Ealanta

By Roxie Prince

An artistic gift beyond her wildest dreams.

A love which transcends time and space.

And a life she never knew she had.

Margot Montgomery is a seventeen-year-old remarkably gifted painter from East Texas who struggles to find her place. The only thing she is sure of is the art she has an inexplicable connection with. Despite her family's wishes, she follows her heart (and her art) to the mountains of Colorado and rents a cabin from a lonely old woman named Joy Love. There, she paints the portrait of a man she's certain she somehow knows but cannot remember. The more she paints, the more she unlocks the secrets her art has for her, soon discovering her story is far more magical than she could have ever imagined. It's no wonder she never fit in with her peers -- she has never really been one of them.

Together, with the man from her painting, Margot leaves her former life behind and sets out on an epic quest to save an entire world of people she couldn't remember a short while before but now loves with all her heart and has no choice but to redeem.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roxie Prince
• Release date: Nov 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386169314

Roxie Prince

ABOUT ROXIE PRINCE Roxie is a creative soul who turns her life into stories, poetry, and art. She was born HIV+ and was orphaned by AIDS at the age of 10. She tells a story of survival through her works. Her first publication, COMPENDIUM: A Horror Novelette, is available as an e-book download now for all e-readers and as a paperback available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Books-A-Million, and other major online retailers. Her first full-length, young adult novel, The Way We Go, a tale of growing up, friendship, hope, and young love is available NOW! Growth Spurt, the companion novel to The Way We Go, picks back up with Katie Sterling and her friends as they turn thirteen and enter the confusing era in which they are unsure whether to start growing up or to cling tightly to their childhoods. The girls have a lot of growing up to do; whether they do it together or not is what they'll have to decide. It releases January 1, 2016. Roxie is also working on compiling a collection of poetry about growing up and living with HIV to accompany her memoirs. She is a self-taught artist who currently works through the digital medium to create pieces that speak to her. Her style is ever-evolving. Her art prints are available through her Society6 page. Join her on her journey.

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ealanta

Roxie Prince

Copyright © 2016 Roxie Prince

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover is original artwork copyright © 2016 Roxie Prince. All rights reserved.

www.roxieprince.com

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

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Keep reading. It's one of the most marvelous adventures that anyone can have.

― Lloyd Alexander

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This book was a long time coming. Six years, to be exact. It started with a tiny seed of an idea in 2010, and I decided to use it as a NaNoWriMo project that year in my inaugural attempt at the event. I failed. Miserably. But the idea stuck with me, and I continued to fertilize that little seed, slowly but surely, over time until it germinated. The story grew and evolved and changed drastically over time becoming something greater than I could have ever imagined. And like the great tree that it is, its roots took hold in my heart and made a home.

I did NaNoWriMo two more years in a row using Ealanta as my project, and I won both years. Back then, Ealanta was intended to be two separate novels entitled Ealanta: The Discovery and Ealanta: The Return, but as it grew and became greater than my simple plans for it, it became clear that it needed to be one larger work.

I never intended for this book to take six years for me to complete. I always hoped for this to be the first book I published, as it was the first novel I ever wrote, but these things take on a life of their own. Clearly, Ealanta did not want to be rushed, and I’m glad it took its time.

I love this book. This book is my heart. These characters have become such a part of me that it physically hurts to let them go. That’s part of the reason it took me so long to finish this novel. When things got hard in my life, I would retreat to this world and visit these characters. They became my escape and my friends. Now, they get to be your friends, too.

There are also huge parts of me in this book that I think it’s important for you to know about.

The cabin Margot moves to in Big Thompson Canyon is based off the very same one that I lived in with my father, Steve, right before he passed away from AIDS complications in 1995. He wanted to live the remainder of his days in the mountains, a place he loved the most. There really was a little store like Doc’s near the cabin, and the woman we bought the cabin from really was named Joy Love. The character isn’t based off her at all, though, because I didn’t know her, and I’m sure she’s not alive anymore as she was very old back then.

I believe my father was with me a lot as I wrote this book. He’s a huge reason I’m an author today. He taught me how to read and instilled a love of literature in me from the time I could understand what words were. When I was a kid, he used to tell me, Roxie Faye, you’re either gonna be a park ranger or an author when you grow up, and I knew damn well I wasn’t going to be a park ranger!

Before he died, my father wrote me a letter. It was published in some newspaper somewhere in Colorado where we lived (I have clippings, but I’m unsure what paper it’s from), and the second-to-last line in the letter reads: Life is short and very precious; live it to its breaking point. The last part of that sentence — live it to its breaking point — plays an important role in this novel because it has played an important role in my life.

Without my father’s influence, I don’t believe I would have written this book, so I’ve dedicated it to him. I miss him every single day, and I wish he were here to read it. But I believe, in a way, he has because he was here to help me write it. I love you, Dad.

I would also like to thank the dedication of my beta-readers: Bonnie Sagastume, Rebecca Sult, Tasha Kang, and Shae Jackson. Their help is invaluable, and their never-ending encouragement has helped to make this book what it is. I can never thank them enough.

Finally, I’d like to thank you, dear reader, for your constant support. Without you, I wouldn’t have been able to make my dreams of becoming a real, honest-to-goodness author a reality. Thank you for all of your support, and I hope you’ll love this book as much as I do. I hope Margot, Asa, and the rest will steal a piece of your heart as they have mine and that you’ll stick around to see what might happen next for all of us.

Always,

Roxie Prince

One

A SOLITARY CACTUS PEEKS ITS darling head through the brush, watching the cabin like a sentry as the sun sets and leaves the canyon bathed in an orange glow. The cabin sits far back against the canyon wall, its driveway reaching out like a concrete tendril in welcoming. A large picture window covers its front, but the view inside is obscured by white lace curtains. The front door’s red paint beckons her arrival, and for the first time, she paints a number on the door — 42.

MARGOT’S REVERIE WAS BROKEN AS she became aware of her parents discussing her on the opposite side of the wall. It was the sixth time she’d painted the scene in three days, but it annoyed her, still, to be taken away from it. Their words usually washed over her as nothing more than background noise, but this time, they broke through her consciousness and clung to her, breaking her concentration.

I’m worried about her. It ain’t healthy for a girl her age to just sit in her room and paint. She should be out, I don’t know, doing things, her mother said in a whining voice. She spoke some more, but Margot couldn’t make out her words through the wall. It didn’t matter; she knew them already. This wasn’t a new conversation. It was as old as Margot herself.

I know Barb; I’m worried, too, but I don’t know what else we can do, her father replied. She could hear the exasperation in his voice. For as sick as Margot was of hearing these repetitive and circular discussions, they had to be especially trying for her father who couldn’t escape his wife’s constant worried chatter.

Annoyed, Margot attempted to ignore them by focusing more intently on her painting. It was almost exactly like the other five she’d done before it, except for one little detail — this time, there was a number on the cabin. An address.

We never should have sent her to that school! Margot’s mother exclaimed, almost yelling in her desperation. Her father said something in a softer, soothing tone that Margot couldn’t make out. She imagined him embracing her mother, as he was wont to do when she showed any sign of distress.

Yeah, they shouldn’t have sent me to that school. They should have known it wouldn’t work out and would do nothing but make me feel even more like a freak.

It had tried to teach her the rules of her medium, but she simply couldn’t care, no matter how much they tried. She wasn’t like the other students there. Sure, they were talented, but she was gifted. She didn’t need to be taught as the other students did. Her paintings just were, and they always had been. She was as much her art as she was flesh and bone; she couldn’t control her art any more than she could control her DNA.

She was aware it was bizarre she was compelled to paint similar images many times over the course of her life. To anyone who wasn’t her, it probably seemed downright unhealthy, perhaps even crazy, but to her set of eyes, the forests, valleys, villages, and people she painted became more real each time. She saw new details with every painting that felt to her like tiny pieces of a grand map of memories locked inside her mind. If she kept discovering them, eventually she’d put it all together and understand what they meant. She needed to understand because she knew, deep down, they meant something greater than just oils and canvas and images in her mind.

Her father’s voice broke her concentration again.

"She is special — so special she doesn’t belong here or even in New York at some fancy art school. I don’t know where she belongs, but we have to let her figure it out for herself."

Margot knew where her mother thought she’d figure it out; it was evident by the stack of college applications she’d placed neatly on top of Margot’s desk. She looked at them now, pushed haphazardly to the corner and speckled with drops of paint, and her stomach turned. No matter what her mother wanted to believe, Margot wouldn’t find answers in college any more than she had found them at art school. The answers to what she needed to know were locked away in her paintings, and she knew she was getting closer to finding them with each new stroke.

She heard the squeak of her parents’ box spring compressing beneath their weight, and Margot said a silent prayer of thanks; she couldn’t stand to listen to them for much longer. She turned her attention back to her canvas. She’d seen the cabin several times before, but she’d never seen the number — 42. Cabin number 42.

All of Margot’s paintings felt real to her, even the fantastical ones of enchanting forests, Shire-esque villages, and of creatures unlike anything on earth, but the cabin was especially real. It had a more tangible, more human quality to it. Nestled against a rocky mountain, it had been built by human hands, and somehow Margot knew it before it was there. She knew the mountain when it was no more than a hill. She knew where it was, and she had to go there.

They will have to understand. My life isn’t here, or where they wish it to be. I don’t even think it’s in this cabin, but it’s where I have to start. Tomorrow, I’m leaving, and that’s that. I’ve put it off for far too long.

Margot cleaned her brushes and packed her bags to the sound of her father’s snoring. She was sure her mother was awake next to him, wringing her hands and sighing. Tomorrow she’d be crying, but all birds have to leave the nest sometime, and most of them fly away for good.

THE NEXT MORNING, MARGOT AWOKE to the smell of bacon and biscuits. She dressed herself quickly and made her way downstairs. Her mother was bustling about the kitchen like she always did when she was upset. Her flowery apron blew about her knees as she pivoted towards the sound of Margot’s approach.

Well, hello, honey! I thought I’d be bringing your breakfast up to ya again this mornin’, she said with a smile so large it felt forced.

No, I’m gonna grab it myself today, Margot said as she ripped a biscuit in half and shoved two slices of bacon between the pieces. Before her mother could say anything else Margot asked, Where’s Daddy?

Oh, he’s out tending to the chickens. Ain’t ya gon’ stay in here and eat ya breakfast? Her mother clearly wanted her to stick around, but Margot didn’t want to give her the chance to grill her anymore about her nonexistent college plans.

Thanks, Momma, Margot called out as the screen door to their backyard swung shut behind her with a clang. It was a beautiful morning in East Texas. The air was heavy with humidity, but it wasn’t yet hot enough to become suffocating. She breathed in deeply and took a bite of her biscuit. Her mom’s homemade biscuits were among her favorite things in the world, but she had bigger things to think about this morning. She wolfed the whole thing down in two huge bites.

She could hear her father clicking to the chickens, calling them to their feed. He looked the perfect picture of Old McDonald in his faded overalls. Her father wasn’t a formally educated man, but he was highly sensitive and intelligent and a lot like Margot. She loved him very much, and just looking at him in the soft morning sunshine made her heart ache both from love and from the knowledge that she’d be leaving him soon.

Morning, Daddy, she called out to him over the cacophony of clucking chickens.

Margot! What a nice surprise, he said, brightening with genuine delight. What are ya doin’ out here so early?

I need to talk to you. It’s important.

Okay, I had a feelin’ this was comin’ up. Come, sit with me, he said, directing her toward his small workshop at the back of the yard. She appreciated how he instinctively knew this was a conversation she didn’t want to have with her mother just yet. Her mother meant well, but it was he who understood her as much as any person could. He patted the workbench and pulled an overturned bucket opposite her and sat down. She looked into his deep green eyes that mirrored her own and took a deep breath.

Dad, I have to leave.

Okay, where to?

To Colorado, I think.

Wow, um, that wasn’t the answer I was expectin’. I was hopin’ it was just to Huntsville or whereabouts, he said. That’s where the college was that her mother wanted so much for her to attend. What’s in Colorado, baby doll? The way her dad pronounced Colorado was soft and lilting and left the final ‘oh’ hanging with an ‘ah’ sound instead.

I’m not sure yet, but I have to go.

Is it about that cabin ya’ve been paintin’ lately?

Again, she was impressed at his insight. She rarely, if ever, showed her parents her paintings anymore, but still, he knew what she’d been working on.

Yes, I think the cabin is in Colorado. I can’t explain to you why I feel like I need to go there, but I just do. I know it’s going to break Momma’s heart, but—

He cut her off with a swipe of his hand, Shush. Don’t ya go worryin’ about ya momma. She’ll be fine. Ya just do what ya need to do, baby doll. She’ll understand in time. I’ll make sure of it.

Oh, Daddy. How do you do it? How do you put up with us? Margot asked as she enveloped her father in a hug. He smelled like sweat and Old Spice, and she breathed it in deeply, committing it to memory although it was a scent that had always been a comfort, so she was unlikely to ever forget it.

Well, your momma, she’s easy. She just wants to be taken care of while taking care of everyone else. And you? You are a bit more of a mystery to me, but I trust that ya know what you’re doin’. You’ve got more sense than ya momma and me combined.

Clint Montgomery was proud of his little girl. He’d known she was special since the moment he’d first held her in his arms, and he always knew that one day she’d fly away from him to do great things. He made his living as a commercial pilot, but his real job had been to love, nurture, and appreciate his special child — especially when no one else did — and to one day let her fly on her own. It tore his heart out to let her go, but there was no other choice; she was too big to stay grounded.

Daddy, I’m sorry about art school, Margot said, her eyes falling to the dusty floor and locking on a stray metal bolt sitting in a pool of sunshine.

Don’t ya ever apologize for that. It ain’t ya fault ya weren’t understood. Honey, you’re a genius, and with genius often comes eccentricity. We thought ya might have been more at home among other artists, but you’re bigger than they are. You’re somethin’ else entirely, and that’s okay.

Margot remembered what it was like for her there, how different it was from how they’d all expected. It wasn’t like Margot was weird on purpose; she wanted nothing more than to be like everyone else, but everyone else wouldn’t let her. Growing up, she thought it was her gift which made people so uncomfortable, but she had since been around other talented people and witnessed with her own eyes how they were treated by others; and worse, how they treated her. Every one of them acted as though she was some fragile, rare, and untouchable thing. They made her feel like an artifact — alien and delicate.

Never ya mind about art school, baby doll, her father said. Ya just do what ya have to do. When do ya plan to leave for Colorado?

Today, if possible. I already have most of my things packed and ready to go, but I didn’t want to leave without telling you.

His heart fell into his stomach at her words, but he hoped his face didn’t betray him. He knew there was nothing he could say to stop her, even if he wanted to, but he could and would give her his blessing.

I’ll talk to your momma. Ya finish fixin’ what ya need to to go. Don’t ya worry about a thing. I love ya, he said as she hugged him again.

She was thankful for her father’s love, for it was the purest she’d ever felt. Together, they stepped back into the morning sun, squinting, and holding hands.

CLINT MONTGOMERY SQUEEZED HIS DAUGHTER’S hand one last time before shooing her up to her room. He watched as she mounted the stairs, taken aback by the incredible child he had brought into the world. She wasn’t a child anymore, though; she was a young woman. When had that happened?

She moved up the stairs with grace, her wavy red hair falling down her back like a fiery waterfall. She was part of him, yet so clearly separate from him at the same time.

Breathing in a sigh, he prepared himself for the discussion he’d have with his wife about Margot’s plans.

She ain’t gonna like it one bit, but she’s gonna have to accept it. We both are.

Barbara stood in their small kitchen with her back to him as he approached. She was scrubbing hard at the countertop that was already clean enough to eat off of. She cleaned (or cooked) when she was stressed, which had been a lot lately. They had so many leftovers they could eat for a month. Well, longer now that Margot would be gone.

Barb, baby, he said as he placed his red and wrinkled hand against the small of her back. She straightened her spine against it. She knew this wasn’t going to be a conversation she wanted to have, and it pained her that Margot felt she couldn’t talk to her like she could her father. She would have at least liked to be able to talk together as a family. Margot had always been a daddy’s girl, and while Barbara appreciated it most of the time, sometimes it hurt her, too.

Why won’t she talk to me? she asked, plopping the rag onto the counter and bracing herself against it, dropping her chin to her chest with a sigh. She fought back tears and the rising lump in her throat, figuring they’d have their way once Clint had his say.

She will, but she just needs time, he answered. Barbara could feel his breath brush the back of her neck.

I’ve given her nothin’ but time, but I’m guessing that the time for talkin’ is over now, ain’t it?

Yes, I’m afraid it is. For now.

Just tell me, Clint, please, she pleaded, turning to face him, and he placed his hands on her shoulders. His demeanor was calm, but behind his eyes, Barbara could see just how sad her husband was. She’s leavin’ us, ain’t she? And not for college.

"Yes, baby. She’s leavin’, and she ain’t goin’ to college. She’s goin’ to Colorado. She thinks that’s where her life has been leadin’ her, or at least where her art has been leadin’ her," Clint said. He hated seeing his beautiful wife in pain. He’d spent the last forty-five years trying to shield her from as much of it as he could. She was a gentle, tender spirit; one who deserved much better than her life had given her, but this wasn’t a pain he could protect her from. He hoped she’d have the strength to bear the weight of it.

"She’s only seventeen. She ain’t never had a job, never had to take care of herself, and she just barely got her GED. How is she goin’ to live all on her own? Is her art goin’ to support her?"

Barbara had a deep respect for her daughter’s gift, but it also terrified her. They didn’t live in a world where artists were celebrated for their contributions. Instead, they starved for their art, and more often than not, they weren’t recognized at all until long after their deaths — if they were lucky. Margot was bright and capable of more than her brilliant art alone, but she had always been so overcome by it and the fantasy world it provided her. That was okay as a child, but as a full-grown woman, it wasn’t going to put food in her belly or a roof over her head. That’s why Barbara was so insistent on college — Margot needed to be able to take care of herself when she and Clint were no longer able to.

We are enterin’ our sixties, Clint. Sixties! Barbara said, unable to hold back her tears. She didn’t need to say any more; he knew exactly what she feared.

I know, Barb. I know. But she’s a good, smart kid. She’s gon’ to be just fine. I think we should give her our savings. It’s better she has it now than when we’re gone. We can’t stop her from livin’ her life. Why would we want to?

I know. You’re right. I want her to live her life. I want her to be happy, but I just wish... Barbara couldn’t finish her sentence. There was no point in trying to. She just had to trust, as Clint did, that Margot was doing the right thing for herself. She wiped her eyes with her thumbs and then rubbed her hands on her apron and righted herself. When is she leavin’?

Today.

Clint saw her shock at the suddenness of it all. It made the lines around her eyes deepen, and he couldn’t help but think about how beautiful she was. She complained about looking old, but he thought she only grew more bewitching — more precious — as time wore on. He was a lucky, lucky man.

Okay, well. Then, I better see to makin’ sure she’s got everythin’ she needs.

Barbara moved to step past him, but Clint stopped her by taking her waist. She looked up at him with dewy blue eyes. She had always trusted him, and he hoped she was right to trust him again. He kissed her softly on the lips, and she melted into his arms. They were both softer and rounder than they had been when she first hugged him like that, but it never felt like anything but home.

IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN HELP ya with, honey? Barbara asked Margot, standing in the doorway of her bedroom. A big duffle bag and several cardboard boxes lined her twin-sized bed. Oh, it looks like ya’ve already gotten most everything done. She swallowed the lump in her throat and wiped her hands on her apron full of impending separation anxiety.

Um, yeah, I think I’ve gotten everything packed. I don’t have all that much to take anyway — just my art stuff and clothes, mostly.

I see.

Look, Momma, I’m really sorry for going to Daddy first, Margot said, trying to make eye contact with her mother but failing. I just—

No, honey, don’t. I know ain’t always the easiest person to talk to. Especially lately. I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have put so much pressure on you about college. I know that ain’t what ya want for your life. I just want ya to have more than your father and I did, and I thought school was the way to get it, Barbara said, stepping over a box to sit on the bed. Margot sat down next to her, and Barbara took her hand. "I know how important your art is, and there is clearly somethin’ goin’ on with ya that I don’t understand. I ain’t goin’ to pretend to be happy about ya leavin’ us, but I can accept it. I can support ya because you’re a smart, gifted, special girl. I believe in your art, contrary to what ya may think, and most importantly, I believe in you."

Margot looked at her mom through a wall of tears and said, I’m going to be okay, Momma. I’m going to find the answers I’ve been looking for my whole life, and knowing that you and Daddy believe in me makes me absolutely certain of that. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing, but I know it’s the right thing.

I know, Margot. I know. I knew from the moment ya were born ya were special. You had this light about you that everyone saw, not just me. Ya literally took away the breath of everyone in the delivery room. Ya didn’t even cry; ya just settled into your new life calmly and without fanfare. Then, ya grew up into this amazingly gifted little girl. I still have no idea where that came from because no one in our family has ever been anythin’ but average, run-of-the-mill, folk, but I know ya were given that gift by someone for a reason. I’ll probably never understand it, but I can see it. Your light has only got brighter, and I’m not just sayin’ that because I’m your momma. Ya have to believe that you’ll find where ya belong.

There was nothing left to say between the two. Instead, they embraced one more time, as a mother letting her daughter go and as a daughter gripping tightly to something she didn’t want to lose. Somehow, Margot knew she’d need to hold onto the memory for the rest of her life because she’d never have a chance at another like it.

MARGOT’S HEART FELT LIKE A stone in her chest as she packed the last of her things into her little red Toyota. It was old and not very pretty to look at, but it was the biggest gift she’d ever received. Her parents didn’t have much, but they scrimped and saved for nearly three years to be able to give Margot a car when she’d gotten her driver’s license. She had never felt more grateful to her folks than she did that day; that was, until now, when her father approached her at the trunk of the car and handed her an unsealed envelope. Inside was every cent they had. It wasn’t much, but it was everything.

Daddy, I can’t take this. This is for you and Momma. I’ll find a way to make do, Margot said, holding the envelope out to her father. Her heart ached at the magnitude of the gesture. She knew how hard and long they’d worked for the money.

"Now, ya listen here. I am your father, and I am not goin’ to leave ya to fend for yourself in the world without any job prospects. It ain’t no secret that being an artist don’t make ya rich; at least not right away. Everythin’ your mother and I have ever done has been for you, Margot, includin’ saving this money. Take it; create your art; find your answers. Lord knows you’ll be famous someday, and then ya can pay us back. With interest," Clint said with a wink. He could see his reflection in her dewy eyes, and it took all his strength not to get emotional, too. He didn’t want her to see him tore up; he’d save that for when he was alone in his workshop. He needed her to see him as unshakable in his belief in her, no matter how much it hurt him to watch her go.

She wrapped her arms around him, her head only came up to the bottom of his chest, and she hugged him for a long time. For a fleeting moment, Margot wished the hug could last forever; for, like that moment with her mother, she somehow knew it was the last one they’d ever share. Finally, it was her father who broke the hug, and she felt a small tear in her heart when he did.

C’mon, baby doll. I know ya want to get as many miles in as possible, and I don’t want ya drivin’ at night. Ya hear me? Ya stop at a motel or somethin’ on the way. It’s too dangerous out there otherwise.

Yes, Daddy. I promise, Margot said as she tucked the envelope inside her back jean pocket. What about Momma? I need to say goodbye.

No, y’all said enough earlier. She can’t take any more right now, and it’s not goodbye. It’s just ‘see you later’, he gestured to their covered porch where her mother stood. Her round hips cast a large shadow across the ground, and she wrung her hands in her apron as tears flowed in tiny rivers down her cheeks. Neither woman spoke; they simply took one another in. Margot blew her mother a kiss, and Barbara caught it in a fist before burying her face in her hands. She couldn’t hold back the sobs any longer; they were too strong, too powerful, too real.

Margot took a step to flock to her mother’s side, but Clint stopped her.

Baby doll, it’s okay. I promise. Just go. Call us when ya get there.

The urge to change her mind and just stay where she was comfortable, safe, and loved was powerful. Had her father not stepped in, she would have succumbed to it, but his hand on her belly reminded her she’d regret it if she did. Her life would never truly start, never be truly fulfilling, until she was on her way. She looked up at her father, again grateful for his belief in her and for understanding her as much as he could. She nodded her head and got in the car.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look, she chanted, steeling herself for the departure. Her dad slapped his hand on the roof of the car as a signal to go, so she started it up and pulled out of the driveway. She didn’t look back as the house and her parents faded in the distance, but she could barely see anything at all through her tears anyway.

Two

FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS, ASA floated in his isolated, barren prison, reaching out with his soul signal awaiting a response. For thousands of years, it went unanswered, pinging, lonely into nothing, but he kept faith in her vision. It kept him going, kept him from going crazy as so many others had done. For the sake of them all, he had to keep sending out his call. One day, she would hear.

Seventeen years ago, his signal was answered. Dimly and subtly, but answered still. It was like a whisper on the wind, barely audible, but recognizable. She was back. After all this time, she was back. It would be a while yet until her heart could feel his touch, and it would be soft and fleeting at first, but eventually she would recognize him, and she would remember. An important part of her already did, but the rest would follow.

Seventeen years was nothing compared to the time he’d already spent in that lonely hell, and the thrill of knowing she’d soon remember, and he’d see her again was enough for him to bear it. He felt alive again, and soon he would be, in the realist sense, because she had returned.

So, he kept sending out his signal, reaching her in a place no one else but him could touch, the deepest, most true place inside her — her soul. He touched her soul with his as often and as hard as his imprisonment would allow. Slowly, the touches grew longer and more tangible. Slowly, she remembered, responded, but it couldn’t be rushed. She had to learn to listen to the call and go where he could most easily reach her.

She must have learned enough now to start to seek him out because she was getting closer; he could feel it true as anything. Soon, she’d come to him, and he would remind her who she was and what she was to do.

Three

THE AMBER GLOW OF PARKING lot lights illuminates a shabby motel standing solitary and aloof, like a lighthouse in view of a ship. Headlights pass along the adjoining freeway as twinkling stars in the quickening darkness of dusk. A neon sign announces vacancies with a flickering call, and two open floors lined with yellow doors are reminiscent of dozens of eyes in the head of a gigantic beast, and the lonely lobby, its mouth.

WHAT THE HELL AM I doing? How stupid, how impulsive and moronic to trust something as intangible as my art to lead me in search of... In search of what? I don’t even know! I should just turn this damn car around and go back home. Momma would love that, and Daddy would understand. He’d make me feel better about being so stupid.

For over nine hours Margot had driven and thought the same, circular thoughts. For every moment that she told herself she was doing the right thing, there were twenty where she thought she wasn’t. She was a smart girl — a logical girl, a rational girl — but there she was, letting herself – her life — be lead by some feeling. A feeling she didn’t understand. It was like trying to grip sand in a fist; every time she thought she had an understanding of what she was seeing in her art and feeling in her gut, it slipped away, leaving nothing but more unanswered questions.

That’s it. I’m going back home. This is ridiculous, and I’m ashamed of myself for it. Next exit, I’m turning around.

But that didn’t happen, because just off the next exit, a vision appeared, one that felt to Margot like a mirage, for it couldn’t really be there, could it? It looked exactly as she had painted. Run-down and cloistered in the dusty, exhaust-filled air of the freeway was the motel.

There were probably hundreds, if not thousands, similar to it along roads in the country, but this one was special because Margot had painted it. For the first time, something Margot had envisioned existed outside of her own imagination. It was made by human hands and heavy machinery, not just by the hair of a sable marten and the strokes of a lost teenage girl.

It’s real, she said aloud to herself, full of surprise and wonder and barely able to breathe. There was no way she could turn back now.

Gathering her wits, she exited the freeway and turned into the motel’s parking lot. She parked her car beneath a lamp and made her way toward the lobby. There were only a few cars in the lot, but the sound of passing vehicles on the freeway and the buzzing of insects filled the air with constant noise. The outside of the motel was exactly how she had envisioned, down to the dusty window panes.

She opened the heavy lobby door with a grunt and looked around. The room wasn’t big enough to hold more than a handful of people and was divided in half by a wall and a sheet of what she assumed to be bulletproof glass. Had she not been certain this was the motel she had painted, she would have hightailed it out of there and taken her chances driving all night if she had to. It wasn’t the kind of place a lone girl should be, she could imagine her daddy saying, but she didn’t have much choice. She took a deep breath and approached the glass dividing the room.

A man, just past middle age, sat behind the glass eating a meatball sandwich and watching television on a small set next to the desk. She was unable to tell if he was a tall man, but he had a large belly, exceptionally hairy arms, and hardly any hair on top of his head. It was as if it had all migrated south for the winter of his life. His face was round and covered with a thin layer of hair from the nose down which seemed to turn from whiskers on his neck