Falling Sky (3 page)

Ian and his parents ate breakfast the next morning in relative silence. His father made some comments about the news while he fumbled with his tie. “They're making some improvements to the city's ventilation system. It's going to be able to add fragrances to the air. Eventually we're going to have seasons, like the underground cities in Europe.”

Ian washed down a bite of a sausage link with a large gulp of milk and nodded. He didn't know if his father noticed, but felt better when he attempted to show some interest in whatever his father said. “When will people be able to visit those cities again?”

“I don't know, son.” He sipped his coffee and closed his tablet. “They're working on some expressways that connect to other continents by tunneling under the ocean. I hear that it's as difficult as it sounds.” He smiled thinly. Ian stood up with his plate and cup in hand. “Maybe we can visit one day. I wonder what their cities look like.” He placed the dishes in the sink and noticed how full it was again.

“I'm sure they'll be pretty different. When the cities began to migrate underground, all the nations built independently. I've always wondered too.” He stepped out of the kitchen and to the front door. “I'll see you guys when I get home. Are you going to be here for the day, dear?”

His wife turned from the stove as she untied her apron and draped it over the back of a chair, “No, I have some errands to run and then I want to visit my father.”

“Hmm.” His gaze lingered on the door knob. “Alright then. I'll see you tonight.” He opened the door and looked back at his son and wife for a second before stepping out and closing the door.

“You're visiting grandpa again?” Ian asked and then sat back at the table to await the arrival of his instructor. “How is he doing?”

“Not well,” his mother answered quickly and moved toward her bedroom to get ready. “I've got to go, Ian. Be good for Mr. Wasley.”

Ian nodded and watched his mother leave.

* * * *

Ian opened the door at nine AM, before Wasley had a chance to ring the doorbell. “Come in.”

He walked in. “I hope you didn't obsess about what we talked about like the time I told you about the animals on the surface.”

They both headed to their usual spots in the kitchen. The citrus aroma of the lemon dish-soap filled Ian's nostrils. He decided to let the dishes soak to make the chore a bit easier whenever he got around to it. “I was on the computer all night trying to find pictures of them.”

“Yeah, you're not very fun to work with when you don't have a good night's sleep.” Wasley sat and lightly hit the table with an open hand. “So, are you ready?”

“Where's your back pack?” Ian moved his mother's apron and placed it on the counter next to the sink before taking his seat. He sighed heavily. “We're not going to be talking about the usual stuff, are we?”

“No, we're not. I want to talk about your nightmare.” Wasley removed his glasses and harshly rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

“So, that's what it was then?” Ian asked as they both listened to the constant drone of the house's air conditioning system feebly filling the silence. He imagined that Wasley was running through a large list of different scenarios in his head to start the dialogue, but couldn't seem to find a proper introduction to the subject. While he waited, Ian traced his reflection with his finger. His nervousness created a layer of perspiration over his hands and fingers, which resulted in a smudged line that vaguely resembled the shape of his face.

“I notice that you do that a lot,” his instructor said while he observed Ian's behavior.

Ian's attention instantly snapped back to his teacher. “Do what?”

“Whenever there's a silence or when we're going to talk about a big subject you have to be doing something with your hands, or be looking somewhere else, mostly at your reflection. You seem to want to detach yourself from the situation.” Wasley smiled only with his lips; the expression did not reach his eyes, and it made Ian feel uneasy, as if the professor was disappointed with him.

“I think we've spent too much time with each other, Mr. Wasley.” Ian tried to wipe away the greasy line from the surface of the table, but only created a larger smudge.

“Yeah, probably. But that's not what I'm trying to say.” Mr. Wasley put his glasses back on but let them slide down the bridge of his nose. He had to angle his head downward to see Ian clearly. “This nightmare may be more important than you think. You've researched nightmares on the computer, but I doubt you've given it any personal thought.” He leaned in close. “You've read about nightmares, but you haven't given any thought to your own. Did you look up any specific details of yours?”

“No, I haven't.” Ian blinked hard and focused his attention on Wasley. “Why?”

Wasley looked around and then spoke in a low voice, “You're probably not the only one that had a nightmare. I need to know the details of yours, so we can give it the thought that you haven't.”

Ian nodded, sighed, and then leaned back. He began to talk and, to his surprise, the words flowed easily. The only other time he remembered talking so fluidly about something that bothered him was when he'd first told his mother about the anxiety he felt every day at school. Coincidentally, they had talked around the same table just after breakfast. She'd laid a comforting hand on Ian's and smiled softly.
It's going to be okay, you're fine,
she'd said and the words had echoed warmly through his mind for some time afterward. Soon after, she made an appointment for a therapist. He hoped to achieve a similar result with Wasley: an explanation that would make him feel less insecure.

When he described the dream, Ian lingered on the details of the field and the frantic, thick layer of clouds. “It was a dream, but everything seemed more real than anything that I've seen when I've been awake.” Wasley's interest peaked when Ian started to describe the man who had appeared in the field, and how his expression had remained so calm in the midst of the chaotic storm. After Ian recited the man's ominous message, Wasley held up his hand to stop him from relating any further details.

“Did he say ‘Phineas'?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I'm positive. Why?” Ian looked up, and felt his lips purse in an expression of interest and partial confusion. Wasley laced his fingers together and placed them behind this head.

“Have you heard that name before, Ian?” When Wasley addressed him by his name, Ian felt his brow furrow.

“No, I haven't. Does it mean anything important?” Ian didn't avert his gaze to the reflection in the table. The smudges that he had left previously wouldn't have let him anyway, but that didn't cross his mind. The possibility of his dream having some importance captured his full attention.

“Well, as I remember, the name originated from Greek mythology: a king of an ancient city, or something of the like. But the man I'm thinking of was a controversial figure whose existence is still debated today among particular circles.”

“Who was –?”

Wasley interrupted the incoming question with a raised finger. “Supposedly, he sat on a hilltop for several months during the war.” The professor's icy blue eyes focused on an indistinct point behind Ian. The usual warmth flowed out of his face and its expression didn't invite questions but instead demanded that he carefully listen. “This was before The Dust started to erode the world's structures. He sat there and predicted the end of the war, and when his friend finally found him, Phineas said that the Earth would be ruined and humanity must migrate underground.”

Ian nodded as he revisited his dream, and imagined the man sitting on top of a hill surrounded by the vicious grass. He wondered if those rolling hills were the ones Phineas had occupied while he formulated his prediction. Perhaps it was the same location where he thought of the omen he related to Ian, and Phineas was some kind of eternal prophet who silently calculated the fate of humanity. Maybe he never left the hilltop, but instead became a permanent fixture, melding with the chaos of the winds and the clouds which endlessly raced against the sky.

“His friend brought the message to other people and they ultimately decided that it was the best course of action.” A smile broke through Wasley's stone façade. “Of course, you won't find this in any history book. It isn't an official account of the government's decision to rebuild. Those texts would most likely tell you that Senator So–and-So heroically lead the citizens to salvation from the crumbling cities.” His smile lingered for a handful of moments while he brought his hands back down into his lap and quietly chuckled. Ian noticed that his instructor's eyes glazed over with the cloudy film of nostalgia, and welled up slightly.

Ian finally found his voice. “What do you believe?”

Wasley blinked and quickly wiped away the small, unformed tears that hung on the outer edges of his eyes. “Me?” he asked, surprised. “Well, because of recent developments, I'm more inclined to believe the legend of Phineas. But I can't say for certain.”

“What developments?” Ian let his hands fall into his lap as he leaned forward.

“It seems that other people are having the same nightmare as you.” The moment after Wasley spoke, the fine hairs on Ian's arms and the back of his neck stood on end as a wave of gooseflesh spread across his being. The statement was charged with a static energy.

“Really? Who?” Ian experienced a moment of clarity. The conversation provided the missing piece to a question that Ian's mind had been straining to find for the past day. He had wanted to feel validated and to know that he didn't stand alone in that grassy field.

“Word has come to me of other people. I'm not surprised you haven't heard the rumor. You...” Wasley paused and attempted to find an appropriate phrase, but appeared to have failed, and resorted to shaking his head.

“Since I never leave the house?” Ian smiled. He knew his instructor wanted to avoid stating Ian's situation so plainly.

“Well, yeah.” Wasley regained his composure. “Anyway, there's someone I know who is a member of many circles and knows many people.” He looked around as if the kitchen had suddenly become unsafe for such conversation. “Some people don't even use the Somnium, or have stopped using it since having that dream. They believe that Phineas did, in fact, warn the world and, furthermore, is trying to warn us again.” The professor shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair and placed his elbows on the table. “I didn't really give the notion much thought, but now I'm ready to open my mind to the possibility of an oncoming disaster.”

Ian nodded slowly. “Who are these people?”

“I've never met any of them personally, only the guy who told me about them.” Wasley produced a scrap of paper and slid it toward Ian. “He calls himself Prophet.”

Ian took the paper and unfolded it to see:
Prophet 3:00

P.M. hastily scrawled at the top above some numbers and words that looked like directions. “What's this?”

“I've talked to him and he agreed to meet with you tomorrow. That's the address where he'll be, it's a small coffee shop located about a block away.”

Ian folded up the piece of paper and stuffed it into the pocket of his blue jeans. “How am I getting there and are you going to come with me?”

Wasley smiled. “By walking, and no.”

“Walking? I don't know how to find the address!” Ian's palms immediately became moist, and left more smudges on the table as they slammed down on its surface. “You need to go with me!”

Wasley rose from the chair and then placed his hands on Ian's shoulders. “Calm down, Ian, this is your choice.”

“What do you want me to do?” He asked, letting his shoulders slump.

“Like I said, I want you to make the choice. You have all night to think about it.”

Ian nodded his head and rose to follow his professor to the living room. “Mr. Wasley?”

He turned around to face Ian. “Yes?”

“Why are you taking an interest in this? Why does it matter to you, especially if you don't know if it's actually true or not?” Ian's voice cracked as he said the last syllable.

“Remember when I told you that I don't experience much excitement in my life anymore?” A smile spread across his face as he explained, “I think it's pretty exciting. Plus, if an earthquake was to destroy the city I live in, I think my other reason is obvious.”

Ian took a step toward Wasley and asked, “But why do I have to go by myself?” A palpable wave of panic washed over his body and caused his hands to tremble.

“Because I have to teach a class at three.” The professor placed a hand on the door knob and was about to turn it before a thought interrupted him. “Have you ever been swimming?”

The question caught Ian off guard. The tremors in his body momentarily subsided. “What?”

“Have your parents ever taken you swimming at the community pool?” Wasley took his hand off of the door knob.

“No, I haven't been swimming or been taken to a pool. Why?” Ian spat the question out, and it sounded harsher than intended.

“Okay.” Wasley laughed. “Well, when I was young I didn't know how to swim and was afraid to get near the water.” He stepped away from the door and took a seat on the arm of the sofa. “My mom would jump in and float around to show me how easy and fun it could be, but I still didn't want any part in it.”

Ian took a seat on the back of the sofa and situated himself so he faced Wasley.

“One day, I walked to the edge of the pool and looked at my reflection in the water. I remember that it looked so deep, almost bottomless. Of course I knew it wasn't but still.” He cleared his throat. “I turned around to run back to my mom sitting in one of the chairs tanning, but instead I ran straight into my dad. He grabbed me by the waist and just tossed me into the deep end.”