A New Dawn, A New Day

Sundays have been publishing day for about a year and half, but it's time for a change. I'm going to switch things up with a blog post on random days. But, don't worry The Librarians aren't going anywhere.

The First Alexander: Part III of III

Karen had woken up that morning, and headed into the kitchen for her morning coffee. She told me later that she knew something was wrong when that smell of freshly brewing coffee wasn't wafting through the house already. She knew I was up since I wasn't in bed when she woke up.

But that familiar and welcoming aroma was missing. I remember when she walked in the kitchen, she hardly noticed me.

She said, “Good morning,” but walked past me half asleep. She even kissed him on the head, but went straight for the coffee pot.

“Do you want some coffee?” she asked.

“Sure,” I answered.

I didn’t say anything else. And as the dark, rich smell of caffeine began making its way into her nostrils, she started to take in her surroundings.

Karen finally realized that something was bothering me. My hair was disheveled and I was still in my pajamas. I remember she commented on the dark circles under my eyes, and I told her I hadn’t slept well.

That’s when she noticed the box.

It sat on the table in front of me. That metal box, covered with engravings that remind me of Egyptian hieroglyphics and an open space in the middle of it, just big enough to slip a hand inside.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“A present,” I said.

“A present for you or from you?”

“For me.”

“From who?”

“From him,” I told her.

“Him who?” she said. But I think she knew who I was talking about. She just wasn’t ready to accept it. I know she felt much better after he left the first time.

“He came back,” I said, “the one that survived.”

Karen didn’t say anything for a while. She understood why I was so tired; why I didn’t even make the coffee.

“What is it?” she finally asked.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” I admitted. Then I slid the box between us and looked Karen in the eyes. “But I can show you.”

I told her to focus on the question, “How big is the universe?”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Trust me. Just think of that question, over and over again. Then place your hand on the top of the box.”

She nodded, but didn’t put her hand on it right away. So I put mine inside the box first. The engravings began to light up as if it was coming to life. Karen was afraid, but she trusted me. I could see her repeating the question in her head, “How big is the universe? How big is the universe? How big is the universe?”

Then she placed her hand on the top of the box and closed her eyes.

We were immediately linked. Every thought she had, I had. It felt as though our minds moved outside of us and into a strange and infinite library. It’s like floating through the information like a ghost until you come upon the answer to your question. It wasn’t something we could read or see. It was just something that we now knew.

Then we fell away from it all, until we were back in the kitchen. She lifted her hand just above the top of the box, and I pulled mine out from inside it. All the lights on the box went dark, and we just stared at each other.

Finally, I told her, “You can ask anything you want. If he knew it, we can know it.”

“Anything?”

“Anything they knew, yes.”

“What are we supposed to do with it?”

“Well, it’s a library.”

She sat there for a bit, and then reminded me, “I always wanted to be a librarian.”

“I think you’ll get that chance.”

The First Alexander: Part II of III

Here I was again, sitting on the porch and looking up at the sky.

I spent most of time these days wondering if it ever happened. Did some ship really crash on my land? Did one die and one survive? Or was it just a dream?

It seems so unreal like I’m remembering a movie, not my life. I want to laugh at myself and then head inside the house or get to work in the greenhouse. But I can’t. So I walk down to the grove and look at the scars on the trees.

The sap is dry and hardened like a scab. Those old wounds won’t reveal what it was that caused the damage, but it proves to me that something did happen. It tells me that it was real, not some movie.

It’s the only proof I have. The rest of it’s gone. The only thing left of the beings is an empty grave, and not one shard of the metal from the ship remains. I don’t know what happened to it all. One day it just disappeared.

I’d been taking care of the one that survived for at least a week. I had laid him out on some hay bales in the barn, dressed his wounds, put out some blankets, food and water. I never saw him touch any of it, but each morning the food and water was gone. The animals could have taken it for all I know, but I kept bringing him more just in case it was helping. I’m still not sure why I was trying to take care of him; it just felt like the right thing to do.

He had a long cut across his midsection and every day I would clean it up and redress it. I thought it was looking better, but I couldn’t really say. I had no idea what I was dealing with.

That morning I headed back out to the barn with some of my breakfast and fresh bandages. But he was gone.

No trace. No sign of anything. Not a footprint in the dirt or a door left ajar. I quickly headed out to the crash site. All I found was a big hole in the ground. Nothing was left of the ship. I ran to the grave site and that, too, was empty. I remembered the night before I thought I saw something in the sky, but I’d been seeing something every night. I figured it was just my imagination again. Maybe it wasn’t.

Every day since all I do is think about what happened, try to convince myself it was real. Most days I sit on the porch and look up at the sky, then walk out to the crash site to look for something that was left behind. But I never find anything. The only things left behind are the scars on the trees.

The sky was getting dark and my stomach started growling, so I headed back to the house. After dinner I sat out on the porch again, looking up at the sky. Finally, my wife came out.

“Still looking up?” she asked.

I smiled.

“Let’s get to bed,” she told me. I slowly got up and headed inside, but not without looking back one last time.

Of course, I couldn’t get to sleep. This wasn’t the first sleepless night I’d had since the crash. I would usually just lay there and keep my eyes closed. I didn’t my wife to worry anymore than she already did.

Then I felt something. I thought it was a breeze, maybe I’d left the window open. I opened my eyes, sat up and immediately froze.

There he was, standing at the end of the bed. I could tell because he had a scar that cut across his midsection.

In his hands was a metal square that looked like a box. 

The First Alexander: Part I of III

They were right about the eyes.

They were large black eyes with no lashes, no lids. I couldn’t tell if they were watching me. I couldn’t even tell if there was life behind them.

Then it moved. One of the beings lifted an arm and moved it to cover the cut across its midsection. It was such a human reaction. Cover the wound, put pressure on it and stop the bleeding.

My first instinct was to run, but for some reason I didn’t. Just like in the war, I took a deep breath and started dealing with the mess in front of me. I didn’t think much after that. I just did. I carried the one that moved back to the barn and dressed the wounds. Then I got some water for it to drink. As I got closer with the cup in my hand, I thought of all those movies I’d seen. Would the skin start boiling if I poured water on it? Did they even need to drink? What was it that crashed on my land?

I didn’t want to think about it, so I just set the cup next to the body and headed back out to the crash site.

When I got back, the other one was still not moving. The eyes already started to look different, like a grayish film was building up on them.

It reminded me of Tom.

His eyes had the same film when I found him. It must have been hours after the IED went off when I finally came to. My mouth was so dry I could hardly open it, let alone call out to anyone. I stood up and started to walk around the blast site, looking for anyone who was still alive. Anyone who could help me make sense of this. Anyone I could save and share my guilt with. But there was no one. Every neck was still, lifeless, without a pulse. I remember Tom the most. It’s been years since the war ended, and I still dream about him.

He was the only one whose eyes were still open. They had that film. That look that said there was nothing left behind them. I think that’s why I buried it, the one that never moved.

I don’t even want to be buried myself. I’ve got it in my will; I want to be cremated. I told my sons to take a hike out in the mountains and let my ashes fly with the wind. I’m hoping I’ll blow through a grove of aspens. After all these years they’re still my favorite. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a sucker for the ponderosa pines. Well, any of the conifers are special. They keep the forest alive through the winter, reminding me with their green needles that life will return to that cold, frozen ground.

But there’s something special about the aspens. Maybe because I know they’re not alone, just like I always hoped we weren’t alone.

Now I know we’re not.