Item And Time

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Book excerpt

Chapter One - In Dreams

Jonah had difficulty getting his bearings.

He was in a mysterious place that was full of shadows, spirits, spiritesses, and endless mist. The mist itself was intangible; Jonah wouldn’t be able to touch it even if he wanted to. And yet, he did not want to. He didn’t know how he was aware of it, but Jonah knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that those shrouds of vapor concealed things he had no hope of matching.

He tried to walk, slowly and cautiously on account of his limited vision. The mist swirled as though its aim was to taunt him.It provided just enough visibility for him to manage a few steps, and then promptly obscured things once more. It never changed, not even once. He made it ten paces, not understanding what was happening, and then—

“Jonah!” an urgent voice whispered.

He turned. A strange woman stood near him. Brownish-blonde hair shrouded her face; she appeared to be accustomed to hiding her face behind the strands. Her features had some semblance of strength, but Jonah assumed it must have been genetic because her eyes, hazel like his, seemed to contain a silent scream.

“Who are you?” asked Jonah. “What do you want?”

The only thing to feel was confusion. Jonah was relieved to discover that he was not alone in this dense cloud of mist, but the woman’s presence felt as if it didn’t bode well for either of them. The complicated thing for Jonah was that, while he was relieved that he was not alone, he had a strong feeling that together, they were alone. He didn’t know what else lurked in this mist, but he was sure that the two of them were little to no threat.

The woman shook her hair from her face, which revealed a scar that ran along the base of her left jaw. It was very nearly a straight line—who the hell had a symmetrical scar? “I don’t want anything,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need you to help me. It’s a matter of the utmost importance.”

Jonah stared.“What is this about? Why are we here? What is your trouble?”

The woman gazed at Jonah with such intensity that he wondered if she meant to convey her desperation telepathically. “The mist protects me. I cannot be chased here.”

“Chased? Who—?”

The woman raised a hand. “Please, just listen to me. You asked me about my trouble. My trouble, Jonah, is time.”

Jonah frowned. “Time? What, you need a watch or something?”

She shook her head impatiently. “No! I don’t need to tell time;time is my problem!”

“What are you talking about?” asked Jonah.

“It’s time, Jonah,” she repeated. “Time!”

Jonah’s alarm shattered the dream like a baseball through a window. He sat bolt upright, dazed, and unable to focus. It was the blaring alarm, of all things, that centered him. His brain felt like a computer would—it only became fully functional after information resettled after a reboot.

He was Jonah Rowe. He was in a sea of blankets and sheets that was no more than a disheveled pile because he fretfully tossed and turned so much the previous night. And his radio alarm, for lack of a better term, was set go off at 5:45 AM on 91.5, a cheesy golden oldies station. He’d deliberately set it there because it was a guarantee that he would get out of bed. The music on the station was so god-awful that he couldn’t wait to hop up and switch it off.

He remembered his morning ritual. And then he remembered the occurrence that was so commonplace nowadays that he should consider it a part of his morning ritual.

He had dreamed about heragain.

For a full month Jonah’s dreams began normally, or as normally as one could call the random pieces of memory that you call dreams, and then, no matter what was in his mind, that strange, misty setting bled into it, complete with the foreboding walls of mist and that brownish-blonde, hazel-eyed woman with the lined scar on her jaw. As always, she knew who he was, and asked him for help with a supposed “problem” with time.

But what did it mean? She had a problem with time? Did she not have enough of it? Was she bored and thought she had too much time? Jonah didn’t have a clue.

But whatever it meant, he would have to deliberate over it at some later point in the day. The radio jockey brightly announced that it was March 28th. Today there were two birthdays he couldn’t forget: his boss, Bernard Steverson and co-worker, Roger…well, Jonah didn’t actually know his last name. It didn’t matter; Weird Dream Girl would have to wait.

Jonah finally rose due to the call of nature, and then began his morning. Before he could snatch two birthday cards before showing up to work in three hours, he had to adhere to the rest of his routine: Shower, breakfast of eggs and grits, exercise shortly thereafter, and finally, putting out scraps in the alley for the cats that frequented there.

He could already hear them scurrying about in the pale light of the morning. “Lucky things,” he sighed to himself. “If only mylife could be as carefree as yours.”

“Thank you, Jonah!” said Mr. Steverson in his jovial voice. He was simply ecstatic that someone had recalled his birthday. He was a stout man with cropped hair that was jet-black at some point butwas now flecked with grey. His friendly eyes plainly told the story of a survivor. He was in his mid-sixties now, andhis frame was slightly bent due to injuries he had sustained as a much younger man in Vietnam. Jonah was thankful to find that he was far from bitter, however; he’d manned many posts and done innumerable patrols during his tour, which brought about a profound interest in reading. So profound, in fact, that when Mr. Steverson returned stateside, he began the bookstore S.T.R, which stood for Something to Read, and was Jonah’s current place of employment. Though it wasn’t the most prestigious job on earth, it was a far cry from his nightmare first job, and Jonah loved it.

“It was nothing, sir,” said Jonah, pleased with his find. He’d managed to get a camouflage-designed birthday card that showed an illustration of a grizzled staff sergeant and read “Reached another birthday…” on the cover, and the interior read in dark green letters,“Which is proof that I still got some fight left in me!”

Mr. Steverson laughed hard at Jonah’s card, but then some of the laughter faded from his face.“You don’t look too well, son. Rough night?”

Jonah barely contained a grimace. Of course, Mr. Steverson, who was so good at reading people he could almost pass for psychic, would notice his preoccupation. “Didn’t get the best night’s sleep, sir,” he confessed. Hey, it was a true enough statement. “Dreams were weird.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Steverson in a knowing tone. He placed a worker’s hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “Dreams can really shake you up, son. No one knows that more than I do. After Saigon, I didn’t think I’d sleep eight hours again. It took time, but you know what made it better?”

Jonah shook his head.

“Life, son,” Mr. Steverson told him. “Normal life. I got to thinking about the things I appreciated, the things that made me smile, and the things that were powerful and positive enough to put ‘Nam behind me when I no longer had a reason to carry a gun. Just focus on what’s good for you, son. Normal days…normal life…there is nothing more relaxing.”

Jonah managed a smile as Mr. Steverson turned to get some coffee. He wished that he could tell him the truth, because if there was one word that did not apply to him, that would never apply to him, it was the word “normal.”

Jonah was an Eleventh Percenter. He had access to the Eleventh Percent of his brain, which allowed him to interact with and influence the spiritual world. These abilities also allowed him to take on spiritual endowments, which were ethereal powers that protected him when he dealt with spiritual work, which was referred to as ethereality by Eleventh Percenters. While these gifts had a wide variety, Jonah’s included manipulation of the wind, fog, control over electric current and a preternatural gift with balancing situations, which was a gift he still didn’t fully comprehend. They were some cool gifts, but when Jonah had to relinquish them, he would experience some intense fatigue. Just the thought of it made Jonah shudder. The fatigue made it necessary for him to focus on things that he hadn’t cared for before, such as cardiovascular health. And proper diet. Learning to eat right was a pain and a half.

Still, Jonah was thankful. He’d lived twenty-four years with no knowledge as to why he didn’t fit into any situation, always had mental blocks, chafed every time “well-meaning” people tried to put him in the “right” direction and had a curious affinity for ghost stories. Then, almost seven months ago, his vision went blue, literally, for several minutes and then the truth of things had come out. He started to get training within the Eleventh Percent shortly thereafter, but at this particular moment his task was to shelve sets of books, drink his bitter but healthy coffee without complaint and be as close to normal as he could amongst regular humans, who were called Tenth Percenters in the ethereal world.

Jonah looked at the books and couldn’t help but miss the Grannison-Morris estate, the vast dwelling that served as home and safe-haven for Eleventh Percenters like himself. He’d made a handful of friends, the closest of whom were Reena Katoa and Terrence Aldercy. They’d kept in contact with him even though they had annoying schedules of their own: Reena, who was an aspiring painter, was deadlocked in a clerical job, and Terrence, who had a knack for anything culinary, was a custodian. Jonah himself devolved to almost nothing in an accounting firm before he extricated himself from that situation in the September of the previous year.

Jonah had a much better time of things in the bookstore, but he missed writing and his friends. His writing troubles had improved somewhat. He’d taken up daily journal writing, and did occasional editorials for The Daily Rap, but he still had difficulty with the full-length novels. When he learned who and what he truly was, he also learned that there was a reason for his creative blockades, too.  Eleventh Percenters were extremely attuned with their spiritual consciousness and needed to have some sort of expression. The expression was usually artistic in nature. Due to their overly developed consciousness, however, they had trouble being harmonious with their chosen endeavors. As such, many Eleventh Percenters spent a great deal of their lives being shunted sideways into crappy jobs and taking advice from various individuals who always seemed to have more advice than actualknowledge.

Jonah pulled books from their boxes that were ready to be shelved. Watching people from the store window made him think of the estate even more, particularly its sizeable expanse of land and trees.  The place was not clogged by buildings, throngs of ill-tempered people, and garbage. He sighed and continued extracting books.

On more than one occasion, he debated the need to spend as much time as he could at the estate for training, improving his skills in ethereality, and just enjoying the serenity. He wouldn’t even object to conversations with Jonathan, the esoteric spirit and Protector Guide, who served as the estate’s Overseer. He was full of sage and cryptic wisdom that always made Jonah’s head spin. But then Jonah had to always eat his complaints when Jonathan’s advice turned out to be accurate.

He laughed at himself for missing them so much. It was almost like a child that pined for school. Then again, whoever said growing to adulthood meant that you had to be miserable? The estate, the spirits and spiritesses, and his friends were a breath of fresh air, simply put.

That wasn’t to say that it had all been fresh air, though. As Jonah placed books in their proper locations, he thought about when he came face to face with Creyton, an evil, pernicious Eleventh Percenter who reaped and usurped souls,and also blocked the spiritual path to the Other Side. Jonahmanaged to vanquish him to that very place the previous fall but couldn’t help but remember Creyton’s promise that he’d find a way to return. Though Jonathan told him that no Eleventh Percenter had ever achieved this, a twinge of concern still nagged him…

Jonah shot straight up, spilling a handful of books out of his hands. He had been deep in thought and performing his tasks on autopilot, when, clear as a bell, a female voice said, “Jonah!”

He glanced around but saw no one. Even if he hadseen someone, it would have been a very small comfort; none of his co-workers had that voice.

“What the hell?” he asked aloud. “Now I’m dreaming with my eyes open?”

“You’d better hope Mr. Steverson doesn’t hear that,” said a voice that was definitely not female.

Roger walked toward Jonah with a curious smile on his face. He was maybe five years older than Jonah, matched him in height, and had a round, friendly face that was slightly offset by his piercing gaze. It didn’t matter, though; Roger was harmless. He and Jonah got hired around the same time. They’d actually interviewed on the same day—Jonah remembered them sharing a laugh about some weird, hooded vagrant who’d been placing twigs in the bookstore’s parking lot that morning—and had made a silent pact that they’d help each other get accustomed to the job. Jonah wagered they were on the right track, because Mr. Steverson had never made complaints about either of them.

“Happy birthday, Rog,” said Jonah, glad for the distraction. He handed Roger his birthday card and stopped his attempts to wrap his head around what just happened.

“Thanks much!” said Roger, smiling at the card’s message as he pocketed it. “So, you’re over here daydreaming? Having a meltdown?”

Jonah actually laughed, “Nope,” he said. “Not enough sleep. Just lagging a bit.”

“Something up?” asked Roger.

Jonah looked at him. What could he say? Yes, I see a weird woman in my dreams and now I’m hearing her voice when I’m awake? If he said something like that, Roger would go to Mr. Steverson out of concern, and probably say that Jonah was having a meltdown. “Nah, it’s nothing,” he lied.

Roger’s eyes narrowed, but Jonah could tell he was more amused than suspicious. “If you say so,” he mumbled. “Maybe you’d benefit from catching a game or getting a drink. To help with all the nothing, you know.”

Jonah snorted. “Appreciate the advice, man. Now let me get back to my books.”

Roger winked at him, and went on his way. With an exhale of relief, Jonah resumed his work.

The rest of the morning passed without incident, and when half past noon rolled around, Jonah felt pretty good, and had almost forgotten the disembodied voice. He tossed an empty box into a dumpster in the back, and told Mr. Steverson that he was going to get some fresh air. He stepped out of the front door with half a mind to get some decent-tasting coffee and something to bridge over his appetite.He was maybe ten paces from his car when someone said, “Hi.”

Jonah turned, and almost swore aloud.The woman from his dreams was there. She wore what looked like traveling clothes, but they didn’t fit her appearance at all. She looked like a contemporary woman who was only able to scrounge 1950’s fashion.

“We need to talk,” she told him, her voice as urgent as it had been in his dreams.

Jonah stared nervously at her.“The lady from my dreams,” he managed to say.

She nodded. “I’ll tell you all about that. Well, as much as I can, at least.”

Jonah just stared at her. He had no clue what was going on, but he knew that seeing this woman in his dreams, and now in reality, was an indicator that his life was about to experience some fresh hell that he didn’t need or want.

“I don’t think I have time to listen—”he began, but the woman shook her head sadly.

“Yes,” she said. “Time can be annoying like that. But I don’t have a choice.”