shook her head, but she didn’t meet his gaze.
They followed the beach to where the cliffs bowed low. As they started to ascend, Peter stopped and turned back.
“Wait a minute ...”
The shape of the bay, the path they were on, were almost like what he remembered of the shoreline near Clarksbury. Almost …
As he stared back at the bay, he could see the escarpment stretching out into the water, but on his left when it should be on his right. The shape of the bay was mirror-image to what he was used to.
“It’s … backwards.”
Fiona pulled at his sleeve. “Your people are waiting.”
The knot returned to Peter’s stomach, but he followed her. The continuing clash between déjà vu and the strangeness of the world didn’t help. The first trees he saw were Earth trees (apples, maples, and aspen), but in all the seasons of the year (seeds, flowers, and fruit). Some leaves were turning red and gold, and other leaves were just coming out.
Someone had nailed a bucket to a maple and was collecting sap.
Then they turned onto the shelf that stretched back from the top of the escarpment, and Peter saw the village.
Ariel pointed ahead of them. “That’s where I live!”
The pathway led to a central park, bounded by houses on all sides. The park was a large patch of grass with a copse of trees at one side, and a small amphitheatre of stones in the middle, like a dry wading pool. Familiarity welled up in Peter’s stomach and lodged as a lump in his throat.
The surrounding homes were tall and thin, raggedtopped as if with gables, made of smooth stone the colour of brick. Behind the houses, a line of cliffs rose up like distant skyscrapers.
And people. Women passed with long hair fluttering behind them; men sat in doorways and talked. Their clothes were odd — green or blue tunics with hose — but the familiarity remained. Their friendly, neighbourhood chatter reached out to him across years.
It was all Peter could do to not run into the third house down the street, calling for his mom. Instead, he stood at the entrance to the park, until the sirens called to them.
“Fionarra!” people shouted. “Welcome back!”
Ariel waved and Fiona smiled. She touched Peter’s back and gently, but firmly, pushed him forward towards the third house down the street. His, after all. His home.
Conversations stopped when Peter and Fiona passed by, then started again as whispers.
“It’s him, isn’t it?”
Peter suddenly felt the eyes of the whole village on him, from every person outside and from every window. Ariel led him by the hand, across a gravel road and over a stone walk and a patch of green stones like a lawn, towards the steps leading to a small porch. “Home!” she said. The front door was open for them. Peter hesitated, but felt the eyes all on his back. He swallowed once, then stepped inside.
“The Lost Child, come home!” said Fiona, at his back.
In a tall, narrow foyer, he stood on floorboards, amongst walls that were a smooth, beige stone. Ariel darted into the hallway with a shriek of laughter, her bare feet slapping. Peter listened to the sound like an echo.
“Take off your coat,” said Fiona, stepping back.
Peter took off his windbreaker and, without thinking, tossed it at the wall. It caught neatly on a hook and hung by its collar. Peter stood a moment, arm outstretched in the act of throwing, staring at his jacket.
Then he heard Ariel’s voice echoing from the kitchen. “Everybody! Fionarra’s home and she’s brought the Lost One with her!”
There was a burst of talk and chairs scraping back.
Peter took a backwards step towards the door.
Fiona touched his shoulder. “Peter? What’s wrong?”
Peter struggled to keep his breath. “Fiona, I’m not ready.”
Fiona frowned. “What are you —”
“I-I can’t deal with this … it’s too much.” He pushed back against Fiona’s gently restraining arm. What if he didn’t know his family? What if he didn’t like them? What if
Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Martin A. Lee, Bruce Shlain