Otherspace

Isabella stood on the sandy shoulder of old Route 66. The sun was directly overhead, hot and bright, but Isabella was used to the heat. She had a leather ball cap and dark sunglasses to keep the sun out of her eyes. She wore a light blousy shirt and loose pants to keep the air from stifling her. On her feet were comfortable sneakers. Her mood was as light as her colors. This was where her dreams were going to become real.

As a child, Isabella had been highly intelligent, but much too dreamy for her parents. “What good are smarts if you don’t use them,” her mother would say. “It is better to be practically stupid than impractically smart,” said her father. When Isabella tried to tell her parents that sometimes her dreams came true, her mother wanted to put her in a “home”, such a polite euphemism. Her father told her if her dreams true, then she should start dreaming of business matters. Isabella’s dreams were never of the future, though, only of distant events.

When Isabella tried to convince her mother of her father’s infidelity, Mother wouldn’t listen to Isabella, but Father certainly listened to Mother. Isabella went to Allison’s Betterment Home, a nice way of saying “crazy house”. Isabella was committed to a high-class mental institution with a warm friendly atmosphere, warm colors and comfortable rooms. The staff was pleasant, but as long as the money kept rolling in, psychiatric help was paced slow and methodical, holding to traditional practices of dealing with wealthy delusional children.

It took only a year for Isabella to learn not to speak of her dreams, especially when the drugs she was given made the dreams go away. Even when the dreams came back, she was very quiet, speaking when spoken to, and telling no one of her visions.

When she was released, she was declared competent and independent and of age to make her own decisions. She completed her basic education with a personal tutor, and considered various far away universities that would help her spend her father’s money while providing opportunities for her to do some real research into her strange dreams.

On her twentieth birthday, Isabella dreamt of a battle in a clear white sky. She saw a strange airplane battling demons of shadow and hate. It scared her, for she knew it was not really a dream. Everything she saw in her mind’s theater was real, somewhere. As she watched, tossing and turning in her bed, the large plane rolled into a dive and dropped away from the dark demons, fading out of the white, disappearing from her dream. That’s when the demons turned their attention on Isabella, and in near panic, she sought the plane again.

Her dream vision shifted to the American Southwest. The plane was losing altitude quickly, trailing a thick cloud of black smoke. It was early morning, wherever the plane was landing, and very dry. Isabella caught a glimpse of a highway not far below the plane, and a sign that read Route 66. From where her vision overlooked the sign, she could see the plane had landed, rotating its many engines so that it could hover for a few moments like a helicopter, then ease itself down behind a large hill of sand and scrub brush.

When Isabella awoke, she quickly packed a large duffle bag with clothes that might be appropriate for an adventure and quietly stole out to her father’s garage. It would be days before her father noticed one of his motorcycles missing, so she strapped her duffle bag to the back of one of the smaller bikes, pushed it out of the garage and down the lane until it was far enough from the house to avoid waking anyone. She started the bike and headed east, towards Route 66.

It took her a day and a half of driving to find the spot she had dreamed of, hoping it was not too late. It was noon, now, and she had parked her bike on the edge of the roadway. Tired from many hours of driving, she stood in the heat trying to remember where the plane had landed. She closed her eyes and rubbed her eyelids when she heard the whine of powerful engines.

In an instant, she was running, climbing over a sandy hill. Don’t leave me, she thought, and two things happened that made her stop suddenly, stunned. The first was the plane came into view, gleaming in the sunlight. It was as real as she could have ever imagined it. The second was a voice in her head asking, Who are you?

Isabella blinked. She waited, but she heard nothing more from that stranger’s voice. She was panting, both from the physical excursion and from the emotional shock. As she watched, the engines slowed, the pitch of their whine dropping. Soon, they made no noise at all. Not long after that, a door opened on the side of the plane. It was large, like something meant for small cargo, and it slid back out of the way. She couldn’t see past the glare of the metal hull into the shadows of the plane, but a ramp slid out and someone was walking down to the sand.

Isabella willed her legs to move and she walked down the sandy slope and crossed the flat ground to where the plane sat. As she approached, she saw that the person coming towards her was a tall woman dressed in a bomber jacket that matched her suede pants and brown leather boots. Both Isabella and the woman from the plane stopped when they were about twenty yards apart.

“Who are you?” called the woman, standing with her hands on her hips.

“My name is Isabella,” said Isabella, after a long moment of hesitation.

“Let me see your eyes,” said the woman. Isabella noticed the woman had a strange pistol holstered at her hip, very close to her right hand. Isabella took off her sunglasses and blinked until her eyes grew accustomed to the glaring sunshine. As she blinked, she saw the woman approach. When the woman was only five yards away, she said, “Your eyes look human enough.”

“Were you expecting something else?” asked Isabella, not sure what kind of answer she would get. The woman didn’t answer the question, though.

“So, Isabella,” said the woman, “You don’t want to be left behind.” Isabella stared, gaping at the woman.

“You heard me?” asked Isabella. The woman crossed her arms, then held her jaw with one hand, silent in thought for a long while. Isabella just stared.

“How did you know to come here?” asked the woman.

“I saw you in a dream,” said Isabella, uncomfortable with telling anyone about her dreams. But this dream had been real. “You were fighting shadowy demons, then you were landing here.”

“You saw into Otherspace?” asked the woman, genuinely surprised. “Maybe I do have room for you as part of my crew.”

“Otherspace?” asked Isabella, confused and curious. Then excitement hit her. “Crew?”

“My name is Maraia,” said the woman, “And I am the captain of the Graceful Albatross.” Maraia half turned and pointed towards the plane. Her eyes never left Isabella. “That little battle you saw did some damage to my ship, but we should be ready to leave by dusk.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Isabella, “I’m ready – oh! Let me get my things.” When Isabella didn’t move, Maraia smiled.

“I’ll send out Russell to help you with your things,” said Maraia. “He’s my pilot. I think you might like him.” With that, Maraia turned and walked back to her plane. Isabella noticed she walked with a carefree confidence, like she owned the world, but she had left the paperwork at home on purpose.

Isabella waited in the hot sun until Russell came out to meet her. He was tall and lean, dressed in combat boots, khaki pants, and a white button down shirt. The sleeves were rolled up just below his elbows and he wore fingerless gloves. He carried himself with a mythical charm that reminded Isabella of her grandmother’s description of Grandfather Bill.

Grandfather Bill had always been sweet to Isabella when she was a little girl, but the stroke had landed him in a hospital for a year before he gave up on life. Grandmother always spoke of Grandfather Bill as if he were still a young navy officer, calm and collect, charming in his mere presence. Isabella wasn’t sure which made her knees weak, Russell’s radiating charm or his handsome stare that never left Isabella as he approached her.

“You must be Isabella,” said Russell, his voice slightly deeper than Isabella expected. “Fancy meeting you out here.” He smiled gently, as if trying not to scare off a doe in the woods.

“Um, yeah,” said Isabella, immediately regretting her schoolgirl anxiety. She was a woman, after all, and not as crazy as everybody said. “Um, this way. My things are this way.” She turned abruptly and walked over the sand hill, hoping he was following behind her.

When she got to her motorcycle, she turned and saw Russell still standing on the hill. He was looking down at her as she turned back to the motorcycle and started unstrapping her dufflebag.

“Your not taking your cycle?” Russell said, speaking loud enough to be heard. Isabella stopped what she was doing and looked back at Russell. He continued, “That seems to be a pretty nice toy, if you ask me. It would be a shame to leave it out here.”

“I can take this?” Isabella asked, patting the seat of the motorcycle.

“Sure,” said Russell, coming down the hill. “I’ll help you push it around this hill.” Isabella restrapped the duffle bag to the back of the cycle and waited for Russell. Isabella walked beside the bike, steering it, while Russell pushed from behind. The two of them were able to get the bike around the hill and across the sandy ground to the base of the ramp.

Russell put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. After a moment a large black skinned man appeared at the door at the top of the ramp. His skin was so dark, he seemed to melt out of the shadows of the plane’s interior. He had handsome African features: broad nose, full lips, and bright sparkling eyes.

“Could you give us a hand with this?” said Russell, gesturing down to the motorcycle.

“If it were for you, I would invite my brothers to watch you struggle by yourself,” said the strong man, as he marched down the ramp, “But, for the beautiful woman, I would gladly steal a dragon’s egg if it meant being the first of my kin to give her my name.” When he reached the bottom of the ramp, he stood towering over Isabella, smiling with straight white teeth. He was nearly seven feet tall, and made Russell look like a boy. He wore a long black silk tunic that came down to his knees and showed half of his chest.

“I-I’m flattered,” said Isabella, trying not to stammer.

“My name is Ga’ru,” said the tall man, bowing. He then turned and grabbed the motorcycle and heaved it off the ground. Isabella could see he was straining to carry the motorcycle, but he made it to the top without hurting himself, and she was mightily impressed.

Russell sighed loudly and said, “Show off!” Then he marched up the ramp into the plane. Isabella stopped ogling, since she was the only person outside, and she hurried up the ramp.