53 Ganymede

Episode 36 - The Right Place (Reprise)

A young woman walks the Newport streets, fumbling over the nearly invisible swaths of ice that cover the deserted sidewalks. She lifts the collar of her canvas jacket against the fine winter rain and silently curses whoever has stolen her hat; tiny droplets cling to her dark hair, the cruel wind transforming them into icy crystals that clump and pull at her scalp.

The diffuse whiteness of the early afternoon is just bright enough that she can make out her reflection in a shop window as she passes. For a moment she is struck by her own image — her crystalline hair shimmering in the faint light, the wind lending it a life of its own. As it dances about her broad shoulders she imagines herself an ice queen, a beautiful and powerful force of nature unaffected by the gnawing teeth of winter, undeterred by the sharp bite of the elements and even less so by the scathing tongues of commoners.

The illusion lasts hardly the span of a heartbeat before her eyes catch the unmistakable shadow tracing her jawline, spreading over her chin and under her nose.

Damn it, she thinks, turning away and thrusting her chin as far into her jacket as possible. If only she'd grabbed a scarf before she'd left, or a razor, or a thousand other things that had belonged to another person in another life. She wonders how long her parents will wait for that person to return.

Maybe that's why they didn't let me take much, she thinks as she shifts the small gym bag over her shoulder, 'cause they think I'll have to come back out of necessity. As if being hungry and cold will change who I am — transform me like a magical kiss from a frog into their Prince Charming.

To hell with that, if transformations were that easy I would have done this years ago.

Shoving her almost-blue fingers deep into her pockets, she feels for the business card she'd found abandoned on a bus seat earlier that day. She pulls it out and inspects it again.

One side is perfectly blank, the other adorned by a compass, its lines carefully drawn in vibrant cerulean ink. Underneath is an address and nothing more. The woman glances around, comparing the numbers on the shops to the one written on the card. She is getting closer, although she expects very little. A night club, probably, or something seedier. But she has nothing else to do, nowhere else to go, and so she lets her curiosity tug her onward.

A sound draws her attention toward a gap in the shops where she finds a squat, brick building tucked away behind the others. She takes a step forward onto a concrete path lined with skeletal shrubs and trees, and searches for the source of the sound — a repetitive clinking, as if a room full of people are bringing their glasses together in a never-ending toast. Finally, on an iron hook extending from the building, she finds an intricate wind chime constructed of a dozen or more pieces of sea glass. Soft pinks, deep ocean blues, and sea foam greens dance to the lonely music of the winter wind.

To the left and above the hook is a sign with a compass. The woman lifts the card, matching the symbol there to the one on the sign.

"Well, I guess this is the right place," she says, squinting to read the name painted beneath the compass: The Wayfinder.

She takes another step closer, close enough to peek through the glass door. Inside she can see tables, people milling here and there. More importantly, she can smell food — a peculiar mingling of sweet and savoury: pumpkin spice, curry, caramelized sugar, cinnamon, tomatoes, chili peppers, and coffee. All of these and more. Her stomach growls and she weighs her hunger to the fifty some-odd dollars in her bank account. In the end it is neither her stomach nor her wallet that tips the scales, but the chilled numbness of her extremities. She grabs the frigid metal handles of the door and pulls outward, grateful for the blast of warm air that rushes out to meet her.