A Fate that Burns

“I’m hungry.”

“Me too.”

“Are we there yet?”

“Can we stop at the next gas station? I have to pee.”

It seemed mid-day had arrived with its usual fanfare as the Gladwell’s car continued to roll down the one-lane highway. Its brown wooden exterior absorbing the sweltering heat, as sweat broke out on its passenger’s skin like drops of morning dew. Long stretches of road opened up, the wind dancing amongst the heat waves, melding together in perfect tango.

Lacey and Greta sprawled out in the backseat; books haphazardly spread between the two as their grey tabby napped on Lacey’s lap.

The air conditioner had long since broken, not that it mattered much, all preferring the fresh summer breezes to the artificial confine of their 1980 station wagon.

“Flag.”

Large evergreens blanketed the rolling hills of upstate New York, occasionally broken by small groups of houses Lacey highly doubted could be considered towns. Very different from the gleaming skyrises of Toronto, with its silver majesty and masses of people. Toronto had it all, fashion, culture, freedom. Lacey sighed.

Could a person get homesick after just a few hours from a place they had only resided in for six months? Their mother would have had a few choice words in that regard. Mostly calming and soothing as always, but lately it was laced with a finality and exhaustion that began to seep into the girl's skin.

“Flag.”

Dilapidated houses began to crowd the pavement a mere two feet from the road’s edge, as they continued south, worn-out porches in a perpetual stand-off with each house across the lane. Shimmering ghosts dance ahead on the dark misting blacktop, while the welcome wind whipped Lacey’s hair, snapping it into Greta’s face.

“Flag.”

“Cut it out.” Greta flung Lacey’s curly locks back toward her sister.

“Flag, Flag.” Lacey pointed at two more American Flags proudly hanging on poles as they plod forever forward.

The highway would have been so much faster, the thought continuing to annoy, but her parents were insistent upon the scenic route. Wow, what scenery! These houses looked as if one more good gust of wind would bring them to collapsing into a pile of sticks reminiscent of pig number two in The Three Little Pigs.

Lacey mocked a salute at the flags. “At ease soldiers.”

As the clock rolled over to PM, the girls’ mother distributed a round of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from a small cooler at her feet. Minutes passed in relative silence, the only sounds being distinctive chewing from the back seat and Stormcloud licking the jam that dripped onto her paw.

“Flag.”

“Stop,” Greta whined mouth full of bread.

“Girls, “ their mother warned from the front passenger seat bringing on huffs of teenage angst from behind.

“Flag.” Lacey smiled condescendingly at her twin. Her dark curly hair circled a wry smile, a thin aquiline nose, and bright green eyes. Leaning out on the door frame, surfing her arm on unseen waves, her eyes closed slightly against the shining sun.

“Flag. Flag. Flag.” Greta points at a yard littered with mini flags placed intermittently in smallish rectangular flowerpots along a broken brick path, their vibrant reds and blues contrasting the dull grey façade. Her freckled fingers mark small circles on the dewy inside window and she quickly slashes a curved line underneath to complete the accidental face.

“That only counts as one.”

“Bullsh…baloney.”

“Heard that,” their mother intoned.

The two daughters giggled: their spat quickly forgotten. Greta chucked her sister a stick of gum in sibling camaraderie. Lacey responded by crumbling up the silver wrapper and hurling it back at Greta’s ear.

“Oh, come on,“ smiles still lighting both their faces.

A crackling Billy Joel song streamed in from old speakers and Mr. Gladwell tapped gently on the steering wheel with the beat.

“Flag,” Greta called out.

The road began to dip down slowly, houses giving way to large thin trees on either side. Cell service is basically nonexistent at this point and even if it wasn’t, their mother had already warned them not to use their phones outside of Canada. The fees, she admonished, would be outrageous.

“I still have to pee.”

“Yeah me too.”

“Flag.”

“I’ll stop at the next gas station I see,” promised their father, still humming along to the staticky radio, the crackle signaling that it was almost time to find a new channel, once Bruce Springsteen was done singing of course.

At the bottom of the valley, the rolling green hills opened up onto a quaint village nestled into the crevasses between two small rivers. One that could have easily come from any number of their mother’s favorite 1950s sitcoms. Brick storefronts lined the main drag complete with corner stores, mom-and-pop hardware shops, second-hand clothing sellers, and a shabby used bookstore.

“Fla-“

“Maybe let’s take a break girls?” Mr. Gladwell offered, seeing the main street lined with what looked like fifty American Flags.

“Good idea, honey.” Mrs. Gladwell turns to look at the twins. Lacey’s dark tresses pressed up beside Greta’s red- evocative of fire and ash.

“Now girls, When we stop, what is it that you must remember?” worry painted her tired face.

“No getting angry, no getting scared. Bad things can happen when we are paired.” The girls sang the motto rolling their eyes at the constant reminder.

“Again.”

A loud sigh filled the car. “No getting angry, no getting scared. Bad things can happen when we are paired.” But now both girls’ faces flooded with the seriousness they knew their mother needed to see.

A minute passed and no one blinked. Mr. Gladwell glided the car into an open stall along the main drag just south of a Quickie Stop. The back of the station wagon, full to the brim with all their worldly possessions cast dark shadows on its occupants. Lacey and Greta hopped out, smoothing down crinkled dresses, and stretched their arms to the sky.

Stormcloud, still asleep in the backseat as the family departed the car, purred quietly in the silence that always followed the girl's departure.

“Dad!”, Greta called as her father’s silhouette began walking away toward the Quickie Stop.

“Yes, pumpkin?” He turned to find Greta pointing at the station wagon.

“You have to lock the door! Someone could steal Stormy!”

Mr. Gladwell nodded and tossed the keys at his sixteen-year-old daughter, which she promptly dropped. “Fifteen minutes, then we have to be back on the road.”

Greta eyed her sister. Lacey was already walking up to the used bookstore at the left corner of the street. Her mother on the other hand had drifted to the clothing racks lining the sidewalk in front of New to You Clothing. Books or clothes? Books or clothes… or bathroom? Her dad continued down to the gas station. Greta bent over and grabbed the keys. Sliding the into her dress pocket she hurried to catch up to her sister.

A large brass bell clanged as Greta opened the door to the dusty bookshop. Its sound rang sharp, radiating out into the seemingly abandoned space. Large wooden shelves crammed with books took up every usable surface, as motes drifted in and out of sunbeams. The air itself held a thickness to it, silence ruling over dried histories. Greta slowly closed the heavy wooden door, its quiet thump clicking shut in finality.

Greta called out in a whisper. “Lacey?”

No answer brought Greta’s heart racing. It was this place. Something felt off about this store. A creeping sense of dread flushed along Greta’s skin.

“Lacey?”, she whispered a little louder this time, slowly walking toward the first rows of books. Closer now she could pick out the titles and saw most of the first section held the new releases, shiny and new with famous authors such as King and Maas. Not a soul was seen browsing this aisle.

Greta turned left down the winding path toward the back of the store. Here along thin rails, magazines covered the wall, bridal giving way to home and garden, and sat in the corner holding an issue of Elle Magazine a few months out of date was Lacy.

“Lacy,” Greta hissed, “Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Greta’s eyes scanned the room. Victorian wall sconces were evenly spaced out along a dark floral wallpaper, dim lights flickering ever so slightly. It seemed more gothic mansion than a second-hand book shop.

Lacy glanced up and rolled her eyes. Holding up the issue for Greta to see, she sighed. “They only have the May issue. Is this our life now? Constantly being out of date?”

“Oh no, what a travesty.”

“I know you are just making fun of me, but you know what, it actually is.” Lacey rose from the floor, dusting off invisible dirt from her skirt.

Greta eyed the back hallway. “Obviously.“ She began walking toward the shadows. “I’ll be right back.”

The lights began flickering quicker, its yellow light flashing in quick bursts.

“Greta, let's go.” Lacey dropped the magazine into the empty space slotted along the wall.

“I’ll be right back, her sister called over her shoulder, not looking back to see the annoyed look that spread across Lacey’s visage.

“Please Greta, come on. I really do have to pee.”

Lacey watched her sister melt into the darkness torn between going after her and leaving her behind. Suddenly longing for the fresh air and sunshine of this August day. The heat of the room weighed heavily, and goosebumps pricked Lacey’s skin.

“Greta?” She called forcing her voice louder. “ A minute passed, and no sound permeated the silence.

“Damn it, Greta!” Lacey whispered and slowly moved into the dark hallway abruptly thinking screaming would not be the right move.

A door was ajar at the end of the hall, glowing white light pouring from the frame. Lacey crept up; the floor mercifully quiet until she reached the doorway. Lacey peeked around the corner.

Greta stood in the middle of what looked to be an office. A large antique desk dominated most of the small space flanked by two emerald, green velvet pub chairs. A high-backed leather chair sat behind, currently occupied by the unbelievable. It had to be an elf right? A woman with golden skin and coal-black braided hair sat on her throne-like chair, eyes locked on Greta. Her eyes were the same shade of emerald as the chairs and her ears, well, they jutted out from behind heavy locks into sharp angular tips. Shocked rocked through Lacey as she gasped in a sharp breath. This woman glowed, sitting there straight-backed, swirling a glass tumbler of amber liquid with delicate fingers, and she was talking.

Lacey moved closer and the woman snapped her attention to the door.

“Please come in, Lacey.” The woman's voice dripped honey. But there was something about her that didn’t sit right. Lacey felt herself moving forward without giving it much thought.

Greta slowly turned toward her sister and Lacey saw that she was holding a rather heavy-looking hardback book. She was smiling but the glazed look curdled Lacey’s stomach.

“Oh, no we wouldn’t want to intrude.” Lacey stopped alongside Greta, gripping her arm. “We need to be going. Our parents are waiting for us. “ Lacey pulled at Greta’s sleeve. “Give this nice lady her book now.” She moved to yank it out of Greta’s hands, but it was clamped tight by cold fingers.

Lacey’s heart beat uncontrollably and she felt on the verge of tears. How did this woman even know her name? Did Greta tell her? Greta couldn’t have been in this room for more than a few minutes at most before Lacey showed up.

Greta continued to say nothing, staring at the tome in her hands.

“Please, we must go now, Greta,” Lacey spoke letting slip a voice crack of fear. The light on the desk brightened.

The Elven woman stood up slowly, her eyes glancing from the table lamp to the two sisters. “Go if you must, she said, but take the book.” She locked eyes with Greta, “It is a gift,” her voice forceful.

Lacey managed to turn her sister by the shoulders to face the exit. “Thank you, she spat out, you are too kind.”

“Kind? The woman chuckled deeply. “Maybe, yes, that could be it.”

Confused and terrified Lacey dragged Greta out of the office, down the darkened hallway, and out into the hot summer sun. Lacey willed her heart to slow taking a few deep breaths. Her mother still browsing the clothes shop across the street waved to the two girls, one arm full of jeans. Everything seemed so normal on the sidewalk, so quaint and peaceful, a family rode by on their bikes, a man walked his dog who stopped to relieve himself on the fire hydrant close to their station wagon, Lacey could see Stormcloud lying in the back window. Totally normal.

For a second she wondered if she had made the whole scenario up. Then she looked at Greta, still holding the brown dusty book, and snatched it from her grasp.

“Hey!” Greta seemed to snap out of a daze, “Give that back.”

Lacey really looked at it for the first time. It was old. Like really old. Covered in a language that was definitely not English.

“What do you want this book for? You can’t even read it?” Lacey asked eyebrow raised.

Greta stood still for too long. “ I don’t… I don’t really know.” Her hand still held out for it back.

Lacey shrugged. “Fine, keep the creepy book.” She tossed it back at her sister and took off for the gas station.

Ten minutes later, everyone was piled back into the family car, new shopping bags crammed at the girl's feet. Snacks were bought and the wagon was gassed up. The wind still whipped in and out as they pulled off the curb and returned to the highway.

No one likes moving day. But maybe, just maybe, this time it will stick.