Sky People

by A.J. Balkin

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 A.J. Balkin

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter I

It wasn't that the room was too small, or that the walls held stories that would be difficult and painful to recount. And it wasn't that the kitchen was shaped in a way that stole from it its function, or that it always seemed to be messy, perpetually disorganized even with no use. Jack just simply felt that he wasn't at right here, no matter how much he enjoyed hearing the rain fall on the mud of the yard from his bedroom window, completely dark and removed.

There were just certain things that didn't make sense, but were too simple to matter. For example, there was the simple pleasure that Jack held, which involved going to bed at night and knowing that when he awoke there would be raspberry jam in the fridge to accompany a slice of toast in the morning. But, without fail, Jack would awaken to find that all the bread would be there as it was the night before, but the raspberry jam would be out on the counter, with only sticky scrapings remaining. Thinking that he had maybe left it out accidentally after a night of drinking, he would scrape the jar and opt for peanut butter instead. Other unmentionable things, too, dissuaded Jack from keeping residence here - they being unmentionable only because they were not empirical, but rather intuitive. But he always resisted following them to their logical and inevitable end, for no other reason than the disbelief in superstition and signs. 

It is interesting to note, however, that Jack had tried to leave his apartment before. But every time he would set up an appointment to see another place, the rental agent would not show up, or the apartment would be taken before he could respond, or he was denied for some reason or another. Over the past three months, there had been nearly ten attempts that Jack had made to find another residence, all of which failed to come to fruition. 

There really was no good reason for Jack to either stay or leave. The apartment was comfortable and efficient, well insulated, quiet, there were friendly neighbors who chatted in passing but kept to their business. The complex was also near to many bars where Jack frequented and sat and drink, mostly alone, but happily. And the landlord, whose name was Richard, would only visit infrequently, and only to check on a maintenance ticket or to do fire alarm testing. He would even bring the tenants a variety of gifts, which were very thoughtful, but peculiar. Richard's gifts were crafted, according to him, at his garage and workshop outside of town. They were made using many different metals, which were shaped and polished into designs that he described as being "intentional". Usually they were, by appearance, only an amalgam that was shaped into circular and angular patterns, with no immediate or symbolic meaning. But Richard took great care of his crafts and imbued them with great importance. Most of the tenants saw this, and out of pity accepted them, but immediately stored them out of sight. 

Jack, however, kept all of Richard's creations in his apartment for the simple fact that he owned so little. The only possessions he had to fill his bedroom, for instance, were his mattress, a small coffee table, and a pile of clothes. The geometric metals hung from strings, sat on the table, and Jack even put some in his bathroom. The bigger ones naturally were put in the living room. These, he had hoped, would be centerpieces of conversation if anybody would ever visit. 

A year and a half had passed since Jack first moved in that apartment, and he had probably received around fifteen or twenty gifts from his landlord. He had started to notice that with each gift, which was received almost on a regular monthly schedule, the strange occurrences in the apartment increased, or rather, coinciding with a gift there would be an accompanying incident. The incidents were small, yes - lost objects, unexpected phone calls with dead air, electrical failures - but they were numerous enough to give Jack reason to leave. And like mentioned previously, he would try only in vain, and even then shortly after his motivation to vacate would wane, remembering that for the price apartment was great. 

It was in the hot and unending month of June, however, that things started to intensify. Richard has stopped by like normal to test the fire alarm system, and he brought with him a larger than normal sculpture. Jack accepted it with a polite "thank you", and tried to offer more conversation, being more interested than usual in his landlord's creation. Richard was curt, replying only with, "allow the creation to sit, and do not disturb it for three days." Jack followed his advice, not out of mandate but out of neglect. He actually let the sculpture sit for well over two weeks before examining it closer. He spent that night measuring its angles, counting its circles, and noting the change in appearance and display when circling it from one direction as opposed to another. Jack became fond of this particular sculpture, and allowed it to sit, albeit awkwardly, in the middle of his living room. This, Jack thought, would be a wonderful centerpiece. Following his inspection, Jack retired to his room, filled by a wave of accomplishment, as if he had crafted the sculpture with his own hands. 

In the midst of his dreams, which on that night were filled with the royal luxuries of fountains reflecting the Moon, silver weapons, and gardens filled with lilac and runes, there was a sudden and jarring interruption, as his dreams escaped him and in flooded a crashing noise. Jumping out of his bed, but still lost in the soft appeal of his dream, he followed the noise to the living room, where he only found broken glass from his window, and all of his sculptures gone. Jack peered out of the broken window into the summer night, and his eyes met a shooting star. 

Chapter II

The phone rings, and rings, and Jack answers:

"This is an important call, is this Jack Mathers?" 
"Yes, I am Jack."

"Meet me as soon as you can. I will be near the fountain, the one downtown with the  copper fish and marble birds."

"But who are you, and how will I know you?"

The question remained unanswered. Completely unanswered, in fact, as Jack never left his home that day to meet the unknown voice. It could have been a random and anonymous prank he thought, as nobody in his small queue of friends from work would be daring or inventive enough to call like that. If they wanted to see him, they would ask plainly and direct - and nobody in his circle ventured downtown much, as it was rundown, its days filled with sloth and its nights with danger. 

As the weeks passed through the normal routines of work, tampering with his car in the garage - not just a car, but a "classic" in his eyes - and loving his wife, Jack could not get that voice out of his head. There was nothing distinguishing about the voice, it was not a tall and broad voice, a voice of strength or character. Nor was it so much a voice of foreboding and pain. And there was nothing unusual in the request - to meet as soon as possible downtown by the fountain - it was only unusual in that it was anonymous. Nobody that Jack knew had said anything, and as far as he could tell, there was no conspiring either. Everybody at the factory was as frank and straightforward as ever, and even after one month not a single person had mentioned a thing. 

Jack kept this conversation to himself, and during morning's breakfast with his two children - his daughter Emma Lee, and his son Emmanuel - by his side, he would play the conversation over and over again through his head. They would all drink their orange juice, and eat their toast and eggs, but nobody knew what kept Jack quiet these past weeks. Emma Lee and Emmanuel would playfully, with a difficult innocence, try to open their father up, as a child's worst fear and greatest sadness is to see their father in pain, or unable to cope. At this, Jack would laugh and tickle them, and show them on their way to school.

There was one night, when autumn had first come, one of those nights where you can't recall the heat of summer and you are blind to the impending winter, where all things seem right, a night when you wander the streets with no direction you are directed by an inner Fate flawlessly, it was one of those nights where Jack's wife finally felt it was appropriate to bring up the matter that was obvious to all around him. 

"Jack, tell me honey, what is wrong?"

Jack put down his magazine, and turned to face his wife in bed.

"I don't know what you mean. I am perfect, and I am fine, and I love you." 

As he said this, Jack smiled and kissed his wife on the brow.

"I want to talk to you, honey, but I don't know how. I know everything is fine between us, and at work the boss seams to like you. And the children, oh! Emma Lee and Emmanuel, they are happy too, and playful. But Jack, there is something inside you that we have to release. It is there, and I sense it."

Jack's fists clenched underneath his covers.

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

"Jack, what have you seen? I am here for you, through everything - if there is somebody else, some other girl from your work, or that you met..."

He just stared blankly at her, still withholding that conversation and those few words of mystery.

"Please tell me Jack, I will stay with you. I love you."

She began to sob. Jack held her, but nothing came from his lips, no acknowledgment or denial of the accused infidelity. Her tears fell down her cheeks, and between the heavy bodily sobs and gasps for air, she only tried to speak. Finally, tired of sobbing and hopeless for resolution, she fell asleep. 

A year and a half later and that night had been long swept under their rug. Nothing ever again was brought up between them, and although Jack kept that original conversation about the fountain completely and thoroughly buried, he still had it in him. His wife never brought up the imagined infidelity again, as it was too difficult to confront, and there would be too much to lose. The bed was very comforting that night, the pillows extra soft, and the comforter warm. 

 Chapter III

The same booze, the same tequila, the same jokes poured into the same shot glasses. What is there to chase, when all that you are chasing is broken? These were some of his thoughts as Jack pulled the messy and tangled wad of cash from his side pocket, and let it fall onto the bar's counter. 

"Haha, Jack! Thanks for the business, we really appreciate you stopping by! That tangled wad there counts for about half of what you drank here tonight. We're going to have to kick your ass out this time, Jack. No fuckin' sob stories. I don't want to hear it."

At this the barkeep, a small but stolid fellow, with grey skin that can only be achieved through the many years of tending bar, walked around his counter and lifted Jack up from his stool, kicked open the back door, and placed him outside. It was not cold yet, no, for it was Spring, and according to the lovers in their youth it had been the most beautiful Spring in all memory, inspiring poetry in word and flesh. The flowers even had a delicious hum, something truly palatable and palpable. But outside the back door of the bar that night, Jack lay amongst filth - broken glass, vomit, and dirty rain water. 

Jack didn't know how he had reached this low, where it seemed as if nothing he did was on the mark. There was nothing that could erase the mark he felt inside, a stigma, which he felt followed him no everywhere he went. He neglected shaving and keeping up his hygiene, as he felt that if his internal uncleanliness was valid, it must be expressed in the external. He spent his days downtown, silent but keeping his mouth slightly open, as if trying to speak. Nothing could rise him, not the youthful hoods, not the cop sirens. He begged for money with only a rattling cup, neglecting even a sign or a gesture or a call. 

The mind - or rather the intelligence - reverts back to survival when survival is all one is engaged in. With no obligations or cares the intelligence does not need to be spread out, attacking all of life's trivialities - like bills, or laundry, or the preparation of food - as if they concern the continuity of the organism. In a state of survival, like homelessness, the intelligence will guide you only for the single aim of survival. In this way, the faculty is more true than in its more civilized form. 

Under the direction of this pure, true form of intelligence, Jack rose from his slump behind the bar's dumpster, and walked with head down out of the alley and onto the street. He followed its sidewalks as far as they went, and when the sidewalks turned to dirt and country roads, he followed them still. He walked all night, drunkenly, but without much stagger or confusion. That inward guiding intelligence, true to spirit, let Jack know that this road would be safe, and that he could lay his head out there, and the next day he could continue until he would be where he needed to be. 

When the Sun rose the next morning, so did Jack, feeling clear with a level of distinction that he had forgot he had. His thoughts were no longer hazy and impersonal, but now they were quick and sharp and invigorated. Jack walked for the rest of that morning into the afternoon and found himself in the next town. Three birds greeted him as he walked into the town, flying above him and playing in the sky. 

Jack found a cafe, and asked only for a water, explaining that he was new to this town, and he had no money and didn't know why he came. The barista, on seeing his plight and troubles, allowed Jack to pump as much coffee as he wanted form the air pot. After the third or fourth cup, and reading through the whole of the Sunday paper, a black man approached Jack from the corner of the cafe.

"Hello, my name is Hughie, and I can see you need help."

Jack picked up his gaze from his coffee and looked into the face of the black man. His eyes and teeth were very white. 

"Yes, I do."

The black man smiled, revealing all of his big pearly whites.

"Then follow me."

Chapter IV

There's nothing but glaring lights, red ones and whites ones and blue ones. And the sounds, they are shrieking, they are obscenities along with the lights. Everything is humming and whirling together - no sense can distinguish itself from the other. The lights and sounds contrast with the long and sweeping brown fields, freshly harvested, with cold just settling into the Earth. 

Jack is the only person that isn't in uniform of some sort - there's nearly thirty men and women, with different insignia, badges, credentials, all questioning Jack, taking notes with fine pens. The sky is wide, sad and spotted with a few circling gulls. Jack's hands tremble as he signs and authorizes the forms they point to. His signature is shaky and uncertain, even with the pure ink. 

There's no question that this is a mistake. It couldn't have happened. There's no story, no tragedy, that could have penned these events or these conclusions. Behind the moving crowd, the coming and going of the scene, there stands one solitary tree in the field. A hawk is perched on top, scouring the field for mice. 

One of the men approaches Jack, he seems to be the person in charge. His whole figure was lithe, save for his belly, which protruded oddly like a circle. His face was long, mouth small, and eyes large. 

"And you are employed at Practican Industries, and have been for seven years, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you've had no period of unemployment - not from layoff, or sickness, or personal time?"

"Yes. That is correct."

"And your wife, she stayed at home, raising your little Emma Lee and Emmanuel, is that right?"

"Yes..."

"With nothing unusual - no nights she did not come home, no phone calls, no men that you think could have been involved?"

"No, we were faithful. True to each other, like blood. Never once did I suspect anything."

At this Jack started to sob. 

The investigator remained unaffected - he just peered through Jack, watching the grown man break down, alone there in the field. 

"So there was nothing then, Jack, that you would note as being strange. But with you, did you do anything out of ordinary, were there ever any lapses in your fidelity, in your trust, in your openness?"

The whole of their marriage - scene by scene, year by year - went through Jack's mind. There was nothing.

"There was a phone call, a few years ago, that I didn't tell her about. I always kept it secret, but I don't see how it would be relevant."

Curiosity piqued for the investigator.

"And the contents of that conversation, what were they?"

"An anonymous voice asking for me to meet them downtown, by the fountain near the marbled fish and copper birds. Funny, I know, but I could never forget..."

"I think we have our match."

With a haste in his step, the investigator signaled for things to wrap up. Before Jack, and before the open field and sky, lay his wife the two kids, all three disemboweled with little sign of blood or struggle. 

Three months passed, and Jack had heard nothing from the authorities. All of the cards that he had to call would respond with the same, "I am sorry Jack, we got no forensics, no leads - it's all a dead end." The one investigator that did show promise, the one that seamed to be in charge, the tall one with protruding belly, never answered Jack's calls. He left so many voicemails, but never once received a returned call. 

After the year anniversary of the deaths, Jack was hopeless and the security of his home and job were fading. With the onset of depression that the deaths brought, he lost his job, with not much consolation - and shortly the house, which ended up in foreclosure. The bottle became his medicine, and the nights his therapy.  

Chapter V

Driving outside of town, there was freedom with the radio on and nothing really to impede. Jack's car took the rural road's curves tight with exactness. The air flowed and was naturally cool. Only a couple more miles, Jack thought, and the mystery would finally be solved. 

Within a few minutes Jack pulled up to his landlord's house in the outskirts of the city. A variety of wild grasses were overgrown and shadowed rusty appliances, auto parts, lumber, and scrap metal. The house was small, but the lot was large, and the backyard faded into woods. Jack followed a foot trail through the back, and eventually came to a garage on another lot that was more sheltered from the country road. This lot had more upkeep, as the grass had been recently cut, and there wasn't anything discarded or laying around. On the north side of the lot sat the work garage, which was lit up from inside. 

Jack approached the garage, not immediately finding the door. He circled it, and on the opposite end there was a small door that was heavily locked and bolted. After a few solid kicks he stopped. Something was approaching him from behind, coming out of the woods. With the intention of coming out here to find his landlord, Jack did not try to hide, but rather called out.

"Richard, I know you're here, I have to talk to you. It's Jack!"

With no immediate response, Jack started into the wood, clearing the hanging branches from his face and stepping over the fell trees. 

"Richard, I must speak with you, it's very important!"

Jack kept repeating his calls, with nothing in return.

"It's about the sculptures, they're missing!"

From behind him, in the direction of the work shed, Jack heard a return call.
"I am here, Jack. Back at the shed."

There could have been no way that the person who was in the woods could have got around Jack, as much of the wood was quite difficult to get through, and he had completely surveyed the work shed and its surroundings. Confused, he headed back and he found Richard sitting comfortably in front of the shed's, holding a hammer and some scrap metal. 

"You must understand Jack, that you were chosen. It wasn't I that chose you, and it wasn't the sculptures either."

Richard unlocked the shed door. 

"Look inside, Jack. It really should be no mystery to you. You see there, in the shed, what I have done?"

Jack looked inside and saw the sculptures that were taken from his apartment, all stacked neatly, all accounted for. 

"The voice you heard over the phone - what was it, three years ago? - it was me, Jack. Do not fear though, there is nothing really to fear."

Jack turned white.

"I was trying to tell you then, Jack, that you had been chosen. That life wasn't yours and you knew that, didn't you? You must have, because you found me here, and that too must have been in the arithmetic, somewhere in the equations. Look up!"

Above them, at that moment, a streak went through the bright blue sky.

"It's all a pattern here. You must understand this, do you remember as a child being asked to leave the classroom, stepping outside into the hot Sun, with the feeling of wind and then the missing time? Don't you remember as a teenager sitting in the parking lot after dinner, and being asked to drive out into the country by that that was inside you?"

Jack started to back away, confused and frightened. 

"You can't escape this dynamic, Jack. It's embedded through everything, as everything. I am only a messenger here. I tried to warn you, tried to subvert the inevitable, but even that failure was already formulated."

Richard started to laugh.

"It's a great consolation, these sculptures. To me they are the purest form of what I am trying to tell you, only if you would have listened. I didn't know how to tell you any other way. I know that you kept them, and analyzed them, and counted their shapes and the degrees of their angles. But you never really could put it all together. If you would have gotten it, you would have seen that your wife's death was necessary. It's in the sequence of the angles, and the relationships between this sphere and another's orbit. Is it starting to make sense?"

Richard laid down his hammer, and picked up one of the smaller sculptures.

"They're coming for me now, Jack. I must leave, and I won't see you again. Everything will still be in order, drop your rent check in the same box. You may have these sculptures as proof and evidence when I leave. Now, farewell!"