September Skies

by Trisha L. Sebastian

He doesn't know that I watch him.

At least that's what I tell myself when we run. He sets the pace for us, and I fall into rhythm beside him. In the pre-dawn, the trees are still, and dewdrops scatter up from beneath our feet as we fly through the woods.

We're running alongside the lake now, the boathouse yards away. Inside, I can hear him extend a little “greeting” to the woman he calls his mom. I get the impression of a bed, warm covers and an inert body before the image gets cut off abruptly. Sometimes he joins us, sometimes he doesn't.

I was surprised the first time he did it, but I really shouldn't have. He told me once that if his dad's life were different, he would have been a pilot in the Air Force, and he would have done this sort of thing every day. I was also surprised by his stamina. When I mentioned it to him later, he gave me that look that says, “You know better than that.”

I get that look less often now-a-days. Not just because I'm over here now and he's with them, but because he says I'm old enough to know better. I get tempted to finish off the phrase with “And too damn young to care” but the last time I tried to telepathically sing country music, I found myself suddenly eating a face full of dirt. He gave me that look, I apologized, and the next day I found the first of many Frank Sinatra CDs in my room.

It is good music. I remember my mom and dad dancing to late at night when all of us kids were supposed to be in bed. He'd get down on his knees and wash her feet in a small basin while she told him about her day. It always gets to me, how even after a full day at the mines, he'd take her feet in his soapy hands and rub them, wash in between the crevices of her toes. Then, after drying them, they'd put on a record and sway to the crooning of a man from New Jersey.

I don't know where he picked it up, but his voice enters my head as we leave the lakefront and head deeper into the woods. One for my baby and one more for the road, he sings with a rusty “voice” as we navigate the dense trees. He says it's to scare away the forest animals, so we don't intrude upon their business. I say he just wants to show off, that he's secretly yearning to quit the business and become a band singer.

It's not that he sings. He schmoozes. He includes little mental pictures, illustrating the lyrics. The song he's singing right now is tinged with gray, and I can see a woman's figure walking away from a lit streetlamp, and the man follows, stumbling down the sidewalk. The woman looks familiar and I send the image back to him, putting a dark patch over one eye and a large gun in her hand. He laughs suddenly, and the picture disappears when he attacks.

I dodge him, bringing up my arms to shield. The blow glances off and I grunt with the force. I roll away, and he follows, popping up in front of me to strike again. This time, I roll towards him, making him retreat and I lunge for his ankles. It's his turn to sidestep me and I roll past him, colliding head first with a tree.

It's been a long time since I've gotten THAT look. The “I can't believe you just did something stupid” look. He helps me to my feet and we take off again. It's amazing that even months after I've come here, he still can make me feel like a wet-behind-the-ears rookie. Of all of us, I'm the one that got promoted. I should feel great.

Instead, I feel like the “new kid” all over again. He tells me that he went through it, too, with the Askanii, the Wild Pack. It gets better with time, he says with a laugh.

He should know.

We're coming back up the drive. My lungs are wheezing, though it's mostly because I slammed myself into a tree without shielding. That's the reason why he gave me that look. You always have to be on guard, he says. You never know when the strike's coming. Even immortals can get ambushed.

He says that last with a grim grin. As always, I know who he's talking about. I can't imagine living with that kind of burden. To be responsible for the future...? I can't help but wonder what will happen if he does succeed. Time paradoxes non-withstanding, what will he do next? Settle down and live happily ever after? He'd die first.

Yes, he would. He would die, and kill, and maim, and wreak havoc if it resulted in him fulfilling his purpose in life. He could never be truly happy.

We start to slow down, taking deep breaths, working out our legs. The sun's up now, a great big eye on the horizon. Its rays touch the house, play over it's surfaces. He opens the door, and we go in.

Make it one for my baby, and one more for the road.

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