Somewhere out of the way, where he could work on his memoirs and maybe perfect his masterwork on the snake cults of the world.
He’d been lying, of course. His guides to the cryptids of every continent had formed the seed of our family library, and we’d been improving and expanding them ever since. If Grandma Alice ever proved herself to be right—if she ever brought him home—he’d find that his habit of dry, slightly amused scholarship had spawned generations of extremely earnest imitators. I liked to think that he’d be pleased.
Grandpa Thomas’ stay in Australia only lasted two years, from 1950 to 1952. During that time, he’d nearly been killed by the Thirty-Six Society—twice—before becoming an honorary member, which may have been the beginning of his final separation from the Covenant of St. George. It’s hard to swear to uphold the ideals and goals of two completely disparate organizations, and from reading his account of his Australian visit, I think he liked the Thirty-Sixers better. He certainly described them in more consistently positive terms, and used the word “wanker” a lot less.
During those two years, Grandpa Thomas traveled all over the continent, documenting dozens of creatures, plants, and hostile rock formations. Most of them wanted to kill him and none of them succeeded, which means Australia could be considered a sort of “trial by fire” for his eventually being allowed to marry my grandmother.
The thing that most caught my attention as I read was a passage in the introduction to his guide to Australia’s flora, fauna, and silicate life:
“Do not be fooled by the presence of sand, grass, and clouds; do not be soothed into carelessness by the familiar shapes of sharks swimming in the water off the coast, or the pleasant silliness of the fairy penguins riding in with the evening tide,” said the text. “This is not your home: this is not a room you have visited before, transformed by new curtains and a few new pieces of furniture. This is an alien world that happens to share a planet with our familiar climes, and to lose your focus is to, very probably, lose your head. As I am sure you would like to keep the latter, hold tight to the former, and do not let Australia’s many natural beauties lead you astray.”
I sighed and closed the book, looking at Shelby—the greatest of Australia’s natural beauties—as she slept in the seat next to mine. Her face was utterly relaxed, unlined in her contentment. She looked more beautiful than anything else in this dimension or any other, with her long blonde hair tangled in front of one eye and her mouth hanging just a little open. I tucked the book into the pocket of my seat, reached up to turn off the reading light, and leaned over to rest my head against her shoulder. There would be plenty of time to read before we reached land.
We were traveling to another world, after all.
Shelby woke me when the stewards came around with dinner. I fell asleep again after that, and woke a few hours later to find her hunched over her computer, typing rapidly. I sat up, yawning, and rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand before I asked, “What’s up?”
“Just checking in,” she said, not looking away from her screen. “How did we live in an age before inflight Wi-Fi? It must have been like being back in caveman times, all silence and no shouting.”
“I think cavemen shouted a lot,” I said, yawning again. “Okay, I would commit a felony for a cup of coffee.”
“There’s a self-serve kitchenette a bit down the plane,” said Shelby, pulling her laptop into her actual lap and contorting herself in a way that would have been impossible in anything smaller than a business class seat. I found I was unable to make myself stand up, more interested in tracing the tangled lines of Shelby’s legs than I was in getting the caffeine my brain so desperately needed.
Shelby caught me staring and grinned. “Eyes up, and get moving. I want
He’d been lying, of course. His guides to the cryptids of every continent had formed the seed of our family library, and we’d been improving and expanding them ever since. If Grandma Alice ever proved herself to be right—if she ever brought him home—he’d find that his habit of dry, slightly amused scholarship had spawned generations of extremely earnest imitators. I liked to think that he’d be pleased.
Grandpa Thomas’ stay in Australia only lasted two years, from 1950 to 1952. During that time, he’d nearly been killed by the Thirty-Six Society—twice—before becoming an honorary member, which may have been the beginning of his final separation from the Covenant of St. George. It’s hard to swear to uphold the ideals and goals of two completely disparate organizations, and from reading his account of his Australian visit, I think he liked the Thirty-Sixers better. He certainly described them in more consistently positive terms, and used the word “wanker” a lot less.
During those two years, Grandpa Thomas traveled all over the continent, documenting dozens of creatures, plants, and hostile rock formations. Most of them wanted to kill him and none of them succeeded, which means Australia could be considered a sort of “trial by fire” for his eventually being allowed to marry my grandmother.
The thing that most caught my attention as I read was a passage in the introduction to his guide to Australia’s flora, fauna, and silicate life:
“Do not be fooled by the presence of sand, grass, and clouds; do not be soothed into carelessness by the familiar shapes of sharks swimming in the water off the coast, or the pleasant silliness of the fairy penguins riding in with the evening tide,” said the text. “This is not your home: this is not a room you have visited before, transformed by new curtains and a few new pieces of furniture. This is an alien world that happens to share a planet with our familiar climes, and to lose your focus is to, very probably, lose your head. As I am sure you would like to keep the latter, hold tight to the former, and do not let Australia’s many natural beauties lead you astray.”
I sighed and closed the book, looking at Shelby—the greatest of Australia’s natural beauties—as she slept in the seat next to mine. Her face was utterly relaxed, unlined in her contentment. She looked more beautiful than anything else in this dimension or any other, with her long blonde hair tangled in front of one eye and her mouth hanging just a little open. I tucked the book into the pocket of my seat, reached up to turn off the reading light, and leaned over to rest my head against her shoulder. There would be plenty of time to read before we reached land.
We were traveling to another world, after all.
Shelby woke me when the stewards came around with dinner. I fell asleep again after that, and woke a few hours later to find her hunched over her computer, typing rapidly. I sat up, yawning, and rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand before I asked, “What’s up?”
“Just checking in,” she said, not looking away from her screen. “How did we live in an age before inflight Wi-Fi? It must have been like being back in caveman times, all silence and no shouting.”
“I think cavemen shouted a lot,” I said, yawning again. “Okay, I would commit a felony for a cup of coffee.”
“There’s a self-serve kitchenette a bit down the plane,” said Shelby, pulling her laptop into her actual lap and contorting herself in a way that would have been impossible in anything smaller than a business class seat. I found I was unable to make myself stand up, more interested in tracing the tangled lines of Shelby’s legs than I was in getting the caffeine my brain so desperately needed.
Shelby caught me staring and grinned. “Eyes up, and get moving. I want
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