The Hunt, part one
Max felt as if the air around him had suddenly been sucked away, and saw the daylight dappled through the park foliage shift as if the world was moving away from him. He steadied himself against the rough trunk of a nearby tree, and took a deep breath as the feeling of disorientation passed. This was no new experience for him. He made it happen when he made things happen. It was the way it felt when someone warped reality. Only this time someone else had made it happen, and by the intensity of it, whoever had done so was close.
He'd always suspected that there were others like him, although he'd never met any, nor had he ever sought them out. He'd felt these disturbances before, but they had always been vague and distant, like the distant plucking of a strand on an infinite web. But this had been very close. In fact, the vibrations had been getting closer and more frequent since he'd first heard the music only a few days ago.
He called it ‘music’ for lack of a better word, but it had no discernable voices, nor instrumental orchestrations that he could identify. It was pure sound, like the reverberation of the universe itself, constantly unfolding into patterns like melodies merging into complex themes and movements. Sometimes it seemed very loud and at other times it was faint; just on the edge of his awareness.
At first he’d thought he was hearing a neighbor’s stereo playing, or maybe someone’s car passing by, but then he realized he was hearing it everywhere he went, no matter what he was doing. For a moment he thought maybe he'd gone crazy, or maybe the universe had caught up to him for all the times he had messed with it. Or maybe something else was happening. Someone or something was making the music, and it was calling to the others the way it was calling to Max. Whatever was making the music was here, in the City, and the others were coming. He could feel it just as he could feel the plucking and pulling of reality getting stronger.
Max had never felt the need to find others of his kind. Instinctively, he'd kept the secret of the things he could do even from his parents. He'd never even wondered if they could do those things too. He'd never asked, nor did he think that they'd have told him even if they could. Occasionally, he had crossed paths with someone he'd suspected, but the encounters had been brief and superficial, so that he'd never been quite sure of his own suspicions. But now the music seemed to be calling them all together, and Max knew that it would only be a matter of time before he was forced to meet them. Soon, he thought, but not today.
He knew what it was like to be hunted in the park, not by anyone who could actually catch him, but by the run-of-the-mill sort of angry people whose fear and self-loathing he could sense a mile away. This wasn’t so different. He could sense the one that hunted him by the distortions it caused, but he knew that he gave himself away every time he yanked at reality.
He pressed his hands against the cold gray stone of the wall that bounded the park and looked up. It was maybe twenty feet up to the wrought iron railing that marked the street level. He could take the long way up and avoid giving himself away, but he knew it was too late for that now. The one who hunted him already knew where he was, needing no further beacon, and Max just needed to get away fast.
He reached up for the iron rail and the world warped around him, only this time the purpose was his, and he maintained his focus. He pulled himself up and over the railing, and then something tugged hard at him, threatening to pull him back. He tensed reflexively, ready to strike out in self defense, but it was only the strap of his messenger bag that had snagged on one of the finials on the iron railing. He freed himself and sighed with momentary relief. He’d been sloppy, and that was dangerous.
The sounds of traffic on the street before him were somehow comforting, but the music was growing louder again, threatening to drown out the other sounds. The people in the cars seemed oblivious to him and to the music, and that was also comforting. Across the street from where he stood rose the museum, its monumental architecture conjuring images of some faraway place that he had never been to, but which he somehow remembered as if he'd dreamt of being there. The memory was also comforting.
He crossed the street, recklessly, almost slamming into a yellow taxi cab as it suddenly lurched forward to take advantage of a break in the traffic. He hardly heard the honking of the horn or the yelling of the driver as he made it to the front steps of the museum. The music was overwhelmingly loud now, as if he’d turned it up with his escape from the park. He looked around for signs of people, but other than the drivers in their cars, there was no one else nearby. A sleek black cat stepped lightly out of a hedge and onto the steps.
Max reached for the door and nearly fell over as another sudden distortion wave seemed to pull the door handle away from him. He was nauseated by the intensity of it. This one had happened very close; almost right on him. He recovered his senses and was suddenly aware of another person standing next to him. A skinny kid with jet black hair falling messily over bright eyes stood next to him dressed in black jeans and an oversized black sweater, and carrying the same black army surplus messenger bag that Max carried. In fact, except for the black hair, which looked dyed, the kid could have been Max a few years younger.
“What are you,” Max asked, “a shape-changer?”
The kid took a small, cautious step toward him. He had a worried look in his eyes.
“Someone’s after me,” he said.
“Why me, then?” Max asked.
“Because I know we can help each other,” the kid said.
“Yeah?” Max said. “What makes you think I need help?”
“Because they’re after you too,” he said, reaching out to offer his hand to Max.
“I’m Charlie.”
Max could smell him now, faintly. It was a familiar scent; one that reminded him of family. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed by the urge to protect this kid, as if everything depended on it.
“I’m Max,” he said, taking the kid’s hand.
“I know,” Charlie said.
“You can read my mind too?” Max asked.
“Not exactly,” Charlie said. “But I heard it in the music.”
“So you can hear it too,” Max said.
“We all can,” Charlie said, “some more than others.”
“What else do you know about the music?” Max asked, aware that it was getting dark around them.
“Not much,” Charlie said.
Max sensed that whatever had been following him had withdrawn, and with it the music had receded to the background. Maybe the hunter had not counted on two of them, or maybe it had not counted on them working together. Why would it? Judging by his own nature, Max imagined that partnerships among his kind were rare at best.
“Why did you come here,” Charlie asked, “to the museum?”
“I don’t really know,” Max said. “I guess I was trying to get away from someone down in the park.”
“Maybe you meant to come here,” Charlie said. He had stuck his hands in his pockets and looked like he was feeling cold.
“Why did you come here,” Max asked. “Were you looking for me?”
“No, I wasn’t expecting to find you here,” Charlie said. “But then I did, and it’s lucky for both of us.”
“Well, we’ll see about that,” Max said, but he knew the kid was right. Because of Charlie he’d avoided an all-out confrontation with something he felt had meant malice toward him. And it was possible that Charlie had been trying to get away from something too.
“Actually, I was coming to the museum to see someone,” Charlie said.
“Someone you know,” Max asked.
“No,” Charlie said, shaking his head, “but someone who might be able to tell us something about the music.”
“Someone like us,” Max asked.
“Not like us,” Charlie said. “He takes drugs and then he can hear the music too.”
“A sorcerer,” Max said.
“A doctor,” Charlie said, bringing a business card out of his pocket and showing it to Max. It had the museum’s logo, phone numbers and address on it, and the name on the card read: Dion Cantor, PhD. The name was familiar but Max couldn’t quite remember where he’d heard it before.
He was intrigued, but cautious. A sorcerer! What exactly did the kid have in mind, he wondered. Revealing himself to one of his own kind was difficult enough, but making contact with one of those who studied them, and who used secret ways of artificially replicating the things that Max and his kind could do naturally was something altogether different. That kind of person could rarely be trusted. In fact, it might have been just such a person that had hunted him only moments before in the park.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, kid,” Max said. “I don’t know if I’d trust a sorcerer.”
Charlie huffed, and looked at Max defiantly.
“Do you have a better idea?” he asked. “Do we follow the others and find the one making the music?”
Max sighed. “No,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“He has more to be afraid of than we do, Max,” Charlie said.
“Anyway, the museum’s about to close,” Max said.
Charlie smiled for the first time, a crooked little half-smile.
“Not for us, Max,” he said. “You know that.”
Max felt as if the air around him had suddenly been sucked away, and saw the daylight dappled through the park foliage shift as if the world was moving away from him. He steadied himself against the rough trunk of a nearby tree, and took a deep breath as the feeling of disorientation passed. This was no new experience for him. He made it happen when he made things happen. It was the way it felt when someone warped reality. Only this time someone else had made it happen, and by the intensity of it, whoever had done so was close.
He'd always suspected that there were others like him, although he'd never met any, nor had he ever sought them out. He'd felt these disturbances before, but they had always been vague and distant, like the distant plucking of a strand on an infinite web. But this had been very close. In fact, the vibrations had been getting closer and more frequent since he'd first heard the music only a few days ago.
He called it ‘music’ for lack of a better word, but it had no discernable voices, nor instrumental orchestrations that he could identify. It was pure sound, like the reverberation of the universe itself, constantly unfolding into patterns like melodies merging into complex themes and movements. Sometimes it seemed very loud and at other times it was faint; just on the edge of his awareness.
At first he’d thought he was hearing a neighbor’s stereo playing, or maybe someone’s car passing by, but then he realized he was hearing it everywhere he went, no matter what he was doing. For a moment he thought maybe he'd gone crazy, or maybe the universe had caught up to him for all the times he had messed with it. Or maybe something else was happening. Someone or something was making the music, and it was calling to the others the way it was calling to Max. Whatever was making the music was here, in the City, and the others were coming. He could feel it just as he could feel the plucking and pulling of reality getting stronger.
Max had never felt the need to find others of his kind. Instinctively, he'd kept the secret of the things he could do even from his parents. He'd never even wondered if they could do those things too. He'd never asked, nor did he think that they'd have told him even if they could. Occasionally, he had crossed paths with someone he'd suspected, but the encounters had been brief and superficial, so that he'd never been quite sure of his own suspicions. But now the music seemed to be calling them all together, and Max knew that it would only be a matter of time before he was forced to meet them. Soon, he thought, but not today.
He knew what it was like to be hunted in the park, not by anyone who could actually catch him, but by the run-of-the-mill sort of angry people whose fear and self-loathing he could sense a mile away. This wasn’t so different. He could sense the one that hunted him by the distortions it caused, but he knew that he gave himself away every time he yanked at reality.
He pressed his hands against the cold gray stone of the wall that bounded the park and looked up. It was maybe twenty feet up to the wrought iron railing that marked the street level. He could take the long way up and avoid giving himself away, but he knew it was too late for that now. The one who hunted him already knew where he was, needing no further beacon, and Max just needed to get away fast.
He reached up for the iron rail and the world warped around him, only this time the purpose was his, and he maintained his focus. He pulled himself up and over the railing, and then something tugged hard at him, threatening to pull him back. He tensed reflexively, ready to strike out in self defense, but it was only the strap of his messenger bag that had snagged on one of the finials on the iron railing. He freed himself and sighed with momentary relief. He’d been sloppy, and that was dangerous.
The sounds of traffic on the street before him were somehow comforting, but the music was growing louder again, threatening to drown out the other sounds. The people in the cars seemed oblivious to him and to the music, and that was also comforting. Across the street from where he stood rose the museum, its monumental architecture conjuring images of some faraway place that he had never been to, but which he somehow remembered as if he'd dreamt of being there. The memory was also comforting.
He crossed the street, recklessly, almost slamming into a yellow taxi cab as it suddenly lurched forward to take advantage of a break in the traffic. He hardly heard the honking of the horn or the yelling of the driver as he made it to the front steps of the museum. The music was overwhelmingly loud now, as if he’d turned it up with his escape from the park. He looked around for signs of people, but other than the drivers in their cars, there was no one else nearby. A sleek black cat stepped lightly out of a hedge and onto the steps.
Max reached for the door and nearly fell over as another sudden distortion wave seemed to pull the door handle away from him. He was nauseated by the intensity of it. This one had happened very close; almost right on him. He recovered his senses and was suddenly aware of another person standing next to him. A skinny kid with jet black hair falling messily over bright eyes stood next to him dressed in black jeans and an oversized black sweater, and carrying the same black army surplus messenger bag that Max carried. In fact, except for the black hair, which looked dyed, the kid could have been Max a few years younger.
“What are you,” Max asked, “a shape-changer?”
The kid took a small, cautious step toward him. He had a worried look in his eyes.
“Someone’s after me,” he said.
“Why me, then?” Max asked.
“Because I know we can help each other,” the kid said.
“Yeah?” Max said. “What makes you think I need help?”
“Because they’re after you too,” he said, reaching out to offer his hand to Max.
“I’m Charlie.”
Max could smell him now, faintly. It was a familiar scent; one that reminded him of family. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed by the urge to protect this kid, as if everything depended on it.
“I’m Max,” he said, taking the kid’s hand.
“I know,” Charlie said.
“You can read my mind too?” Max asked.
“Not exactly,” Charlie said. “But I heard it in the music.”
“So you can hear it too,” Max said.
“We all can,” Charlie said, “some more than others.”
“What else do you know about the music?” Max asked, aware that it was getting dark around them.
“Not much,” Charlie said.
Max sensed that whatever had been following him had withdrawn, and with it the music had receded to the background. Maybe the hunter had not counted on two of them, or maybe it had not counted on them working together. Why would it? Judging by his own nature, Max imagined that partnerships among his kind were rare at best.
“Why did you come here,” Charlie asked, “to the museum?”
“I don’t really know,” Max said. “I guess I was trying to get away from someone down in the park.”
“Maybe you meant to come here,” Charlie said. He had stuck his hands in his pockets and looked like he was feeling cold.
“Why did you come here,” Max asked. “Were you looking for me?”
“No, I wasn’t expecting to find you here,” Charlie said. “But then I did, and it’s lucky for both of us.”
“Well, we’ll see about that,” Max said, but he knew the kid was right. Because of Charlie he’d avoided an all-out confrontation with something he felt had meant malice toward him. And it was possible that Charlie had been trying to get away from something too.
“Actually, I was coming to the museum to see someone,” Charlie said.
“Someone you know,” Max asked.
“No,” Charlie said, shaking his head, “but someone who might be able to tell us something about the music.”
“Someone like us,” Max asked.
“Not like us,” Charlie said. “He takes drugs and then he can hear the music too.”
“A sorcerer,” Max said.
“A doctor,” Charlie said, bringing a business card out of his pocket and showing it to Max. It had the museum’s logo, phone numbers and address on it, and the name on the card read: Dion Cantor, PhD. The name was familiar but Max couldn’t quite remember where he’d heard it before.
He was intrigued, but cautious. A sorcerer! What exactly did the kid have in mind, he wondered. Revealing himself to one of his own kind was difficult enough, but making contact with one of those who studied them, and who used secret ways of artificially replicating the things that Max and his kind could do naturally was something altogether different. That kind of person could rarely be trusted. In fact, it might have been just such a person that had hunted him only moments before in the park.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, kid,” Max said. “I don’t know if I’d trust a sorcerer.”
Charlie huffed, and looked at Max defiantly.
“Do you have a better idea?” he asked. “Do we follow the others and find the one making the music?”
Max sighed. “No,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“He has more to be afraid of than we do, Max,” Charlie said.
“Anyway, the museum’s about to close,” Max said.
Charlie smiled for the first time, a crooked little half-smile.
“Not for us, Max,” he said. “You know that.”
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