, mostly, which he deposited in the appropriate cupboards while waiting for a pot of water to boil. When it did, he made a cup of strong, black tea and took a seat at the small table on the far side of the kitchen.

Flipping open the notebook brought on another flood of memories, mixing with the smell of old papers and worn leather. The little journal was no more than a five by seven collection of unlined paper, bound in brown leather and held together with a long cloth tie, but inside that journal an entire world came alive.

Frank had always been a hand writer, and a lover of the old ways. Not exactly a Luddite, but never one to embrace change. He loved the written word, and the act of writing itself. Loved the feel of papers and the organic physicality of creating ideas with his hands.

Daniel leafed through the pages, barely noticing the words. There were diagrams and drawings, little maps and illustrations like those he'd used to embellish his wild stories of great adventure to young nephews on long summer nights. He wrote of trades with handcrafters and trips through lush green jungles. There was a map on one page of a rugged mountain range with no name, and an elaborate maze of rock and tunnels.

The look and feel of the old journal's pages and the thick, heady scent of tea had Daniel reliving his childhood, but a sudden growling in his stomach demanded a return to the present. He reluctantly set the journal down and heated up a frozen dinner, using the only hi-tech device Uncle Frank ever let himself purchase, for the sole purpose of making popcorn for hungry young nephews -- a microwave from the early 1980's. It took twice the recommended time and made the kitchen lights dim, but not long afterwards Daniel had his dinner.

After eating, he put the kettle on again and carried his duffel bag and laptop up the narrow stairs to the last bedroom on the right. It was the room he'd always used as a kid, and it felt more like home. Maybe someday he'd take the big master with its bay windows and private bath, but for now, that was still Uncle Frank's room.

A quick check of his email took longer than he expected, with the spotty reception of his cell phone internet connection.

I'm gonna have to spring for cable out here. He made a fast scan, deleting the spam, then decided against reading what was left. Next week he'd head in to town and see about buying a better wireless, see if the phone company had DSL that far out yet if he couldn't get cable. For now, he was content to settle for another cup of tea and a few more of Frank's journals.

The kettle was screaming for his attention, filling the kitchen with hot steam in its impatience, but it calmed down instantly when the flame from the gas range shut off. Daniel found a fresh tea bag and poured the water, then found another journal to look through as he waited for the tea to steep.

On the way back through the kitchen, he noticed the keys he'd tossed on the counter. The car and house were together on a silver hoop, and there was a key to the barn, which had never been locked as far as Daniel knew. But the fourth key -- a stubby copper-colored number with only one tooth -- was a mystery.

He examined the key more closely. No marks hinted at its purpose, and he could think of no door that wasn't keyed to the main house. Curious, he took the key to the rarely-used cellar door at the far end of the kitchen and put it in the lock. Surprisingly he heard a click, so he gave the key a turn.

The door opened to the darkness of the old cellar stairwell and Daniel stepped through, directly into the path of an oncoming car.

Chapter 2

Hey, buddy, you okay?

Through a throbbing fog, Daniel forced his eyes open.

What the hell were you thinking, stepping out of that cab door like that? I could have killed you.

He blinked, bringing the world into focus. But it wasn't the right world. He was sitting on pavement, not the basement floor, and a strange man was trying to pull him to his feet, propping him up against the side of an odd looking car.

Suddenly there were flashlights all around, and more voices joined the confusion.

What happened here?

Look, officer, it wasn't my fault.

Ian Foster, is that you? Sheriff Murphy ain't gonna be happy to see you.

Who says he has to see me?

Daniel shook himself, trying to push off the cobwebs of this wild nightmare.

You okay, sir?

He looked up, meeting the gaze of a uniformed man. I'm not sure.

This man hit you, is that right?

Daniel looked at the man in question, the one who'd pulled him to this feet, then he looked at the strange car. It was dark, and hard to see in the lack of street lighting, but he couldn't help thinking the car that had knocked him to the pavement was really no more than a small, two-man steam engine.

It certainly didn’t belong in Uncle Frank's cellar.

Sir? The uniformed man moved his light. What's your name?

Daniel, he replied in a daze. Daniel Harper.

Could I see your papers, please?

Daniel stared at the uniformed man's outstretched hand. Papers? He felt for his wallet, then remembered putting it on the nightstand upstairs. I don't have any ID.

Listen, guys, the man says he's not hurt. Can't we just shake it off and all go our separate ways?

You're going to have to come with us, sir. The uniformed officer took Daniel's arm. You too, Foster.

Hang on, wait, Daniel protested out of instinct. He'd done nothing wrong, other than step through his uncle's cellar door and most likely knocked himself out. Where are you taking me?

You have nothing to worry about, sir. Sheriff Murphy can straighten this all out and I'm sure you'll be on your way in no time.

Sheriff? Am I under arrest?

I'm sure everything will be fine, sir, but I'll need you to come with us.

He was too confused to argue further, and let himself be led down the sidewalk, along a row of very tall, poorly lit buildings beside a surprisingly busy street. There were more of the strange, steam-belching automobiles traveling down the main roadway, alongside men on horseback and pedestrians occasionally dashing from one side to the other. The uniformed officers wore badges on the outside of their long brown trench coats, but there were no names or identifying marks stamped on the metal shields.

Daniel took it all in through a fog, his head still pounding so badly it caused a noisy static to fill his ears. He figured that was the reason for the dim street lamps and occasional loud horn piercing the confusion around him.

The driver of the car, a man close to Daniel's age, and apparently named Ian Foster, was being herded along behind him, still arguing the validity of his wrong-doing.

Three blocks down, they all turned left to a side street, then into a well-lit office occupied by a massive desk, two large cells, and an imposing man with dark skin and heavily graying hair.

Foster? What in the hell are you doing here? The imposing man glared at the driver, his lips pursed together in fatherly disapproval. An arm nearly as thick as a tree trunk raised, and a finger pointed to the first cell. Put him there, boys. Seems Ian and I need to have another talk.

Sheriff, if you'd just let me explain, I could be out of what's left of your hair in five minutes.

The officers ignored his protests and gave the man a shove through the open cell door. He took off his black leather trench coat and tossed it to the cell's only cot with an angry huff.

Sheriff Murphy, this man was hit by Foster's car, doesn't seem to be hurt, but he has no papers and seems to be a bit confused.

The sheriff scrutinized Daniel, head to toe, then inhaled deeply and slowly. Son, you'll need to spend the night until we can get you sorted out, unless you have some identification that can clear this all up right now?

Daniel blinked, but the room, the officers and the large man didn't budge or blur. I'm pretty sure I'm not even here right now, to tell you the truth. He glanced around the room, wondering if there was any hint of Uncle Frank's cellar in the illusion. But no, I don't have any ID on me. I left it upstairs.

Sheriff Murphy nodded toward the second cell. Why don't you just take a seat then, and we'll see what we can work out.

Am I under arrest? Daniel asked.

No, not at all, the sheriff replied. Now, boys, go ahead and get back on your patrols. This young man and I will just have a talk and get everything straightened out.

Daniel was shown to the inside of the large cell, but the door was left open as the officers turned and went back out to their patrols. He looked at the sheriff, eyebrows raised as he rubbed the back of his head. There's nothing to clear up, Sheriff. I've fallen down, hit my head on the basement floor -- those stairs were old, probably crumbling after all these years of disuse. He nodded to himself as he wandered around the open cell, taking in the spacious bunk, thick bars made of highly polished black metal, and brass-lined sink and toilet. It's a pretty interesting dream, as far as they go. But I should be coming around any second now.

Maybe we should have someone look you over, could be you hit your head pretty bad, knocked you 'round a bit.

Daniel shook his head. No, I'm fine. This is all just an illusion.

He keeps saying that, Foster said from the next cell. Listen, Murphy, I didn't hit him. I just grazed him a bit, knocked him off his feet.

Son, you could have a concussion. Not many folks find themselves wandering around the streets sound asleep like you say you were.

Daniel touched the back of his head. It was sore, bruised probably, but he wasn't bleeding. No, I'm fine. Trust me, I'm a doctor. And I didn't say I was sleepwalking.

He saw shock in the sheriff's eyes. He'd taken a step back, while the man in the next cell stepped forward, looking through the bars.

What? What did I say?

The hell's a doctor? The driver asked.

Daniel looked at him, perplexed.

It's what they call healers, Sheriff Murphy replied as he took