Chapter 2
Gravel roads grid the snowy Canadian landscape in rigid one-mile increments. Ansel counts the turns. Left for six, right for four, then past the old wreck.
A red International tractor remains frozen in the bog, a willow twisting through its engine compartment.
But today, something new.
A round shield leans against a tree on the right of the driveway. The pale, aging wood is burned with an inscription that remains strange, unfamiliar. A rune?
Then it’s gone, drowned beneath the unease gnawing at his gut.
He turns onto the driveway, tires sinking into hard, crunchy snow. The AWD kicks in, ice starting to click the windshield again. His tongue feels like a dead weight, dry and thick with withdrawal.
The ecovillage had been a dream. A zoning experiment allowed multiple families to share a cooperative-owned property. The Rademachers built a four-season cottage, while they helped the Thorviks hand-craft an Earthship.
A few weekends each month, they’d pounded dirt into tires, fused bottlebricks, built the indoor garden. Contractors finished the Rademacher cottage in three months.
The Earthship? Years. He could still see bottlebricks in the Earthship wall that Elke had fused with his help.
Marxism be damned; the families got along.
But then, buyers never showed.
Now, the cul-de-sac sits empty, a circular meadow surrounded by abandoned lots.
Vaelin Thorvik, a boy Elke grew up with, draws with a whittled stick in the snow of the empty lot between their homes.
The ten-year-old’s head snaps up as Ansel’s hybrid pulls in. He sprints, kicking up snow, slamming into him in an unrestrained hug.
Ansel hesitates.
A part of him craves the affection. A larger part desires solitude.
His hands hover. The smell of alcohol lingers on his fingers. He doesn’t want Vaelin smelling that.
The boy’s long, tousled hair smells like outdoors, patchouli, incense. A single braid runs down his back, a shard of quartz crystal nestled inside.
Could Vaelin be the only child left in my life?
The thought carves through him like a blade. His breath hitches,
He shoves the boy away.
“Go hug a porcupine,” he muttered. “It’ll feel better than me.”
Vaelin flinches. Hurt flickers in those aquamarine eyes, too wide, too old and too knowing.
Too much like Elke’s.
Ansel’s anger coils with a vesuvian scream, hot and roiling, waiting to explode.
But something stills it.
Like fingers pressing a guitar string against a fret, silencing the vibration before it can sing.
Vaelin isn’t the source.
Not of the rage. Not of the grief. Not of the silence.
He just sees.
Vaelin’s eyes hold his. Gentle but focused. Certain.
“Her death. It wasn’t your fault,” he murmurs.
Then, perking up, “You should come for dinner. Mom’s making curry soup. Dad’s out harvesting. We’re playing D&D tonight.”
Ansel swallows hard.
For the briefest second—a hair’s width of hope. Curry. . Laughter. The Thorvik’s hand-hewn table.
The thought sparks, a burning want.
He doesn’t deserve that.
“Nah. I’ll just fart around like the old gasbag I am.” He lets out a wet fart. “Oh look at that, there I go again.”
Vaelin giggles. “Then go, you old gasbag.”
Then, his smirk falters. His gaze drifts, unfocused, shifting past Ansel as if watching something behind him.
For the briefest moment, his irises pale, spectral, almost cyan.
“Your aura is dark,” he murmurs. “But there’s violet in it.”
A ripple moves through Ansel’s skin.
He forces a chuckle. And here comes the woo.
“Sure thing, you indigo kid you. I’ll see if I can find your dad later.”
Not that he’s sure his cave will let him out, even if he tried.