Palimpsest

This is another short story that features Puck, the first story is Pseudonym. I was once planning on writing a bunch of short stories that all showed Puck through various people’s points of view to tell an overarching tale, but I never wrote more than two. I quite like this story – it’s the only story I’ve written so far from the point of view of an old man.

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“Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death.” –Frank Herbert

 

The headlights flashed through the darkness, revealing flickers of the surrounding countryside. The twin beams illuminated a tree just long enough to show its twisted limbs stretching over the road before it disappeared, replaced instead by the muted yellow of a yield sign, the flash of a raccoon’s eyes, or the slate gray of the curving road ahead.

My head nodded, vertebrae clicking slightly as my neck slid down towards my chest; I jerked myself awake. It was late and my energy had begun to fade with the setting sun. The eerie green glow of the electronic clock said it was 11:37 pm. Generic classical music crackled out of the speakers, interrupted occasionally by the nasal voices of announcers. The day was slowly winding like the road before me. There were the artificial boundaries of hours and exits, but neither time nor the road ever really ended, except for death or the ocean.

I shook my head. In my exhaustion, I was waxing philosophical. Usually by this time my head was on a soft pillow.

The headlight beams settled on a lone figure ahead in the gloom. He or she was almost impossible to see, but the pale swatch of a face peered at me, the one dot of a hand wrapped around the body for warmth, and the white comma of the other hand stuck out into the road. The hunkered form of a car crouched behind the small figure, still breathing steam.

I found myself pulling over a bit ahead of the figure. My car hovered by the side of the road, purring. Usually I was a bit more cautious, but I could use the company and the conversation. I chuckled; I was fulfilling the stereotype of the old man who loved to prattle on at the young folk about wars and past presidents.

The steady muffled crunch of footsteps approached. The hitch hiker tried the handle and—finding it locked—knocked politely on the window. I clicked the locks and turned off the radio static, feeling a little silly for forgetting to do it before. I can blame old age on the little things I’d been forgetting for years, at least. The hitch hiker opened the door, the crisp autumn air swirled into the car with its new passenger.

“Thanks,” he said, rubbing his hands together to warm himself. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was a young fellow, definitely under thirty. He had a dark beard and a light, slightly grimy face, but in the poor light that was all about him I could discern. His Ivy cap obscured his eyes, which annoyed me. I like to look a person in the eyes when I first meet them. I fiddled with one of the knobs on the dashboard, hoping it was the right one, and the car warmed up by several degrees. The clock read 12:01 am. The green light traced the outlines of my gnarled, liver-spotted hand.

“My car overheated,” the man stated.

“I can see that,” I glanced in my rear view mirror at the smoking ruins as I pulled away. “Where’re you heading?”

“Well eventually I’m headed to Los Angeles, but the nearest big city will be fine so I can call a tow truck. Unless you have a cell phone on you, by any chance?”

“No, sorry,” I said. “I still can’t trust those things.”

He laughed a warm, low sound. “Me neither, though I’m regretting that a bit now.” Though the laugh had been friendly, his face didn’t look it. It looked hard, comprised of sharp angles and tense lines, as if an artist had drawn him while pushing the pencil down too firmly.