A Fortress of Pebbles

Side by side, Cassandra and Orion were being swallowed by the couch, sucked down into the cracks, down into an underworld of crumbs and pennies.

She could deal with Grandpa being some kind of Master of Rot – older than everyone else’s grandpas combined. It even clarified a few things, like how Dad had always seemed a little bit afraid of him, and how Mom had always thought everything he said was a message from God. Maybe it even explained why they hadn’t mentioned his death; they weren’t sure whether to believe it themselves.

What she was having trouble with was the dementia. This was the part that was turning the couch into a strange creature from another world, slowly sucking her and Orion into a digestive system where billions of microorganisms would break their bodies down. Something from the stream of nonsense in her mind must have exited her mouth because Mom said, “Crazy isn’t the word I like to use.”

Cassandra squinted at her Mom over the steaming cup of hot chocolate that had appeared in her hand. Orion had one too. His mug said, Dad Rocks! – a gift they’d gotten for Dad after visiting the geological museum. Hers was one of the positivity mugs that Mom liked to order online – with a deep mantra that became even deeper when the mug was warm: We are nothing… but the dust of stars.

Mom was busying herself taking dead plants from the bookshelves and placing them into a pile in the corner. She seemed to be having trouble meeting anyone’s eyes as she talked. “It’s just that the older he got, the less sense he made. I mean… we could understand him. But sometimes he would shout… or become angry…”

As Dad boarded up a window, he nodded to reinforce what she was saying. They were on the same page about whatever it was they were struggling to say – which meant it was probably mostly lies. Cassandra realized that Mom was doing some kind of long-winded monologue to absolve her and Dad of responsibility for the last few years – the Grandpa Has Dementia years.

Cassandra remembered a night similar to this one – drinking hot chocolate while the couch drank her up – when Grandpa just wasn’t there. Mom and Dad had explained that he was in the hospital and that he’d probably be back in a week. The week had become a month, and the promises of his return had become promises that they could go visit him soon. Then, Mom had started working late, and Dad had started doing target practice like an addict. If there was a moment when everything had begun to rot, that was it.

“So what was it really?” Cassandra said. “If not dementia, then what?”

Mom and Dad were silent for so long that she began to think they might be incubating more lies – somehow discussing the matter via telepathy. Finally, Dad said, “When I was growing up, he used to go into the bunker, sometimes for weeks or months at a time. You probably remember that Christmas when he was overseas?”

“So that was a lie too,” she wanted to say but couldn’t.

Mom must have heard anyway. “He always had very specific instructions about what to tell the two of you. We weren’t supposed to talk about the bunker. When he started to lose his mind, he insisted it was a necessary step – that we should tell you it was dementia.”

Orion spoke for the first time in hours. “How’d he end up in the graveyard?”

At this, Dad said, “Look, we have less than two hours before–”

To Cassandra’s amazement, Dad’s voice cracked. It was a first, and it terrified her. She had to look twice to confirm, but yes – there were tears in his eyes.

“–before whatever he wanted to happen starts happening,” Dad finished, powering through. He seemed to be in the process of willing his body back under his control, turning tears to steam with the heat of denial.

He didn’t know, Cassandra realized. Whatever was “supposed to happen” – Grandpa hadn’t told them. Had Grandpa even taken them into the bunker? She didn’t think so. The images in her mind – of a torchlit fortress, a grimy marketplace, a spire full of doors to a world where pebbles grew on trees – she was willing to bet that Mom and Dad had never seen these things firsthand.

But that wasn’t all. From the way Mom’s knuckles were bone white and the way Dad was shoving his trembling hands into his pockets, they’d seen something that made it hard to answer Orion’s relatively simple question.

“How’d he end up in the graveyard?” Orion asked again. Except – it wasn’t Orion. It was her mouth that had spoken. There must have been some sadistic monster, deep in the bunker of her mind, that wanted to see Dad’s mask slip again, to see Mom’s face grow even whiter.

“He wanted us to help him transcend,” said Mom – her voice a weak wind, rustling lips as dry as paper. Her eyes were on Dad, and she seemed to realize that, as hard as it was for her to speak, it was harder for him. Dad just shook his head and looked at the clock, as if he wanted nothing more than for the world to be ending right now.

For some reason, Cassandra imagined a ceremony with a knife and candles. Maybe a pentagram. Mom went on to say other nonsensical things – about them all being chosen ones, about needing to make certain sacrifices, about having faith. Cassandra snorted into her mug, drawing a glare, as if she’d farted in church.

“After everything you’ve seen,” insisted Mom, “tell me you don’t believe we’ve been chosen.”

Cassandra recalled the wind on her face as she had run through the Fortress courtyard, Orion’s hand in hers, raindrops on her face, her mind on fire with the words, the Fortress is a prison. Yes, she had been chosen. To be fed lies. To foolishly believe she was in control of her own choices.

She placed a hand on her stomach, where she knew that a blue relay pebble lay submerged in hot chocolate and digestive acid. She hoped the Masters were listening. If they showed up now, on broomsticks, like Hagrid, to whisk her away to literally anywhere, she’d hop right on.

“I’m done being chosen,” said Cassandra.

“Me too,” said Orion, but weakly. Cassandra wasn’t sure if he meant it. Not like she did.