The Dreaming: Old Shalon (Book 4)

6.1. The Library

We pulled away from the shore as soon as I agreed with the voyage, like the entire thing had been planned from the beginning.

When we finished eating breakfast the strange family excused themselves from the table and left the room. They must have been given quarters or something, as they seemed like they knew where they were going. I watched them go down the hall and into another room.

Tom invited us to move from the table to a set of comfortable chairs with a 180 degree view of the North Shore mountains, and the city, with Stanley Park in the background.

I hadn't felt this much luxury in so many years, my body didn't know what to do with it all. My belly was full of bacon and tea, and I was ready for a nap. The only thing missing was a good book. I leaned back in the glorious cushions with the sun on my face, and tried to ignore Michael and Nicole arguing over a pair of binoculars.

"Let me look," Nicole whined.

"Okay, here," Michael said, relinquishing the precious object.

Nicole put them to her eyes and scanned the horizon, wildly. "Where is it? I can't see anything!"

"Come on silly, use some sense. Slow down and look in the sky for a white streak, then follow it to the ground and you'll see it. There's a camp there with a fire burning."

"What are you going on about?" I interrupted. It just dawned on me that they were looking at people.

"A fire. Someone's having a big fire on that island across the water."

"Give me those binoculars," I demanded, suddenly curious.

I looked in and saw smoke coming from Stanley Park. I waited for Tom to come back from some errand he was running, and asked, "Who lives over there in Stanley Park?"

"They call themselves the Quixam," He answered. When he saw that I obviously wanted more, he continued, "After the big one hit, when most everyone left the coast, they stayed behind and laid a claim to their so-called 'native' land. According to them, the big one was the best thing that ever happened. They live in poverty. They're very xenophobic, thought I've heard they'll let anyone live with them who agrees with their ways. "

"What kind of ways are they?" I asked, becoming intensely curious. I looked through the binoculars at the shore. Was that a person over there, bending at the water?

"They're a brutal, bloody group of people, best to be avoided," he said dismissively. "They're all ex-drug addicts and homeless. You know, the scum that got left behind."

I put my eyes back up the binoculars to hide my expression. I didn't say it out loud, but remarked silently that I had been part of that scum. Although I'd had some choice in the matter, the truth was, I didn't feel like the new world belonged to me.

Tom continued, "I can't understand why anyone would want to live over there — from anything I've ever seen, it looks like they live like a bunch of animals."

I let down the binoculars and looked at him, trying to read his face, which was smooth, without a wrinkle of doubt. He had spoken with a calm surety that made my skin crawl. Racist son of a bitch.

I swallowed my disgust and picked up my binoculars again. I'd learned a long, long time ago that people like him weren't worth my time. I looked for the person on the shore. I had a feeling I'd rather be over there, on Stanley Park island, than on this boat. The thought of finding a community of misfits where I'd be welcome. Other adults... it hadn't crossed my mind.

While watching the person, who was obviously squatting by the water — maybe washing something, I asked, "Brutal, huh, so what happened?" I tried to adjust the dial on the binoculars to focus on the figure on the beach, but I just could not find that sweet spot — it was either too far, or too near. I felt annoyed with my aging fingers.