Nathan the Astronaut

The first time I flew, I was seven years old.

It was the night the factory exploded; the dye factory with its massive wrought iron gates, towering red-brick walls, vast vats of thick gooey liquid, eye-watering stench and the red-liveried doorman with the bushy eyebrows.

The first gush of flame lit up the sky like a fireworks display. The inferno blazed away, licking at the old building.

Standing at the window I watched. It called. Opening the window I climb onto the roof. The tiles are cold. A wind is blowing. I wrap the blanket tighter.

Sirens wail in the distance. Another explosion shakes the factory.

A sudden flare shoots out of the flame. A dazzling projectile wrapped in flame, curving out against the dark night sky. Framed by stars.
I step forward, eager.

My foot slips.

Suddenly I tumble. I regain my feet. Now I run. Faster and faster. Gaining momentum. Every detail etching itself on my mind. The trees sway. I run out of tiles.

For a moment I hang in the air. The knot of fear in my stomach eases. The world slows. My speed severing me from the flow of time. A feeling of pure ecstasy. Then I come back down to Earth.

Chapter 1: The Weightlessness of Space

The house is dark.

Outside the rain falls with a leaden intensity, determined to complete its task.

Through the windowpane the familiar contours of the garden look strange and hazy. The trees stand hostile, feral, regal. Primitive in their fierce greenery.

The leaves rustle and turn, buffeted by the wind and rain. The green of the leaves seem unnatural, as if they stand in the storm recalling the grandeur of long-forgotten primordial forests. They look unfamiliar, as if possessed by the spirits of foreign ancestors. Trees haunted by the shadows and memories of decomposed bark and bough.

I am tired. My thoughts are sluggish, burdened with a weary ponderousness. I’m using far too many big words.

I wonder if anybody’s home. So far nobody’s come by to wake me. It’s unlikely that anybody would have gone out so early on a Tuesday morning. But the house is quiet. The kind of quiet that emanates from long-abandoned houses, a silence of softly bated breath.

Tiny rivulets meander slowly down the glass.

It feels odd to be free on a Tuesday morning with no plans, duties or obligations. On Mondays people are still creaking at the joints from the weekend, grumbling away at work. But on Tuesday there’s work to be done. No respite for the weary. Keep at it Johnnyboy. The weekend’s pushed to the back of the head. A survival skill. Adaptation, I guess.

No hunger. But a need for breakfast. Otherwise the hollow feeling at the pit of my stomach would grow and then schloop! it’ll swallow me whole.

People should come in with built-in early warning systems. Warning: Tenuous grip on reality detected, please collect ballast to prevent floating into depression.

Somebody knocks on the door. I don’t answer. She comes in anyway. I watch her in the mirror.

She sits down on the red chair.

I don’t recognize her, at first. Her hair’s down to shoulder length. She’s wearing jeans that are long enough to touch the carpet. Bell-bottoms. Her red sweater rolled up at the sleeves. She pushes the hair back over one ear. Black-and-white saddle shoes. The lips seem fuller.

Her complexion is darker than I remember. But her eyes are still the same: big, bright and sharp. They scan the room critically.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been here Uncle Nate.”

“Really?”

She nods. Almost unconsciously.

“You’ve been away a long time.”

“Guess so,”

“Hasn’t changed much from what I remember…”

Look: the old dresser hasn’t been moved. The carpet hasn’t been replaced despite the large stain on one corner. The cedars on the wallpaper might be a bit darker. But she does not know; a different aura, like a neglected childhood hiding place: overgrown, dusty and distant, but with a familiar warmth.

My soul is still secure under the loose floorboard.

I have a sudden urge to see Jack’s room.

“Is anybody else home?”

“I came over with Mom. She’s in the kitchen, with Pelham.”

I wince noticeably.

She smiles.

“We’re okay for a few minutes. We just got here.”

I relax, slightly.

She saw the raven on the tree. She looks around the room again.

“I’ve always wanted to ask you this, but why is there only one crow on the entire wallpaper?”

“It’s a raven.”

The bird in question was sitting on one of the highest boughs of the most gnarled tree of the forest decorating the wall.

“Why, though?”

“My parents dedicated this room to the Raven King before I was born. Nobody told you?”

“I never asked. I figured I’d ask you when you got here. It seems more fun that way, like being initiated into a family secret or something.”

“Dad says that’s why I have such dark eyes.”

“It would also explain your luck…”

I'm rather proud of my progress on the ironic smile.

“You’ve heard about that?”

“Mom told me a few stories.”

I wondered which ones, though.

“Okay, we’ve dallied enough. Let’s get down there before something catastrophic happens.”

“What do you want to bet that they’re already at each other’s throats?”

“Seeing as how I didn’t bring any presents for you…”

I took out the note and handed it to her.

“You get it back if they aren’t…” she said, innocently.

I couldn’t help smiling.

“Need any help?” she asked.

“I’ll manage…”