Call Me Ishmael

Chapter 11

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At that moment, the room began to move.  At first I thought I was going to faint; after all, I have a tendency to drop to the floor in moments like these.  My primary care physician refers to it as syncope, and I see no reason to contradict him.  Most of the time he is spot on with diagnosis, although at times I feel he runs extra tests when he has a Mercedes payment due.  This, however, was different.  It did not feel like the room was moving; it was in fact, rotating.  It quickly picked up speed. 

“Dad!” I shouted.

“Don’t worry,” he offered, not moving from the terminal with Splice.  I realized he was not moving with the rest of the room.  “Take hold of Finnie’s hand.  Gently!”

I looked at Finnie.  She reached out with her unweaponized hand, and I grasped it like a drowning man grabbing one of those colorful swimming noodles made of foam.  Unlike a swimming noodle, she squeezed back.   The room spun faster; my father and the terminal were a blur.  A great, rolling, searing, crashing, tearing rolled across us, and I gritted my teeth against the screeching noise.  It was as shrill as a young violinist warming up her fingers after a long trip in a cold car, and my head felt as though it would implode.

“What’s going on?” I shouted, my mouth just a fraction of an inch from Finnie’s ear.

“I don’t know,” she shouted back, “Wait and see!”

There did not really seem to be a lot of choices, and I had no idea what was happening, how long it would last, or how it would end.  The last two questions were answered first.  As quickly as it began, the spinning stopped, and the blur vanished.  After a few heartbeats, I opened my eyes.  We stood in a forest, on a path leading through a gentle glade, with light splashing all around us in dreamy patterns of sheer pastoral beauty.  I looked at Finnie, and she looked at me, and then we looked together at a very large wolf sitting directly in front of us.

My hand inched toward my gun, and Finnie drew her breath in. 

“Are you getting out your gun?” She spoke almost like a ventriloquist; she just let out little slips of air pass those beautiful, perfect lips.  I could see her lips only in my mind’s eye, though, because I kept my own green eyes locked on the darker, greener eyes of the wolf. 

As soon as I break his stare, he’s going to jump, I thought.  He’s thinking about what I’m going to do; waiting for me to lose concentration so he can take advantage of it and leap.  Well, he’s going to be disappointed.

“If you’re going to take that gun out, let’s get it over with, brother.” 

I blinked.  I admit it.  I blinked first.  Had I been president of the United States of America during the Cuban missile crisis, there is no doubt in my mind that I would have done the same thing.  I would have blinked, and plunged the world into a nuclear holocaust.  It’s a good thing I’ve never even served on a school board. 

But the wolf did not jump, nor did he leap, lunge, or otherwise dart toward our throats.  He only sat, looking at us with apparent puzzlement.  The thing to do seemed to be to wait, so I waited.  Maybe Finnie would have an idea.

“You’re a wolf,” she said, “And you talked.” 

“It seems you’re quite observant,” said the wolf, “Although even a child could come to the same conclusion.”  He turned his attention back to me, those green-black eyes boring a hole into my head.  “Are you going to pull that gun, or not?  The suspense is killing me.”