Chapter 11

Isaac Milton

April

On Sunday after church, Isaac sat in his room and read a book. This was an almost-guilt-free method of procrastination. He finished his book by late afternoon and placed it back in the blue crate. He took the blue crate to the library every couple of weeks to replace its contents. The library usually had a limit for checking out books, but they made an exception for him. He was friends with Mrs. Collier, the librarian. It was a good deal, but the Pikeston Public Library was running low on books that interested him.

The ending of the book had given him an idea for a character he wanted to use in a Pathfinder game. Maybe the next Banana Quest? He scribbled a summary on a sticky note and slapped it onto his closet door. He had to aim for a clear space among the dozens of other sticky notes.

He decided that after dinner he would play a game on his computer. Then he would do his math homework, then he would get some work done on that short story. Like, at least a few hundred words. Like, 500. At least.

But a message from Kate was waiting for him.

KC: yo yoooooooo

IM: Salutations and convivialities!

KC: AAAAHHHH!

KC: a wild Dorkus isaaci appears!

IM: What’s up? I haven’t seen you in a while

IM: I mean, talked to you

IM: I haven’t seen you since...

IM: EVER

KC: well

KC: maybe you will soon!

IM: oh sweet are you coming for Jim’s birthday?

KC: well maybe

IM: Better decide soon if you want to book a flight

IM: Or does your supervillain uncle just have his own private jet he lets you use?

KC: okay first, NOT a supervillain!

KC: (he does have private jets, though)

KC: and as for Jim’s birthday...

KC: I think

KC: that we’ll all be together then!

KC: even Heidi!

KC: and even maybe if some things are sad

KC: we’ll have each other!!!

IM: ...

IM: Kate what the hell kind of answer is that?

IM: Is this one of those goofy predictions Eric and Liz are always telling me about?

KC: THEY are goofy

IM: What I think is that you just can only communicate in an obtuse manner

IM: which inhibits clarity

IM: and leads people to draw weird conclusions

KC: duuurrrrrr i’m Isaac and i overthink everything all the time durrrrrrrrrhhhh

IM: What’s wrong with thinking?!

KC: hehehe

KC: nothing!

KC: it’s actually a good thing and I like that about you!

IM: So about that lens you mailed me.

IM: I looked at the sky through it, and there’s a crack

IM: Just this shining fracture in the sky that moves with the stars

IM: It’s still there

KC: yeah I think it’s been there since January

KC: January 28, 16:58 GMT most likely!

IM: Did you do it?

KC: what?!

KC: you think I broke the sky?

IM: Is that a yes?

KC: It is a negative, sir!

KC: I am almost certain that was not my fault!

IM: Was it your uncle, then?

KC: uhhh...

KC: unconfirmed

IM: Is it important?

KC: Definitely, yes!

IM: Oh cool. So what does it mean?

KC: I AM WORKING ON IT

IM: yikes!

IM: I just wanted to know why you mailed me that lens, I guess

KC: Isaac I didn’t mail you anything!

KC: it wasn’t me!

IM: oh

KC: anyway, I think it’s a piece of McFinnium so if that lens ever starts vibrating you should throw it far away!

KC: like to a place where no people are

KC: or animals, ideally

IM: Well this just got serious

KC: nonono it PROBABLY won’t be an issue

KC: ;D

IM: Winky face is not reassuring

KC: moving on, have you talked to Heidi much?

KC: Heidi likes weird books and movies and stuff

KC: like you!

IM: um I don’t think Heidi likes me very much

KC: 8O

KC: what!

IM: I don’t think she gets my jokes

KC: But Isaac nobody gets your jokes!

KC: Give her a chance!!

IM: ehhh

KC: written any stories, Isaac?

IM: Define “stories”

KC: will you let me read them?

IM: No

KC: WHY NOT

IM: They suck.

KC: it’s not fair!

KC: you and Liz! Good grief! What’s the point of making stuff if you don’t share it?

KC: I share my stuff with you!

IM: But Kate

IM: You have no shame

KC: >:|

IM: And I show you some of my music

KC: oh yeah!!!

KC: have you started working on our song yet???

‎ KC: you said you would

IM: wasn’t me

KC: >:(

KC: you haven’t!!

KC: we’re all waiting

KC: I told everyone it would be awesome

KC: (no pressure)

KC: ;)

IM: *rolls eyes*

IM: *backflips in exasperation*

KC: *gets his lazy butt to work writing a song for us all to play*

IM: *defies narrative prompt; goes to play videogames*

KC: >:O

IM: I’ll do it eventually

IM: I did promise

KC: but what if you don’t have much time?

KC: you never know

IM: oh, but YOU do?

IM: *narrows eyes suspiciously*

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KC: bye, Isaac!

KC: get to work!

KC: and maybe keep that lens in like a lead-lined safe or something if you have one

KC: <3

Isaac examined the lens on his desk. He was fairly certain that no lead-lined safe existed in the Stockers’ house where he now lived. He could put it in…the chest freezer in the garage? He reached out and touched it. No vibrations. McFinnium, she had said? He had never heard of it. Was that some new material named after her mad scientist of an uncle? Hmm. Mysteries for another time! The thing had been fine so far, so he wasn’t going to worry about it for the moment. He should concern himself with the more present and infuriating mystery of writing music, which was An Exceedingly Challenging and Inevitably Frustrating Endeavor! Isaac swiveled his chair to face the keyboard in his room. There was an upright piano downstairs, but he used the keyboard for composing. He practiced on it too, because he didn’t like other people listening to him practicing. Sometimes he used the grand at the school. He had a copy of the key.

He had had some frustrating times at that keyboard. Did all composers have so much trouble writing music? He didn’t know. Maybe he was just inexperienced and didn’t know the best ways to do it yet. He had written piano music, arrangements for small ensembles, some solo stuff (even for voice although he Didn’t Sing Ever), and he had big plans for an orchestral piece in several movements. But what Kate wanted was like none of that. She wanted something they could all play together, except Jim, who didn’t do music. That meant piano, drums, bass, saxophone, and voice.

Isaac cast a baleful glance at the notebook in which he had tried to jot some lyrics. They were bad, really bad. Did Elizabeth know that Kate was trying to get him to write a piece which included her singing? Probably not. Elizabeth hated singing in front of people. They had all tried to get her to sing at her birthday, to no avail. Her sister AJ had sung (while Isaac had tried to accompany her), and she had been great! But not Liz.

The worst part was, Isaac needed her help with the lyrics. He was Not A Poet, whereas she very much was. He would have to trick her into coming up with lyrics that fit with his song, which would certainly be an Enterprise Of Dubious Effectiveness. A tricky business, one might say.

Also the drums and bass. He didn’t really know how those worked, or how to notate for them. Lots to learn! Nevertheless, he had some ideas. It would be jazzy, as seemed only natural for such an ensemble. He didn’t know if Liz did jazz singing or scat or whatever, and he didn’t know how to write that stuff even if she did, but he’d worry about that later. He had some fragments of melodies and motifs already stored on his music notation software.

Fortunately, a message from Jim provided just the excuse Isaac needed to procrastinate further.

JW: Hi Isaac

JW: I sent you something in the mail

JW: It was a picture

JW: I guess

JW: Do you have it yet? I hoped it would get there in time

IM: Greetings, Mr. Whyte!

IM: It was you!

IM: In the ballroom. With the candlestick.

JW: What?

IM: Yeah I got it yesterday

IM: I think

IM: Is it all just black?

IM: Just a piece of paper with black crayon scribbled all over it?

JW: Yeah that’s it

IM: I gotta say you’re really branching out

IM: I never thought you’d go for this postmodern non-representational stuff

IM: But, uh, it’s nice I guess

IM: Sure is...

IM: black

IM: Actually to be real with you Jim I don’t really think this is your style

JW: Um

JW: This could sound weird

IM: Jim I know who I’m talking to. Hit me

JW: I drew it because of a dream I had

JW: More of a nightmare really I guess

IM: Bummer!

IM: Looks like a garbage nightmare

JW: It was

IM: What about the title? Does it have one?

IM: You’re big on titles

IM: Everything’s got a title

JW: Yeah. It’s black

JW: I mean

JW: The title is “Black”

JW: like the color

IM: Wow.

IM: Direct, descriptive. No funny business.

IM: I like it

JW: There’s a person in it

IM: ?

JW: It’s not solid black there’s a person in it

IM: If you say so Jim, but it looks pretty solid black to me

JW: Okay well

JW: I think you need to look at it in the light

JW: When you look at it in the dark you can’t tell

JW: I think you just need to know that it’s actually a picture of a person

JW: Somehow

JW: I don’t really get it

JW: But its important

IM: Hahaha Jim you’re starting to sound like Kate

IM: Trying to be all vague and mysterious and spooky

JW: Haha yeah

JW: Sorry

JW: Just remember, okay?

IM: All right, Jim. I’ll remember.

JW: Okay

JW: Bye

Isaac had been so distracted by the peculiarity of the conversation that he had forgotten to ask what Jim knew about Kate’s plans. Or, potentially, a crack in the sky.

He looked at the paper in his hands. He had indeed received this in the mail yesterday. He had identified it as either a cunning prank or a Jimothy-Whyte-thing, which was to say, inexplicable. It was a regular sheet of plain white printer paper. One side had been entirely covered in black crayon. Jim must have used an entire black crayon just to do this. There was some crayon box in Jim’s house that was a complete set except for a nubby little stump of a black crayon because of this.

But Jim said it was a picture of a person?

Isaac got up and stood directly under the ceiling light. He held up the paper and moved it through a bunch of different angles.

He didn’t see any…

No, there was something. It was visible only because of the texture; the contours of the scribbling. When the light shone full on it, Isaac could see the vague outline of a person in the midst of the black.

It actually creeped him out a little. No detail was visible on the figure, of course, but nevertheless it seemed as though it was stalking toward him. There was an air of menace. An unreasonable chill ran down his spine as he looked at it.

This was Jim’s special talent with the visual arts. He had an instinctive knack for instilling emotion into a scene. Jim could draw an apple sitting on a table in many different ways: happy, sad, angry, eerie, whatever. Same apple, same table, different feelings. Jim did this sort of thing as practice. It was crazy.

And Jim thought this black paper was important, huh? Isaac wished Jim would be more specific but he probably couldn’t. That kid just did things without knowing why.

Isaac compared the black paper to Jimothy’s other works of art which adorned his walls. Jimothy had no difficulty giving presents. One-track mind. But he was difficult indeed to give presents to . He didn’t really want anything. Nothing that could just be given as a present, anyway.

Time to get to work on that story. Hey, that was an idea. Jim always did paintings for everybody. He would certainly enjoy a Special Birthday Story from his Good Friend Isaac. That would be something to consider. However, it would have to be done fairly soon. Jim’s birthday was in two weeks. He scribbled the words story for Jim? on an orange sticky-note and slapped it onto the wall in front of him, which was already molting a whole stack of them.

What he really needed was a more stimulating atmosphere. There was a new coffee shop in town, locally owned. He had it on good authority that aspiring novelists did their best work in coffee shops. Also, he liked the mochas. Also, it was cold outside, which made hot drinks taste even better. By the time he walked to the coffee shop he would be shivering, which would enhance the resulting experience considerably.

He loaded his laptop and cord into his backpack, along with his notebook of story ideas and notes. After some consideration he threw in his notebook for the Pathfinder campaign he was running in case he needed to take a break from working on the story. He also added a book of Debussy preludes, because there was a piano there and sometimes people wanted him to play, and he was getting pretty good at The Sunken Cathedral.

Thus armed, he proceeded cautiously downstairs. Mr. Stocker, Thane’s dad, was not home, but he wasn’t sure about Mrs. Stocker. He lived in their house, and had done so for the past few years. He had moved in because he used to be pretty good friends with Thane, and he had no close family to move in with after his father had died/disappeared. Things were becoming a bit awkward with Thane and his family, though. He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but it had of late seemed like a better choice to just avoid them. Easier, at any rate.

The house proved satisfyingly empty, and he was able to abscond without difficulty into the Great Outdoors. The evening light made long shadows. He soon joined main street, and then it was a block or two down. On the way he passed the only stoplight in town, a four-way perpetually-blinking red light. He kept an ear out for Dwayne Hartman’s pickup, but heard only healthy and functional vehicles.

Minutes later, he sat warm and cozy in a plush black chair in the corner of Bridges, a hot sugary drink at his side. The rustic wood-paneled room was empty save for himself and Emily at the counter reading a Field and Stream magazine. She liked to fish. He wondered briefly if she was into ice fishing. He knew a good joke about that.

Ah, solitude. Perfect. An ideal medium for the Prolific Creative Shenanigans which were about to go down.

One hour later he had written about six sentences. Decent sentences, he thought. He had also written a dozen notes in his Pathfinder notebook, sketched a map and drawn up some ideas for NPCs. He had done a visual run-through of the Debussy prelude. He had cracked open the Worm Ouroboros to get some ideas for exotic names, and had ended up re-reading half a chapter. But yeah, about a paragraph as far as the story was concerned.

What was he thinking? Eric made his music in his room, Jim painted in his room, Elizabeth did her theoretically-existent poetry in her room. Even Kate did her mad scientist thing, if not in her room, then presumably at least in her house somewhere. Or, like, castle or spaceship or wherever the heck she lived. Should’ve stayed in the room.

But before he left Bridges, he could at least do a bit of campaign work. He googled something about common Finnish names, ready to gather some ideas for an upcoming village. The first result made him pause, blink, look around, then peer closely at his monitor. The heading for the first entry read, “Isaac Milton,” and the text beneath: “Do not be alarmed. Someone named Jacob Hollow is approaching Pikeston. He is your ally. So am I.”

Everything in the outside world checked out as normal. Emily at the counter was chewing gum, on her phone, not paying attention. Two people had entered, an older couple, Kim and Jim Holter or something, Isaac thought he had met them somewhere briefly.

The rest of the search results were as expected—baby name generators and websites telling the meanings of popular Finnish names. Isaac clicked the first link, the one with his name. It took him to a long list, starting with Aabraham, Aada, Aadolf, Aamu, Aapeli, Aapo, and so on. Back to the previous page, and the search results were normal. Had he imagined it? Of course not. He had a name now. Jacob Hollow.

After some thought, he cleared the search bar and typed, “Who are you?” He hit enter.

Most of the results were about the Who’s eighth studio album and its titular track, but the top result was headed with, “My name is Clara,” and the text preview read: “We are on the same side. I have been instructed to give you warning about an approaching threat.”

Isaac considered this for a while. He didn’t know any Claras. Who could be behind this? Kate came to mind, but she could have simply messaged him. Was it NASA? A clandestine government agency? Obviously this had to do with that crack in the sky, and the fact that he’d noticed it. Was Jacob Hollow some kind of secret special agent coming to protect Isaac from foreign assassins? Or from aliens!?

He took a few deep breaths. No need to jump to any conclusions just yet. The real question was: Why was the Mysterious Communicant using such an arcane means of transmission? Who could alter Google’s search results? Or had his laptop simply been hacked? He needed more information.

He typed, “You’re the one who mailed me the lens. Why?”

This time the other results had nothing to do with what he’d typed. They were all about the Ray Bradbury novel Something Wicked this Way Comes . The first result was different. The header: “Abraham Black is coming.” The text: “You can see him with it. Do not engage—repeat—do not engage. Stay close to Jacob.”

This time Isaac was quicker on the reply. “You’re with McFinn. You’re one of his special AIs, aren’t you?” If Kate had accurately identified the material of the strange lens, then this clearly had to do with her uncle. ‘Not a supervillain,’ she said. Yeah, right.

The search results were all about Riley McFinn—famous reclusive engineer, inventor of increasingly concerning devices that proved largely immune to attempts at reverse-engineering. Subject of debate, protests, Interpol investigations, etc. But the top result read “Sharp, Isaac. Just like your father.” And beneath it: “Excuse you, sir—I am his only ‘special’ AI. And I have delivered my message.”

Isaac typed furiously. “If you’re really a super-smart AI, you’d know that I’ve been trying to find out what happened to my father. What do you know?” He hit enter, and he paid no attention to the superfluous results for whatever Google thought he was searching.

“Good luck, Isaac Milton,” was the heading for the first result. And the text read, “If you’re really what Nikola Raschez thinks you are, you’d already know that it doesn’t matter.”

Isaac fired back with more questions, but with no results, other than the thousands of regular entries supplied by the blind Google algorithms in a vain and puzzled attempt to answer his queries. Clara was not responding.

The most important question, situated like a burning coal in the front of his brain, was this: why had Clara selected such a bizarre form of communication? Who, exactly, was she afraid would overhear if she simply texted him? Obviously not Google, nefarious though it may be.

“Yo,” said Emily from the counter. “You all right?” She was staring at him, looking concerned and chewing gum at the same time.

Isaac stood, slapped his laptop shut, and stuffed his belongings into his backpack. “Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked in exactly the way he’d always hoped it never would in front of Emily. “Fine.” His second word sounded without a crack, but it was faint, and it could not have been any more of an obvious lie even if Jimothy Whyte had said it. Emily watched him leave.

It was dark outside. Jim had said “in time.” Jim had hoped his illustration would make it “in time.” And what had Kate said? Something about maybe not having much time. Abraham Black is coming; do not engage. And what the hell was ‘McFinnium,’ anyway?

Isaac removed the crumpled crayon-covered paper from his pocket. The cold wind was picking up; it battered the wax-heavy sheet of paper. Here in his hands was a figure all in black, stepping toward him out of the darkness. Main Street was well lit, but his residential street was not. No streetlights. The asphalt was a black chasm. The stars sparkled overhead. The cottonwoods groaned in the icy gusts. Somewhere to the north, invisible, a crack fractured the sky.

He wished he had brought a flashlight.