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Chapter One

Duggan

THERE ARE EXACTLY ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVEN STRUCTURES in the village, made of stone, wood, and whitewash, spread out along a gravel road that winds down from the mountains and clouds and then splits into a T at the river's edge. There is a church, a general store, and a school with four classrooms and the same four teachers who have ruled there for what seems like one hundred years or more. There is a library, a town hall, an icehouse, a boathouse, and a jetty with a handful of boats tied up alongside. A garage capable of performing minor and, occasionally, major repairs to all electrical and mechanical devices, not that there are many such contrivances immediately apparent. No automobiles, bicycles, or skateboards, or especially horse-drawn carriages, are allowed since that would be perceived as unfair to the horses who roam happily in the fields above the village. During summer, the only means of getting from A to B is by foot or boat. "By foot" infers a stroll and not a trudge or a forced march, while "by boat" infers a day trip upstream to nowhere or downstream to a similar nowhere. During winter, there are only skis or skates: ski down to the river, skate all day, sip hot chocolate by the bucketful, and take the rope lift back home as night falls and the temperature drops even further. Oddly, some prefer winter to summer. 

Life is long and peaceful in the village, as long as the summers are short and as peaceful as the winters are long. It is a happy and content place beneath the snow-capped mountains and the treed slopes, leading to the winding river. There is no structure; there is no one in charge. It is a place where everyone exists on an equal footing, children included. Except when scolded for some small infraction, such as when Duggan, often standing alone among the children—and that’s because he was not born in the village—not that the villagers minded, but he did—shattered Teddy’s shop window with a perfectly preserved snowball in July. He didn’t intend to hit Ted's daughter but just come close, with the hope that Mel might, just might, notice him for once. Alessandra had said, "Well, my boy, you succeeded beyond your wildest expectations, didn't you?" He had forgotten about the window—but then again, he had only been 5 at the time.

“She did notice you, after all,” Alessandra added, her head tipped to the side, while trying not to smile. 

Summers in the village are pleasant but short, just long enough to grow a single crop on the side of the hills that face the sun. Just long and hot enough to enjoy a few months fishing on the river with sun hats pulled down and fishing rods held languidly over the side of an open boat. Just long enough to enjoy a few beers down by the jetty and roast corn behind the school. Ah, but the winters, the winters are long and harsh. It is not unknown to have a minimum of thirty meters of snow drifting up against the sides of homes and, in some cases, completely burying the roofs. It is quite common to have homes linked by tunnels that twist from door to door through the snow. And on days that people farther south would claim were the worst they had ever experienced, villagers of all ages ski from their rooftops, swooshing down the slope that leads to the wind-swept ice covering the river like a sheet of blue steel. By December, the villagers erect a carrousel where families gather to put on their skates or warm themselves with hot chocolate. The short winter days create a festival mood, with the entire village—men, women, children, old and young—skating with arms linked in a long chain across the ice beneath a spotlessly blue sky and the sun like a diamond. By January, the temperature drops as low as minus forty and feels much colder than that with the wind chill. But the villagers brave these harsh conditions every day. With the long hours of winter stretching ahead, they are out in the frozen chill with rosy cheeks and their breath like hot clouds of pressurized steam pouring from their mouths.

On just such a winter, Duggan, after being away for a few years learning firsthand what the Outworld is really like, decided it was time to return home. His truck, a brand-new Ford Ranger, a 4×4 and loaded, was heard before it could be seen slowly taking shape amidst the snow-covered trees and curling mist of ice crystals perpetually suspended over the mountain pass. He pulled up in front of his home, and since plowing had long since been abandoned, he parked immediately opposite his bedroom window on the second floor. As he turned off the engine, he turned his head and glanced inside and could see the posters he had hung there years before, each a gift from Pappy. A photo of the Hubble Far Field showing a sea of distant galaxies with the caption “Distance is Time,” and then an electro-scan photograph of a cell in the process of undergoing photosynthesis, captioned with “Miracles Do Happen,” and, lastly, since the room had only so much wall space, the planet Earth accompanied by the moon, appearing as two pearls, the larger of the two blue and green and the smaller the colour of the sun, near white, both suspended in a black velvet sky, the caption reading, “Very Rare and Delicate, Please Handle with Care.” 

Duggan drew the collar of his leather jacket up around his ears and hunkered down into his coat as he climbed out, anticipating but still shocked by an icy blast. Beginning to feel a touch of frostbite, he lingered to absorb the moment. Floating in the air, carried by the gentlest of frozen updrafts from the river, he could hear playful music originating from the carrousel while accompanied by the laughter of familiar voices in the far distance. His face, at first solemn and tense, coalesced into a smile. He had been born twenty-three years ago, and here is where it had all begun. One’s existence is an astonishing fact to contemplate, he knew, and he smiled again, feeling good about being home, knowing he would probably never leave—not for any length of time anyway—and that was okay by him. 

He negotiated the bank of snow to the side of the house and climbed in through his bedroom window, conveniently unlocked, signalling the fact that Alessandra had been anticipating his return. Even though he had not told her or anyone for that matter he was coming, he knew she would know. Alessandra was like that, and more. 

He pulled off his boots and left them on the mat waiting there—not a surprise either—and threw his single bag on the bed—Duggan wasn’t one for possessions—and then strode into the centre of the room, slowly turning to take it all in. He had learned a great deal since he had been gone. “Get out there and learn something,” Alessandra had commanded, and he had, hadn’t he? 

Duggan turned around one more time, picking up more detail, relishing in it. His bed had been made up, the bedspread thrown back, the sheets starched white and pressed with an iron, and the corners neat and sharp. He could almost detect the fragrance of the soap and the clean village air in the linen, and he could almost feel the welcoming crisp coolness against his flesh as, stark naked, he would slip between them. He shook his head against the temptation of surrendering to temporary oblivion. Since it was obvious that he had been expected, he should at least say hello, he reasoned, smiling to himself while anticipating the moment.

He peeled off his jacket and hung it over the bedpost. How long had he been gone again, he asked himself, not expecting or necessarily calculating a calendar date? It seemed like forever, but here, back in his room, it felt as if he had left only yesterday, or maybe the day before. It was illusory, he knew; he had just slipped from one reality to another, from Outworld to Ourworld, as Alessandra would say. 

Duggan cracked open his bedroom door and stepped out onto the upper landing. He was greeted by the sound of the crackle of the fire and the rattling of dishes, followed by the scraping of a chair along the stone floor and the soft pad of slippered feet. Alessandra remained hidden as she called out, “Duggan?” She didn't wait for his response since she knew who he was, where he was, and what he would say. Duggan often wished he was less predictable. 

“Since you are not about to succumb to the beatitudes of deep slumber, perhaps you would like some tea with your lunch?” 

Duggan smiled. Alessandra was playing a game. Why would it ever be otherwise?

His mother—not that Alessandra was his mother, not really—finally stuck her head through the open doorway and peered upward with a smile. “Oh! There you are!” She waited for Duggan to respond, and when he didn’t, she added, “Ha! What’s with the silent treatment?”

Alessandra looked exactly like she had when he had left her on his great journey into the Outworld five years earlier: not too tall, not too short, dark hair tied back, her trademark green eyes, and the beautiful face of a middle-aged woman who had not aged even a single minute since the last time he had laid eyes upon her. In the Outworld she would appear to be perhaps 40, although Duggan knew she was much older than that; his best guess put her around 400, but she could be much older; she was certainly no younger. “Some things should remain eternal, although nothing does,” Alessandra had once told him, refusing to give her age when he asked for it. She added, “A lady will never reveal how old she is, and a gentleman, if he is a gentleman, will never ask.” “It sounds like something someone said in a movie,” Duggan had suggested to her grin. 

“What’s so funny?” Duggan asked, back in the present, calling down the stairs.

“The silent treatment—you were giving me the silent treatment.” Alessandra was smiling, but she always smiled, so it didn’t mean anything. 

“It was only for ten seconds!” he called back. “I was breathing in and was about to breathe out. Ok, how about this: The house hasn’t changed, and you haven’t changed. The village is just the same. It is like I haven’t been gone at all,” he added. 

Alessandra’s eyes opened wide. “You were gone somewhere? How long were you gone? I know you were not here for dinner last evening….”

Duggan started down the stairs. “Ha! Same sense of humour! Nearly six years. You’re lucky I didn’t come back married with children!”

“Then what did you come back with, besides your health, which I can see remains robust?”

“A PhD in Celestial Mechanics.”

“And your new vehicle—you didn’t mention that.”

“Yes, I forgot to mention my new truck.”

“You will have to tell me all about it! Both subjects, I mean; I do look forward to hearing all you have to say. As far as your truck goes, there is nowhere to go around here, I’m afraid. Meanwhile, would you like some breakfast? It is just about ready.”

All that said, the reunion of mother and son occurred on the bottom step. Duggan wrapped his arms around his mother's slender shoulders and gave her a hug that lasted a full wordless minute. She returned his embrace and a kiss to match. 

A tear welled out of the corner of her eye. Duggan lifted it gently off her cheek with the tip of his finger and showed her. 

“That is a tear,” Alessandra explained, more tears pouring down.

“Did you miss me?” he asked. 

She slapped his hand away. “Of course, I did, you goof!” 

She kissed his cheek, and he kissed her forehead.

"Aren't you even a little bit surprised to see me?" Duggan quietly asked. 

She grasped his hands and kissed them both. Duggan felt his tears rising to the surface; he couldn’t stop them.

“You did manage to navigate the barrier okay; that’s the main thing. It can be a tricky thing to navigate,” Alessandra added with some emotion.

Duggan swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand as Alessandra smiled up at him, her eyes still brimming. 

“You opened the barrier for me, so not so difficult,” Duggan replied, trying not to sound affected.

Alessandra slowly nodded. “It was the least I could do for my son. What are mothers for, eh?” 

Alessandra stepped back for a better look. “You are a bit of a mess, you know? You are somewhat dishevelled—more than dishevelled—and underfed….” She hesitated and then continued with her train of thought. “Mel was prepared to meet you at the barrier and help you through if you needed help,” she added, jumping to what mattered most. “But I talked her out of it. Let’s clean him up a bit first, I suggested. Give him a big breakfast, lunch, and a full night’s sleep at the very least, and Mel, of course, agreed. She is such a darling girl, isn’t she? Mel says, “Hi,” by the way.”

Duggan, surprised and pleased, quietly responded with, “Hi…,” as he blushed. 

Alessandra, smiling and knowing, gently patted her son’s cheek. “We do need to talk—and we will, soon.”

“About what?”

“Mel, of course.”

Nancy, Alessandra’s next-door neighbour and lifelong friend—lifelong in this case being 400 years—unexpectedly stepped out from behind the kitchen door. “Of course she knew you were coming!” she said as a way of announcing her presence. “She knew months ago! Who do you think let you through the barrier? You didn’t exactly announce you were coming, did you? You know we keep it locked.” Tall, thin, fizzy blond hair, the requisite blue eyes, and at least a decade younger than Alessandra while appearing about mid-thirties. She would turn heads on any Outworld street corner, even though, admittedly, on closer examination, say across a table for two, she would be deemed a bit odd-looking, especially around her eyes. Still, whatever strangeness that might exist would be quickly tossed aside as just the normal and wide-ranging differences presented by the facial and physical body of a human female. She would be described as beautiful and alluring, and there would be no doubt that an Outworld male would be madly in love in seconds. The same would apply to Alessandra, but more so, although that undoubted fact may be difficult for one to appreciate in quite the same way when it is one’s mother. 

Nancy reached for Duggan's free hand, gently holding it before letting go and then stepping back to study him further. “You do look older. Wiser, too, if I may say. Learned a lot, did you?” She didn’t wait for his response and turned to Alessandra. "He still has one brown eye and one amber!" she stated plainly, her shoulders lifting and falling back in place as if saying, "What the heck?" 

Duggan smiled back while running his fingers through his hair, struggling against the Outworld instincts and thought patterns he had absorbed over the past five years. Ultimately, he was a slave to the fact he was a human male. When he was five years old, he had been madly in love with Nancy—she was as beautiful then as she is now, after all—without realizing she was older by at least four centuries. But the worst of it by far was the fact that Mel was Nancy’s daughter. That was just too weird. He could barely think about it, but when he did, he would always wince inwardly and roll his eyes in frustration.

Duggan straightened, shrugged, and sighed, smiling at Alessandra and Nancy in turn. As far as his eyes went—well, he couldn’t help that either. He was the only two-eyed boy or girl this side of the barrier; brown matched with amber in his case. He had learned to live with it and accept the basic fact that his eyes were his eyes.

Alessandra’s grin opened as she faced her friend. “You do have a way of saying the wrong thing at the right time, don’t you, Nancy? We’ll talk about his eyes later,” she added quietly. “For now, can’t you see he’s starving? It’s breakfast!” 

Alessandra drew Duggan around Nancy and through to the kitchen and guided him down onto a chair, his chair. Nancy sat across from him, her elbows on the table, as her extraordinary blue eyes continued to track him, as did her smile. 

“How’s Mel?” Duggan asked, knowing by now he wouldn’t get a meaningful response from either of them. They were in it together, whatever “it” might be. 

“Good.”

“Healthy?”

“Yes.”

“Did she…?” 

Hope momentarily flared as Duggan waited for Nancy’s response. 

“Nope.”

Alessandra recovered a tray of fish sandwiches, which she placed in front of Duggan. Next followed trays of homemade pickles, gherkin, dill, and bread & butter, then trays of sliced vegetables, carrots, celery, cauliflower, and broccoli. "Milk?" she asked. Duggan nodded. She poured it from a large glass pitcher. “It’s not exactly breakfast, I know, but I took a leap thinking you might want to have a quick nap and prepared a lunch.” She sat back in her chair close to the fire. “Well, if I said breakfast, I meant lunch,” she clarified to her son and Nancy both. Duggan smiled back. He had already punched in three of the sandwiches. 

Nancy topped up his milk. She spilled a few drops to gain his attention. “I do not wish to be impolite, Duggan,” she quietly offered, almost whispering, “but you are in desperate need of a haircut and a bath.”

Alessandra, bemused, continued to munch on her veggies, absently slipping a piece into her mouth, chewing it slowly, swallowing it, then following it with another, all the while studying the two of them. Duggan concentrated on the sandwiches, meticulously selecting one and then examining it carefully before politely nibbling. Nancy poured him a cup of tea and then, without asking, and with an extra smile, presented him with a tray of oatmeal cookies. “That’s better,” she said.

“What is?”

“I gather swallowing six sandwiches in as many seconds must be a habit you picked up in the Outworld. But I think you know that politeness makes one appear outwardly as they should be inwardly.”

Duggan frowned and then quickly apologized as, paying close attention, her smile opening, Alessandra helped herself to a cookie. She suddenly laughed. “Pappy calls whitefish sandwiches ‘Gilbert’s.’ Do you remember?” Duggan smiled back. “But I have to admit that the Outworld hangs heavily upon you, Duggan,” she added, still studying him.

Duggan frowned again as he wondered what she meant. “Are you saying I stink?” he asked.

“No… Well, yes, you do, literally, but you otherwise have undergone significant stress to your psyche as well as your mind and body,” Alessandra added, “not all of which is bad. Despite what you have gone through, you are full to the top of all that is good, Duggan; not only your young body, your cells, and chromosomes, and so forth, but also your heart too. You are an all-around good boy, and I am proud of you. Nothing has changed there as far as I can see.” 

Duggan sat back. “Thanks.” He had often heard his mother express similar sentiment. He didn’t necessarily understand why she should express herself in such a convoluted way, and he made no attempt to do so now.

“How is Pappy?” he asked after a moment, wanting to know.

Both women expressed their reaction at the same time, Nancy throwing herself back in her chair, Alessandra thumping the table. “He’s good! Couldn’t be better!” they said simultaneously.

Alessandra hesitated. “Well….” She leaned forward and grasped Duggan’s hand. “Pappy might not entirely agree; still, he’s okay. Mel… You remember Mel, don’t you, Duggan?” She registered her son’s expression while ignoring Nancy’s guffaw. “Okay, never mind… I will stop teasing. You don’t deserve to be teased.” She shot Nancy a knowing look. “Just know that Mel will drop by in…” She waved her hands. “Well, in a few days—or maybe in a week or two—the two of you can pay him a visit. From what I hear, she’s so looking forward to it.” 

“Or perhaps not,” Nancy offered, gently correcting her friend, while keeping her smile. 

“Or perhaps not….” Alessandra agreed. Alessandra remembered to smile. "I won’t always be here to open the gate, you know? You will need someone who loves you as much as I do to do that, and from what I hear, it shouldn’t be a problem, I wouldn’t think. 

“I wouldn’t think so,” Nancy added in agreement. 

Both women were smiling as Duggan sipped his tea. He reached for his mother’s hand, drew it to him, and kissed it. “I’m not going to ask any questions,” he whispered. He smiled and kissed her hand again. “I know better….” 

Both women laughed. 

“I so like a man who keeps his word, don’t you, Nancy?” Alessandra said.

“Yes, I do!”

Alessandra abruptly leaned forward, concerned. She addressed Nancy. “You’re crying, dear.”

Nancy brushed at her eyes. “Am I?” She wiped away another tear. “Oh yes, of course!” She smiled back and shrugged as if it was inconsequential, her eyes still brimming over. 

“No one cries unless there’s a reason, isn’t that right, my love?” Alessandra prompted gently. 

Nancy nodded, keeping her smile. “I am just so worried,” she said. 

“Mel will be fine.” 

“Promise?” 

“I do.” 

Alessandra stepped around the table. She placed her hand gently on Nancy’s shoulder in a gesture of affection and support, and then reached for Duggan. She lifted his face to hers and peppered him with kisses. “I am so glad you’re here!”

"Well!" Duggan said as his mother stepped back, her expression a riot of love, adoration, and joy continuing to beam down upon him. He couldn't find the words to say more. Duggan continued to be surprised by Alessandra’s unexpected reaction. He could barely remember what he had said to cause it, if, indeed, he was the cause, and it was not something else they had yet to inform him of. "It's nice to be here!" Duggan decided to say, repeating himself, and then stood and kissed Alessandra’s cheek and then Nancy’s, with both women smiling back at him. “It is good to be home,” he repeated with sincerity as he sat back down.

The remainder of the afternoon passed similarly, and eventually, blowing kisses to each of them, Nancy departed through the snow tunnel for home, leaving mother and son sitting at the kitchen table sipping tea, munching on cookies, and reminiscing over old times. Almost drunk from fatigue, Duggan listened to his mother's voice rising and falling, knowing all the stories before she told them but paying attention and loving each one nonetheless. He helped her stoke the fire, then he returned to his chair, propping his elbows up on the table and pouring himself another cup of tea while reaching for yet another cookie. In more ways than one he felt he was living a dream. Life—what is it but a dream?