The Boarder (An Orien Sage Story)

THE BOARDER

An Orien Sage Novella by Bryan Paul 


I.

In the northeast region of the Union of Colonial Settlements, in the new land found and settled on planet Promythica is the vast colony of Mansington and tucked in the far corner is a community of small villages and a few larger towns, such as Hilliar. 

Along Primary Path in Hilliar Town is Emarldleaf farm, which would become blanketed in snow come chill season, but before the chill, the crops must be picked and prepared, in the season known as the Harvest, and as the farmer prepares for the chill and the calendar year ahead, the youths among the colonies prepare to enter their schooling.

Hilliar School for Late Learning was divided into two buildings. The South Building for learning years 9-12 was just past the farm on Primary Path, and just a brief walk away from Orien Sage, who lived with his mother and brother in a cottage by the farm on Emarldleaf Way. Orien would be starting his eighth school year at the North building, further down the path, but hoped to never step foot inside the South Building.

He would soon be auditioning for the Penhaven Village School for Performing and Art. If he were accepted it would be his new home, far away from the home life he already had. 
It would be a time to be alone, to walk alone and find a way to stand on his own, when he would enter the arts school, but before that would happen, Orien had his own space within his parent’s cottage- a hideout.

Past the chill cabinet in the kitchen, a small hallway led to a closet where cloths and linens were kept, up above was a door and through the door was the attic. In the attic, Orien’s brother Alto practiced his music with his friends and sometimes painted. 

In the attic, there were paperbound books stored in a trunk-and there had been a stash of erotic pulpbooks, with illustrations, including nude flash prints, which Orien found hidden under a loose floorboard, but those were now in a trunk in Orien’s bed chamber closet.

In the attic Orien sat, preparing for his studies in theatre arts, reading about the show conductor, Merv Borgman. His eyes were getting tired from trying to focus on the pages in the dim lantern light and he was starting to get hungry. He closed the hardbound volume, ‘Borgman: A Definitive Critique,’ and he took it along with the worn paperbound copy of Harlee Sainte’s ‘The Wastes,’ which he had plucked out of the old black trunk. 

Light from the kitchen poured into his attic hideout as he kicked the door open, clicked off the hanging lantern and descended the stepway with his books tucked under his arm.

The cottage was quiet. He suspected his mother was napping with their pet tigret, Felice, in her lap in the main living quarter. The potions she had been taking always made her sleepy. It seemed as if the only times Orien recalled her being awake were before work and when she came home late at night, having finished her orderly work at the medic house.

Orien opened the chill cabinet doors and there was not much but ready-prepared meals that could be heated in the oven, which was fine as Orien couldn’t cook and in his youth it had always been difficult for his parents to find meals that he was willing to try. He was always very stubborn and usually if he didn’t want to try something, he didn’t have to.
Orien heated a prepared meal and ate it. While he ate he heard his mother moan and mumble in her sleep, before finally awakening.

“You be good while I’m at work. Be a good boy,” it sounded like she had said.

Orien looked over from the table in the dining quarter and saw his mother open her eyes. She was indeed sitting in the chair in the main quarter room with Felice. She looked around the room, confused.

“I dozed again. My, how I get tired,” she said, laughing to herself, looking off into space.

“Off you,” she said swatting Felice and she sighed angrily, but Felice simply looked up at her. Orien’s mom then became irritated and pushed the tigret off, “Off you go!” she said and the tigret scattered off to her bedpillow.

Orien’s mom entered the kitchen.

“Gotta take my potion,” she said to herself. Orien finished his meal and tossed the tin plate in the sink.

Orien spent the next several chimes in the main living quarters, listening to a radio show program on the couch, while his mother got ready for work.

“What’s this we’re listening to?’ Alto said, coming out of his bedchamber to join Orien.

“Bugle brothers,” Orien stated.

“This is my quarter room. I’m the one responsible for the housepay,” said the voice on the radio.

“But, we’re brothers….” said another voice, and the brothers on the farce-show program argued.

“Sometimes I wish I hadn’t had that extra room… look you can’t tell me to leave because you’ve invited company…”

“But, why?” the pesky brother asked sounding like an early youth asking why he can’t invite his playmate over for dinner, and the recorded audience responded in a small laugh.

“Because I invited company!” the other brother responded to an even larger audience response.

Orien’s mother slipped out the hallway in her plain white orderly smock.

“Goodbye, boys,” she said to them, as they said, “Bye,” right back and she was out the door.

“Do you wanna get out the projector and watch a show?” Alto asked Orien.

“Don’t know… possibly… but, I don’t know,” Orien said and he had wanted to use their mini-projector to view a show, but not one that Alto would be interested in. Their mother had taken Orien to a bookshop and purchased for him a reel-tape copy of a recording of the stage show ‘Broken Faith,’ conducted by Merv Borgman. It took some convincing before his parents allowed him to view what was considered mature content, not appropriate for youths.

“How about, ‘the banished one’,” Alto suggested, a maniacal grin spread across his face as he looked at Orien.

“That’s a horror show and remember you always used to say to mom and dad, when I begged to see a horror show, that I couldn’t because they never allowed you and I’d just be scared-”

“I don’t remember that, but maybe I did, just to be a pest, but now you can watch horror shows. Are you too scared?”

“No. I read the novel. I know what it’s all about, and I read about the conductor who made the reel show. It’s all theatrics and play-acting.”

“I’m getting out the projector,” Alto said. He got up from the couch and went into his bedchamber. When he came out, he was carrying the mini-projector in his hands, and had a white sheet draped over his shoulder.

Orien turned his head and Alto threw the sheet over him and laughed. Orien took the sheet off his head and got up from the couch, while ‘the Bugle brothers’ played in the background.

“Get the stool from my room,” Alto said, putting down the projector and heading toward the dining quarter.

Orien walked past his own bedchamber door and turned down the hallway leading to his brother’s bedchamber. 

He opened up the door, to his brother’s dark chamber room and hit the corner tab next to the door. The room was dimly lit with stringed lights, making Alto’s sinister drawings pinned to the walls of skeletons and demons seem all the more menacing.

There was a tall stool, next to Alto’s woodharp, which was leaning at the head of his bed, just below a tapestry portrait of the depressiant musician, Derek Strogen. Orien took the stool, holding it in both his arms, and walked out of his brother’s chamber room, hitting the tab once more, to turn out the lights.

He placed the stool in the hallway next to his own chamber door. Alto was pinning up sheets and blankets over the windows. Orien took the mini projector by the handle, and the tape had already been spooled, and the reels set-up. He placed the projector on the stool.
Orien sat on the couch in the dim main quarter.

“Ready?” Alto asked as he finished putting the last wall pin in the corner of the white sheet he hung above the radio where a cord was attached that ran all the way down the hallway to the projector.

“Ready,” Orien said and he did feel a light bit of nervousness and fear, and felt himself shake a slight bit as Alto walked toward the hallway and hit the tab turning off the hanging light above Orien’s head. It was pitch dark in the living quarters, until a bright light illuminated the white sheet in front of Orien and he heard the projector whir on.

The reel-show had started much like the novel, with the historian, Hal Wrex, played by Randolf Spier, discovering the sacred stone tablature of the banished ones.

“I never thought in my life I would find full evidence that such a thing exists as a lost spirit in banishment. I almost don’t want to believe it.” Hal, the old man in the moving black and white image, said.

Much of the first chapter of the novel had been reduced to a brief scene, but it got the point across to viewers of the show, Orien thought.
Alto seemed disappointed at Orien’s lack of response to the startling images as he sat on the couch next to him.

“You’re just no fun,” Alto said as he expected Orien to jump when the young lady, projected on the sheet, began to contort her body and dribble a black substance from her mouth, being possessed by one of the banished ones. 

Orien’s first experience with going to theatre to see a reel show was at a very young age, he was only of age three and he was taken with his family, both his parents and his brother who was then age nine. The show featured animation, a type of earth show that featured drawn images that moved. At the point where the villainous puppet-show master showed his true form, with bulging animated red eyes, it was frightening enough to leave a mark on Orien.

Then came the Shermy shorts. Shermy was a man with a youth-like imagination, who lived in a house full of his own unique inventions. There was one particular short in which Shermy was taking a walk and heard a high-pitched sound, which he imagined to be the sound of a Serpentier creature from space. Orien had been frightened when he first saw the creature, which Shermy imagined, but his brother Alto explained to him, that it was only puppetry. It was a puppet captured on reel-tape, and it was funny, not scary. Orien viewed the reel-show many more times. Orien even took a book out of the library on puppetry and made his own puppets at home with old socks.

“One day you’ll conduct your own theatre productions,” his father said at the time.
Orien had been more focused on his memories rather than the reel-show that was playing on the projector and when the show was finished and Alto clicked on the hanging light above Orien’s head, he asked him, “What did you think?”

“They did a good job. It was just like the novel,” Orien said.

“You’re just no fun,” Alto said, but Orien didn’t understand.

Orien got up from the couch and began unpinning the blanket that was hung over the front window. He asked his brother, “Can I borrow the projector?”

“Yes,” Alto said, taking the white sheet off the wall.

“I’m taking it into my room,” Orien said, tossing the blanket off onto the couch. It landed and it draped, still and motionless, lazy like a sleeping tigret, like Felice who was napping on her pillow.

Orien helped put away the blankets and sheets, and Alto retreated into his bedchamber down the hallway, Felice’s dainty claws tapping the wood floors as she followed him. 

Orien took the projector by the handle, pushed the stool aside and opened his chamber door. He closed the door behind him and placed the projector down on the floor, walking towards the table at the end of his bed, where his radio was placed, and opening up the doors to a very large storage room, which had been converted to his viewing room. 

There was a black trunk on the left side of the closet, with a wooden crate on top. Orien removed the crate and unlatched the trunk. He lifted the lid and searched, scoping with his eyes. Amongst the scattered books and reel-tape copies was ‘Broken Faith’ in a square black case. He took it out, closed and locked the trunk and set the tape-copy on top.

Orien crawled to the table at the end of his bed, where underneath was a long rectangular power source strip. Orien crouched and tuned the dial on the strip and his closet was illuminated from dangling string lights. There was another cord leading into the closet, one originating from Orien’s radio and at the end of it was a headset. When Orien was finally set up for viewing, with the main lights in his chamber turned off and the only light being from the viewing room, he plugged another cord into his radio, from the projector, placed the projector on the wood crate, shut the closet door, spooled the reel, sat on the black trunk and placed the head-set on his head.

He flicked the switch on the projector and the white screen in front of him, flashed…
4… a bold white number on black. Followed by, 3…2…X… a black screen and the words, presenting… A Three-Ring Theatre Production, with a logo of a spinning ring, which multiplied into three rings… ADVISORY: Youth Colonists under age 18 are cautioned at the following production’s mature content.  

There were several more titles, projected over a black curtain… Three-Ring Theatrical Recordings in association with Tietpous Town’s prestigious Pioneer Square Stage, present…. A stage production by Merv Borgman… Broken Faith.

Slowly the curtains unfolded. There was a shadow on the shining stage, from a female form, lying on a bed, and the stage curtains peeled, allowing a tiny window of flesh. Her breasts were fully visible. Another shadow joined hers, as a man approached the bed, and her nude form was now blocked by another nude form.

The curtains closed back up, and Orien could hear a symphony of music playing in his headset, as more titles revealed the names of the main stage players.

Orien felt an excitement upon the female form being revealed to him, an excitement that grew with anticipation, and another peak of the curtains revealed the two nude figures in embrace, under bedsheets in a deep and passionate kiss, and the curtains closed once more.

The story that unfolded before Orien’s eyes was about more than erotica. It was about a man, worried that his marriage-companion had been unfaithful with him. The images that had been first shown were of a nightmare the man had, where he had walked in on his wife and another man.

Orien was fascinated at this glimpse of elder life and marraige struggles. He was glad to have triumphed, after striving to convince his parents that it was necessary for his study in the theatre arts to view ‘Broken Faith’ as well as Borgman’s other shows. When he was told he was not allowed to view it, after arguing and pleading, he flew off in his mini-speeder, headed for the Hilliar Hall of Books at the center of town and scrambled to find books and pamphlets with critiques, dropping coin after coin into the flash press copier and copying.

He was curious for this glimpse into elder relations. He was curious at this glimpse at Borgman’s superior story-telling methods as observed on the live stage before he became a conductor for reel shows. He was just as curious about these things as he was about the prospect of seeing live nudity captured on reel tape and learning more about enlovment. 
When the curtain signaled the end of the show it left Orien with something to think about, with questions on whether the companionship of the two leads would survive its conflicts and he thougt he would later read more into it, flipping open his hardbound of ‘Borgman: A Definitive Critique’.

That would come later, maybe another day, as it was quite late when Orien flicked the switch on the projector and he had been sitting so long in the same spot, that he had to stretch his muscles, and his bones cracked.

Orien opened the doors to his viewing room and stepped out, clicking the tab by his bed to turn on the light overhead, and observing the time on his clockpiece. He needed to stretch his legs a bit and roam after having been sitting, so he left his bedchamber door, attempting to be quiet and not wake his mother, but he would discover that he didn’t have to worry about her as she was sitting on the couch in the main living quarter.

He heard a, ssshipp, sound and a gulp, as his mother gulped her steamee down and sighed. She sniffled and wiped her eyes of tears.

She gasped, almost spilling her steamee as Orien walked in alongside the couch and she had not heard him coming. She was breathing heavily. She looked as if she had been startled and Orien sat next to her asking, “Are you all right?”

She took in a heavy breath, and released and she was calm.

“I was startled,” she said. Her eyes were puffed up, looking as though they hadn’t wanted to be open wide as they were and straining to look at Orien, and when her lips formed a smile it looked as if she hadn’t truly felt like smiling.

Orien sat and looked, but made no expression. His mother sipped her steamee and said, “Your birthday is coming-you’re growing so mature. Your brother’s studying at the Academy now, soon he’ll be leaving. Maybe he’ll go on to University… You’ll be going off to that new school.”
A tear rolled down from one of her puffed eyes.

“If I’m accepted,” Orien said.

“You will…. My, you boys are both leaving me aren’t you?” She said, and then laughed to herself and forced another smile.

“Well, that’s what happens. We grow elder. Boys don’t stay youths forever,” Orien explained. He was hoping he was helping.

“No. They don’t,” his mother agreed.

“I want you to be okay. Stop worrying so much. We must move on, me and Alto. That’s how it is in life.”

“You’re so wise. All those books you read. Such a wise youth.”

Orien didn’t know what to do, seeing his mother in a sad state, but he gave her a hug and hoped it helped. He sat with her in silence a bit more and then was ready to go back to his chamber room.

“Are you going to bed?” his mother asked as Orien got up from the couch.

He didn’t think he would sleep that night. He thought of going back into his viewing room, or up to the attic, or some other place where he could be alone.

“I can’t sleep,” he said.

“You always were a night person. I never could put you to sleep as a baby.”

“I was just going to the kitchen to help myself to some steamee, maybe we can listen to radio together. Where’s Felice?”

“Probably with your brother,” she said. Orien walked over to the radio and tuned the dial, to some soft orchestrations. He went into the kitchen and took out a mug from the cabinet. He poured from the pot on the stove, which was boiling low, and turned the burner off.

When he came back to the main quarters, his mother was asleep. He tuned the radio until he came to a station playing hardened tunes the type of which his brother played. He made sure the music was tuned low so as not to wake anyone, and he sat, with his legs crossed, close to the big amplifying box and listened as he sipped his steamee and his mother snored, but he was alone in his own fantasies, in his mind driving a jetcar to the premiere showing of his first production at the Pioneer Square in Tietopus.

II.

At the start of the next day-set, Orien awoke, ate breakfast and walked to the end of Emarldleaf Way, to join several other scholars, to wait for the transport to bring him to the North Building of Hilliar Late Learning. He kept to himself as he waited, not being close friends with his peers. The friends he grew up with in his early youth, Wyle and Lena, lived along Sunblossom path and rode a different transport to school.

Orien thought of his theatre ambitions all through the ride to school and while in his classes, during every moment of every day within the set, and he had a thought, which he had wanted to bring up with his peers, but wasn’t sure how they’d respond. 

“I’m going to write a script for a reel short,” Orien said, eating his cold sandwhich at the school dining table, to a yellow-haired boy named Haxley, “I can borrow a reel recorder at the library.”

He had hoped a lady youth had overheard him and been impressed at his ambition. He had his eye on a particular dark haired lady several seats down in front of him, who was chatting with another lady friend. No luck being overheard by his old youth friend Lena, however as she was at another table in her own social group.

“Like those late youths in the South building who make those terrible shorts?” Haxley responded.

“The ones in the reel club? My brother used to belong to that club,” Orien said, remembering the reel shorts Alto and his friends made in their first year of learning at the South Building.

“Who’s performing in your short?” Haxley asked with a laugh.

“You mean you don’t want to?” Orien said, disappointed.

“No. I don’t want to.”

Haxley went back to eating his sliced porkus and corn, and took a sip of fruit juice.

“And you Rawli, how about it?” Orien asked the boy sitting next to him, but was ignored.

“Did you listen to the pitch-ball match last night?” Rawli asked Haxley.

“What’s going on with Rudolfus? Not having a good season…” Haxley said, and the scholars continued to eat and chat about pitch-ball while Orien was left feeling alienated and alone.

Outside in the field during their break, while most scholars tossed ball and practiced leisure activities, Orien paced the lot, his head bowed down, with his hands in the pockets of his black long-coat. He paused briefly to stand leaning at the brick building when a yellow-haired lady approached him and he felt his breath being taken away from him.

She was beginning to develop into a mature lady, entering late-youth, developing feminine curves, but she had the same smile he remembered, the only difference was the bracework on her teeth.

“Hi, Ori,” Lena said and Orien was stuck in place, unable to move or speak. He thought of nothing to say.

 “I haven’t talked with you in such a long time,” she continued as he tried not to tremble from being nervous. She stuck to her efforts in trying to talk to him, “How’s your school session so far?”

“It’s good,” he said, but the words did not come out of him easily.

“Are you excited about going to the South Building next period?” she asked.

“Don’t know if I am.”

“You don’t know if you’re excited?”

Orien was afraid while talking to Lena and afraid to look at her, to look her up and down and afraid of his curiosity, as he had been noticing the female body more each day and was not yet comfortable with what he was beginning to feel with the ladies in his classes. He tried not looking at her. He focused on watching a group of youths tossing ball behind her.

“No. I don’t know if I’m going to the South Building or other schooling,” he said and finally he looked at her. She was so beautiful to him, but she was still the lady youth he used to know and he let himself remember that.

“Oh,” she said.

Orien had briefly thought how wonderful it had been to be acknowledged by her, to remember that she was still in his life and still could be and began to fantasize about a romantic companionship with her, but trying to put thoughts of physical romance out of his head, imagining being with her outside of studies.

“Do you not want to talk to me?” Lena said, after Orien kept in place for several clicks without speaking or continuing conversation.

“No,” he said. 

He didn’t not want to talk to her. He did want to talk to her, but there had been a 

miscommunication and Lena looked shocked and then upset as she said, “Fine. I’ll go away then.”

“No, wait,” Orien said again, but she had already been walking away and he was too nervous to chase after her, and he didn’t know what to say. He sunk his head to look at his shoes and wanted to cry. Soon break was over, and the teachers called out for the scholars to form a line. Orien joined the rush of scholars and a boy youth running for the line, accidentally, stepped on his foot.

“Sorry, was that your foot…?” he said, but he didn’t seem sorry at all as he continued running for the line and Orien tried to ignore the sharp throbbing pain of his largest toe. It had been the capper to the so far terrible day.

He hadn’t been focused much on the pain in his toe for the rest of the school day. He had been mostly focused on the disappointment he felt at how things went with Lena. 

He thought about Lena, while in his classes and on the transport back home. He had gone back in his mind to the spot where he had been talking to Lena, and imagined himself being braver, more talkative, he imagined that he was asking her to stay with him after school and study in the library. His fantasy grew more and more elaborate as the day grew on.

Walking to his quarters, having left the transport, Orien imagined Lena waiting for him some other day, so eager to see him again, she would walk from where the transport had dropped her off, to where the transport dropped Orien off. They would walk together to Orien’s cottage and play a card game or find a leisure activity, or maybe they would just kiss, and kiss and continue to kiss and she would be in his arms…

Orien opened the cottage door to the sound of hardened style music playing on the radio and his mother was sitting in the chair in her orderly smock, with Alto and his friend Pace, who played bass harp in his brother’s music group, sitting on the couch.

“How’there, Ori?” Pace said, his bony arm waving from his sleeveless day-shirt.

“We have a boarder in the house, now,” Orien’s mother said turning her head, “Alto can tell you the story.”

“After I have a steamee and settle in,” Orien said, taking his shoes off and walking past the group to enter the dining quarters. He poured himself a steamee from the pot on the stove and stood with his mug in the living quarters to listen to his brother.

“Pace woke me up last night,” Alto said and he didn’t seem pleased at the situation, “I was startled in my bed when I heard something hitting my window. At first thought I imagined it, but kept hearing it, until, I got up and peaked. Pace had been throwing small pebbles. He gestured me to walk out and meet him. I got my day-pants on and my longcoat and met him outside. We both had a smok and he explained that his parents threw him out.”

“He slept in our attic last night,” Orien’s mother said and she took a sip from her own mug.
“Is he staying?” Orien asked.

“No,” Alto said.

“He has no where to go. He’ll stay as long as we can keep him,” their mother said and she finished her steamee.

“I think it’s time for me to take my potion… and I should be off to work,” she said getting up from her chair. She walked down the hallway to the washroom.

Orien took a sip of steamee and took his mother’s place at her chair, as the heavy harp stings and pound slams played to loud vocals on the radio and Pace’s head bobbed up and down to the beat.

“Top Flier!!” he said.

“They’re phonies, Top Flier. I hate them,” Alto said. He crossed his arms.

“Ori, you like Top Flier?” Pace asked coming out of his mystic trance.

“took my heart when she left, claiming no blame for her theft, tossed it out and let it die, blinds my eyes, makes me drryy …” the singer of Top Flier exclaimed on the radio.

Orien, Alto and Pace listened for several chimes until the song ended and Orien’s mother walked in from the hallway, said goodbye and was gone for work. Pace tuned the knob on the radio and asked Alto, “Ready to go up and practice?” 

Alto looked attentive and uncrossed his arms, “Yes,” he said and got up from the couch, as he stood up he said to his brother, “Orien we’re going up to the attic to practice- right, then?”

“Come up with us…” Pace said on his way through the dining quarter. He had made it past the dining table, stopped and turned, gesturing Orien forward.

“He’s fine, He’ll just be down here, reading…”

Orien felt small. He didn’t like being made to feel inferior, as if he were a youth while the elder boys played up in the attic.

“But you don’t mind if I come up, I used to watch you play, when it was just you and Tomas…”
Orien finished his steamee and got up quickly to try and catch up with the boys as they walked toward the hall space next to the chilling cabinet in the kitchen. Orien set his emptied mug down by the kitchen sink. 

 “You can come if you want to, I suppose…” Alto said as Pace unlatched the attic door, and Alto grabbed the ladder and unfolded it. Pace made his way up first, followed by Alto. It occurred to Orien at that moment that he wouldn’t have his hiding space anymore, not with Pace occupying it.

Orien climbed the ladder, lifted himself up from the hatch and looked around. There was a cot and a red camp pack along with piles of blankets and sheets in the corner where Orien usually sat and read in privacy. Orien walked over to the cot and pushed aside Pace’s stuff, to seat himself and watch. 

Pace and Alto were tuning their instruments. Alto had his same black harp, which he had bought at a second hand shop to replace the one he had when he was a youth. Orien recalled being in the shop with Alto when he picked it up and Alto seemed to really like the tones that particular black harp played and knew it was the one to choose amongst the rest. He was now wearing it on a strap, standing behind a microphone and looking at a loose-paper lyric book while Pace plucked a few notes on his bass harp.

 Pace stopped fiddling as Alto began a song and Pace joined along with him. Alto sang into the microphone. Orien thought he seemed nervous being watched and their playing was slightly off, but Alto explained, “It sounds better with a pound-set rhythm,” and they continued to fiddle around with a few melodies. After they finished their set, tired and sweating, they took a break.
Pace got out a packet of smokstiks from his pant pocket and Alto took out his own. Alto lit his smok with a flamestick, then handed the flame to Pace.

“Wanna have a pipe?” Pace suggested.

Alto gave him a blank stare, “You know I don’t smoke pipe.”

“Ori, d’you smoke herbs?” Pace asked. Orien was uncomfortable with the question. Smoking herbs was a privilege only granted to colonists of age eighteen, as was drinking blistonic.

“He doesn’t and he shouldn’t….” Alto replied, but Orien didn’t like his brother speaking for him. It didn’t quite matter much, regardless, as the subject was soon dropped.

“Time for inspiration,” Pace said, removing his stik from his mouth. He walked over to the cot where Orien was sitting and unfastened his camp-pack. He took out a small black square box, carried it over to where Alto was sitting in a chair, and gestured Orien to come along.

Orien followed as Pace sat on the floor, cross-legged and gestured Alto to come down as well. Alto put out his stik in the tray by his feet and passed the tray to Pace to do the same. Pace 
placed the ashtray next to the black box and unfolded the box. The top section of the box stood upright and had amplification for sound. The bottom section had a small spinning disc. 

There was a loud vvwoop, following a set of crackles, coming out of the amplification as Pace placed a tab on the edge of the disc.

A low pound rhythm played, followed by light piano music…

“Awaken to a new world… again… awaken again… come again, with me, again, come again to play…”

The orchestration stopped and the vocalist continued to recite.

“We have arrived… and the vast sands are empty… no water to drink, my love, no water for us…”

Orien could see clearly in his mind the image of two wandering spirits, male and female, lost in a desert without water, lost with each other. He imagined he was the male, the female was 
Lena and he was there to protect her and to find her water and to find them food and shelter.

“What is this?” Orien asked.

“This is Irv Relson,” Pace said, “He was a master poet.”

“He was a blisterer. Probably thought up these verses while on delusium or some similar potion…” Alto explained, in a cynical tone.

Despite what Alto had to say, Orien’s imagination had been awakened as they listened. 

“He died of over-consumption of velocium,” Alto added.

Orien remembered being warned against velocium in his youth schooling, which along with delusium was a potion banned by the colonies. Possession of a small drop of either resulted in a fine and confiscation, but solicitation or possession of more than a vial’s worth resulted in imprisonment.

“I have a book on Irv Relson…” Pace said, “It’s in my pack. I’ll grab it for you later.”
“You know, Orien, you don’t have to stay up here if you don’t want to,” Alto said.

“It’s fine. I like being up here with you two,” Orien said.

Alto took out his smok packet and Pace took out his. Pace offered Orien a smok, but he shook his head. They continued to listen to Irv Relson. Alto seemed bored and when the two boys put 
out their smoks in the ashtray, Pace turned the disc player off. 

Orien said, “I think I’ll go down now,” and he climbed the ladder down, leaving the attic.
Orien made himself a quick meal before retreating into his bedchamber. No longer having his attic hiding space, he only had his storage closet for privacy.

Behind the closed door of his bedchamber, he hid behind another door-the door to his viewing room. 

He took the mini-projector off the crate, took the crate off the trunk and opened up his trunk. He rifled through, found a J. Rhobuk’s catalog, and thumbed the pages in the dull light, crouching in the small empty space. He stopped briefly at a spread of ladies modeling nightdresses and underclothes, and couldn’t keep from studying their figures for several chimes, with curiosity. Eventually he stopped himself, though, thumbed forward a few more pages and found the page he had been searching for.

Five devices were laid out in a flash image at the top of the page, from the lowest cost, to the highest. The first model was a Westek 100. The Westek 100 was portable, in a convenient black case. From the picture it looked as if the top half of the case folded down to meet the bottom section, and the typepad was made up of round lettered dials. Next to the Westek 100, was the Westek Simplepad, with square letter dials, but similar in size and portability to the Westek 100. The paper on the roll was held upright by the top half of the carrying case. The Westek Simplepad opened up in a similar manner as Pace’s disc player. The three other typescripters looked to be heavier, bulkier and made to last a bit longer, but were more costly.
Besides the models in the J. Rhobuk’s catalog, Orien had looked at several other models at the J. Rhobuk Shop in Adelyn Village. His parents planned on taking him for his birthday to pick out his typescripter and he already had an idea of the model he was most interested in. 

He imagined himself, either in bed or in his viewing room hiding space, with the typescripter in his lap, tapping out his scripts. He imagined he might write poetry verses like Irv Relson. He could see the paper rolling up with his words, and being laid out on the pad of the upper section of the carrying case for easy reading. There were other models in the shop like the Westek Simplepad, maybe there was one even less costly. 

He could see himself picking out his typescripter like his brother Alto picking out his harp and he would know the right one when he found it.

III.

Orien saw his father on the evening before his birthday. It had been the last day of school for the set and his mother was at work. His father had agreed to take him to the Expedition bookshop in Adelyn and Orien waited on the couch, listening to a radio program with Felice in his lap, when he heard his father’s silver jet zoom up the lot. He listened for the sound of the halting vehicle and the close of the door.

Counting the steps out to the door, Orien had timed his father’s arrival just right and shifted his legs to try and stand. Felice responded, opening her wide eyes and turning her head. She stood up and stretched on Orien’s lap, and he gently removed her from his lap. She leaped off the couch and sat in her bed-pillow, curling up to nap.

“We need to talk before we go anywhere,” Orien’s father said, as Orien stood in the hall, ready to leave, “Sit back down,”

Orien sat back on the couch.

Orien’s father sat in the chair and Orien felt uneasy as if he were about to be reprimanded and he had somewhat of an idea why, since he hadn’t been following with his schoolwork, although it seemed a rather ridiculous thing to be upsetting his parents.

“Your mother and I have been talking. She’s still receiving pages from your school. You haven’t been doing your daily study assignments.”

It was a ridiculous thing for his parents to be concerned about. He would still be able to pass his studies without his daily study work as long as he did well on exams, but arbitrarily, in Promythican schooling, the daily assignments were used to calculate a scholar’s final score point. Orien received close to 65% range in most of his classes from passing examinations. Although 65% was a low score it was acceptable. His parents, however didn’t like it, and his teachers were also concerned.

“I know it is difficult for you, having your parents separated as we are…”

An odd thing to bring up, Orien thought.

“And your counselor has talked to us about your problems focusing, so we’ve decided that you need tutoring. Your cousin Anya is in her final year of study at Mansington University and is an Education-focus scholar. She said that she would be willing to meet with you after classes, 
twice every day-set and help you with your assignments. She can meet you in the library. We’ll give this a try first thing next day-set.”

“All right,” Orien said, and got up to leave. He was ready to go to The Expedition and browse pulpbooks, getting lost in adventure stories.

His father gave an annoying whistle and gestured him back down, so he turned to look back at his father.

“I want you to understand, that your parents are going through a difficult time right now and you’re old enough to understand what that means. We will be dividing up our assets and preparing for marriage cessation. We’ll talk more about this soon but I don’t want it to interfere with your schooling. Understand?”

“Yes,” Orien agreed. 

He was becoming annoyed at his father talking down to him as if he were a youth. He understood fully that his parents were having difficulties, like the couple in ‘Broken Faith’. His father had explained to him already that it was a part of life. At first he had been a little shocked at what was going on, but he was slowly understanding and the more he understood, the more tired he had become at his father’s talks.

Orien’s father got up from his chair and Orien followed him to the door, out and into the silver jetcar.

Orien sat in the co-pilot chair and tuned the dial for the radio and it played his father’s favorite music from the early era of hard-style music. Orien’s favorite particular group of the era was Tin Highspeeder and he hoped to hear a selection from them on the way to The Expedition. 
“Reading anything interesting?” his father asked.

“Alto’s friend Pace gave me a book/mom’s probably told you he’s boarding at the cottage/about Irv Relson.”

“Irv Relson…” his father said with intrigue, “Of ‘The Wide Open’,” he recalled, the name of the performance group that Irv Relson headed, “He was a heavy blisterer. Died of potion consumption… don’t know what I think of your brother’s friend, Pace. I don’t know if I would trust him as a boarder… but then, I’m not really in a place to question your mother’s decisions as she has the cottage, for the time being.”

When Orien and his father reached The Expedition, Orien quickly found the aisle for books on music performers and found a book of Irv Relson’s poetry verses. He dove right in, skimming 
and stopping to read several passages.

‘Dark of night,
starving children cry,
mother feeds the baby,
fatherless offspring getting cold in the fog…’

Orien wasn’t sure what it meant, but he saw the image of the children abandoned by their fathers, hungry, in an orphanage, Orien imagined, while a single infant was being held in the arms of a wet-nurse, its simple needs being nurtured. It was being cared for and it was lucky. It was intense and frightening for Orien, but he enjoyed it, because it was true and real.

Orien put the book back on the shelf, and walked down to the end of the aisle. He walked up the steps to the upper level books and found the adventure section. He picked up a book featuring his favorite pulp hero, ‘Justice Crusader’.

Orien immersed himself in the Justice Crusader stories, picking up every book on the shelf and studying the illustrations, which were the best part of ‘Justice Crusader’ pulp stories. When Orien was finished browsing the adventure books, he went back downsteps, and browsed the shelves in the far left corner by the money-handling station. The walls were filled with black cases with titles along the side, of reel shows. Orien recognized the title, ‘Titanites’, and remembered it was an Al Wulworte feature show that took place in Tietopus town, where residents referred to themselves as ‘Titanites’. He also recognized the title, ‘Vic and Suzi’, as his mother once told him it was a favorite of hers.

He noticed a presence behind him and his father came alongside him.

“Interested in something?” his father asked.

“I was wondering about the Al Wulworte shows. I don’t know if I’d rather see ‘Titanites’ or ‘Vic and Suzi.’”

“’Vic and Suzi’ is a funny one. I took your mother to see that one in the theatre.”

His father took it off the shelf, examined the back-piece and handed it to Orien.

Orien’s father purchased ‘Vic and Suzi’ for him, but he wouldn’t get a chance to see it, as he didn’t have access to his mini-projector that night, having to spend it at his uncle’s quarters where his father was staying.

Orien found he couldn’t sleep on the cot in his father’s bedchamber and he ended up watching the jetcars fly down the path, from the top quarter porch of his uncle’s cottage. It was cold and he could hear the buzzing of the glowflies along with the jet whooshes.

Orien eventually found his way back to the bedchamber and his cot, drifted off and was awoken, by his father, who handed him a mug of steamee and said, “Happy Birthday.”

Orien opened his eyes and sat up. He took the mug and took in the smooth, rich aroma, letting the hot drink flow down his throat as he sipped and became awake. He had a dizzy feeling in his head, possibly from lack of sleep or possibly his disorientation at awakening in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. He took a breath and straightened his back, reached with his arm and heard his bones crack and his muscles tighten up, ready to move.

Orien sighed deeply and stepped off his cot. He walked into the den and his Uncle Jaik was sitting on the couch listening to a racing program on the radio. He was a heavy man. He looked as if getting up from the couch was a difficult task. He simply sat, breathing heavily.

“Today’s your birthday,” Uncle Jaik said.

“Yes,” Orien replied.

“Happy Birthday… going to be working soon, or what?”

“I’m only fourteen,” Orien said.

“When I was age fourteen, I worked at Pinsky Farm in Farehill, ask your father about it, he worked there, too, we all had to be working, we didn’t have the advantages you have. Remember that, life in these times, is far more manageable than it once was…”

Orien listened. His uncle eventually came to the subject of how he secured his first job as a jetcar mechanic, and how he came to work for the company he currently worked for, in the same field. He lectured Orien on the benefits of working. Orien took it all in, for future reference, but it didn’t seem relevant to him at that point in his life.

Orien had his breakfast in the kitchen with his father, who inquired about Orien’s plans for when he received his birthday present, the typescripter his parents promised him, knowing already that Orien had a very active imagination and that he wrote in his loose-paper journal on a regular basis. Orien, however, wouldn’t share any of his story ideas with his father.

When the time came and Orien had finished his breakfast, he had to wait for his father to finish talking to uncle Jaik. Leaving uncle Jaik’s cottage was a slow process because of it and even as Orien and his father stood at the door, ready to go, they continued to talk until finally they stopped and Orien found himself in his father’s silver jet on their way to J. Rhobuk’s General Shop at the Adelyn Village market.

Orien’s father parked his jet at the lot, next to Orien’s mother’s red jet. Orien could see through the window shield that his mother was angry. She was leaning with her head resting in her fists and her elbows on the control deck. Orien, recalling how his mother often reacted at her impatience with her marriage companion, could see her cursing him out for taking his time getting there and at her having to wait. He imagined her slamming her fists down on the control panel and eventually settling into the position she was now in.

Orien opened up his door, and his mother looked over at him. She unfolded herself and got out of the red jet.

“Hi,” she said to Orien’s father in a cold manner.

“Happy Birthday, to my little boy!” She said, suddenly happy and smiling, bending to Orien’s level and kissing him on the cheek. Orien felt his breakfast shift in his stomach at being called her ‘little boy’. He suddenly felt the urge to push his mother away, and have her disappear. 

Orien attempted to be subtle as he walked on toward the door, trying to keep as much distance as he could from both his parents. He managed to get ahead of them and walked right into the shop, all the while pretending his parents were invisible, or non-existent at all.

Orien hadn’t been in J. Rhobuk’s shop since they had finished remodeling. The shop had expanded, having bought two surrounding shops that had gone out of business, and used the space to become a very large emporium, with several shopping departments. 

Orien passed the book department and noticed it had it’s own money-handler, and as many books as a small village shop. He saw a lady-youth with yellow hair and a violet daydress sitting in a small cushiony chair. He thought he recognized her as someone from his schooling. He turned his head to look, but a tall elder man nearly bumped into him.

“My apologies, didn’t see you,” he said.

Orien was walking slower, becoming more aware at all the people in the shop, especially of the elder people. It had been easy for that man to not notice Orien as he was so small. He was smaller than all the late youths in his schooling and may never be very tall as both his parents were of modest height. 

Orien started to feel overwhelmed by the crowds and making his way into the department with the display of typescripters, he started to have that nervous feeling he usually got, like when he was around lady-youths. 

Orien placed his hands on the display counter and he felt them trembling. He was tapping his foot. He was overwhelmed and he began to actually wonder where his parents were. He started to tap out a sentence on the Westek Simplepad on display. He needed only a light touch of the keys and the letters formed on the paper.

I was walking in the shop…

The words on the paper were clean and black, very bold and distinct. 
Orien heard breathing behind him and was startled, as his father had appeared to look over his shoulder.

“Your mother went off to look at the ladies clothes,” his father said, leaning with his head down to look at the typescripters at the display counter and reading the signs, as Orien stood at level with the machines and their labels.

“This is the one I like,” Orien said, pointing out the Westek Simplepad with his words printed in fresh, wet ink.

“This is the Westek Simplepad,” his father said-although Orien already knew that, “It’s portable, folds to make a black case and the top compartment, holds the paper…”

“I know that!” Orien said and his father looked at him and took a breath, “Orien you don’t need to take a hostile tone with me, especially in a shop with so many people.”

There was a similar model next to the Simplepad. A gray Simonsen X.

I walked in the crowded shop… Orien typed, the keys had a similar light feeling, but the words made a dull statement on the paper, being close to a very dark gray in color.

“The typing doesn’t appear as smooth as the Westek,” Orien pointed out.

“This one has probably been on display longer.”

“I like the Westek,” Orien said, “Let’s go with that one,” Orien said with directness. 

Orien had been shopping with his father before and already he felt his frustration building. He had made his decision. He had made this clear, but his father, as expected, suggested, “Well, let’s try looking at a few more models before making a flat decision, you want to make sure you get the right one…”

“This is exactly the one I want! I saw it in the catalog!” Orien said. His father sighed with impatience again. Orien was feeling aggression piling up inside him. He now was ready to push his father away. A voice spoke up to defend him. It was a feminine voice.

“Let him make his own choice!”

Orien’s mother had found them and her voice showed a similar frustration as Orien had been feeling bottled up inside him.

“I want the Westek Simplepad,” Orien said. The statement was made. It was clear. There was no need for any further discussion. It was a clean deal.

“Are you sure that’s the one you want?” his father asked.

“Gill! He’s made his choice,” his mother said with hostility.

“Sshh! We’re in a shop with people…”

“Don’t sshh me!”

While his parents argued Orien looked over all the typescripters on display and had a curious feeling about the old-style Westek 100, with it’s round buttons. It was unlike the other, flashy models. His trembling fingers hovered over the keys, and they clicked and clacked as each letter was pounded on the paper with force.

In the shop, where my parents argue…

He felt as if he were playing music, almost like playing piano. The old style design of the Wetsek 100 was not attractive to the buyer looking for the latest shiny new model, but it had won Orien over.

“This is the one I want,” Orien said. His father gave him a surprised look.

“Now this one is a very old model, like the one your mother has at the cottage, didn’t you want the Simplepad?”

“I thought you didn’t like the Simplepad.”

“It’s your decision, whichever one you choose. I personally would choose the Simonsen X.”
Orien was feeling dizzy. He kept thinking he had to get the Simonsen model, although he didn’t like it, his father thought it was the best choice and maybe it was, but the best choice wasn’t his choice. His choice was the old Westek 100. It stood out and it was the one Orien wanted.

“I want this one,” Orien said.

“If that’s the one you want.”

“Stop trying to discourage him Gill!” his mother ejected with fury, “He knows which one he wants, let’s just settle the deal and go!”

Orien’s father signaled for a shop hand, saying to himself, “They have all these workers walking around and no one at their stations,” and he cupped his hands at his mouth, “Hello!” he bellowed at a short-haired late youth in a blue smock, with a duster, dusting the display-shelf full of radios.

“Gill!”

Orien’s mother’s hands were on his father’s wrists forcing his hand away from his mouth. She then smacked his arm with an open hand.

The boy in the blue smock walked over to the round counter, entering the gate and standing behind the money drawer next to the Westek 100.

“Have we decided?”

“The Westek 100, please,” Orien’s father said, seeming a little infuriated himself. 

The money-handler crouched to remove a box from a shelf behind the counter, placed it on the counter and told Orien’s father the total cost.

Orien’s father took a small keycard out of his money-purse and the handler placed it in the slot on the black keypad in front of him. The card was accepted, and a slip of paper printed, which the handler handed back to Orien’s father.

“Thank You,” Orien’s father said, while the handler bowed.

Orien lifted the box from the counter.

“Do you need help,” his father offered.

“I’ve got it!” Orien said, but the box was heavy, and as his parents walked ahead of him, he 
huffed, and straggled behind.

Outside on the lot, Orien’s mother opened up the rear storage hatch of her red jetcar and Orien loaded the box in and closed and locked the compartment.

“Happy Birthday, I’ll come by to see you again at the cottage,” his father said, but Orien wasn’t eager to see too much more of him.

His father got into his silver jet and it zoomed off as Orien sat in the co-pilot chair of his mother’s jet and she steered him home, not really speaking much, except to say, “My head, it just hurts so much, I should have taken my potion earlier… I need a nap soon… and my potion… hope you’re having a good birthday.”

And his mother did take her potion once they got home and when Orien finished cleansing in the washroom, feeling refreshed, his mother was napping in her chair in the main quarters.
Orien shed his washrobe in his bedchamber and changed into his clothes. He decided to go up and see Pace, so he left his bedchamber and walked over to the hall, where the attic hatch was open and the ladder was in place and Orien climbed up it. He could hear music playing, and he coughed fighting off clouds of smoke. He took in some of the vapor, and it had a different scent than he was used to. It smelled horrendous.

Pace was in a happy mood, smiling. He was happy to see Orien. He was sitting cross-legged and gestured Orien to join him on the blanket he was sitting upon.
The music playing was from the group ‘The Wide Open’, Irv Relson’s group.
Pace had made quite a place for himself in the attic, with sheets and blankets hung, covering the walls and the ceiling rafters, to form a tent-like fort. He had brought some of his books and music discs and had them arranged on a rickety old shelf, which Orien’s father crafted, many years ago.

Pace was smoking what looked like a slow-burning herb-stik and he noticed Orien looking at it, with a little wariness. Pace then took a can off the shelf and showed it to Orien. Orien read the label and it said, ‘Carleson’s Organic Dry-Leaf’.

“It’s less costly to buy the leaf and roll your own smokstiks, rather than purchase a stik packet.”
Orien handed him back the can. Pace may have been telling the truth, it was likely that organic loose-leaf burned slower and had a different scent than mass-produced leaf, the more Orien thought about it the more it seemed logical, because it didn’t seem too logical that Pace would be smoking herbs in Orien’s parents’ cottage. His parents didn’t take much to blis, let alone herbs.

“I read that Irv Relson biography you gave me,” Orien said.

“He was a genius,” Pace said, showing yellowish teeth as he smiled.

“I read some of his verses in the bookshop last evening,” Orien said and he felt himself smiling too, not sure why he felt excited and finding himself used to the putrid smoke smell and thinking he almost liked it. He also became really aware of the metal on his teeth from his bracework as he smiled and he thought it kind of a funny thing to have heavy metal in his mouth. His bracework had become a part of him for such a long while that the only times he ever really took notice of them was during and after his orthodontic appointments and when he saw himself in a mirror.

The momentary lapse into light dazing went away.

“You should write verses, really. The ladies really like boys who write verses, especially if they’re song verses,” Pace said.

“I have a typescripter, now, I can type out poetry verses…”

“Where’d you get it?” Pace asked. 

“It was a birthday present.”

“When? Your birthday is soon?”

“Today.”

“Happy Birthday,” Pace said, patting Orien on the back. He stubbed out his hand-rolled stik in the tray in front of him, and plucked a book from his shelf. He handed the book to Orien. It was a think paperbound, the pages were a little faded and the paperboard coverings were creased and worn.

“Ori, you know it’s a great thing, relating with ladies, it’s too bad you’re the type who’s shy around ladies, but I can help you, here’s my birthday present to you” he said.

Orien examined the frontpiece, which was yellow, with black titles, which read ‘Questions Answered For Late Youths on Enlovment’ by Dr. Drew Leposte. There was also a silhouette etching of a male and female in embrace. The back-piece had a black and white picture of a balding man with a beard and eyeglasses.

“Orien!” someone was shouting from below the ladder and it sounded like Alto. Orien had a sudden fear at being caught with the book in his hands.

“Orien!!!” Alto shouted again and Orien tossed the book onto Pace’s blanket.

Pace began to laugh, unexpectedly, as Orien, feeling shaky and nervous descended the ladder.
Alto looked angry with him. He had a fatherly look and asked Orien a fatherly question, “Have you been smoking herbs?”

“No,” Orien replied.

“Pace is a friend of mine, who I know very well, but he’s also a bad influence and I don’t think it is a good idea for you to be spending time with him,” Alto said. His tone was reasonable.

“I’m not a youth anymore!”

“I know you’re not and you can be friends with me. If you need to talk to me, just talk.”

“You never treat me like I’m equal, I’m always a youth to you!”

“Because I’m your elder brother,” Alto explained in a tone of fairness and Orien didn’t want to argue any longer.

“I’m sorry,” Orien said, “Sorry I’m yelling.”

 He was starting to feel very emotional and he did feel like a youth. He was small, and his teeth were full of bracework and pimples had been slowly forming on his face. Orien found himself wishing he were of a much elder age than fourteen.

Alto patted Orien on the back and said, “Happy Birthday.”

Orien listened to radio programs with his brother in the main quarters. Pace joined in later, much to Alto’s dislike, but eventually Pace retreated to the attic, as Orien’s father arrived and no one would see Pace for the remainder of the evening.

Orien’s father had brought with him a reel-recorder. He had it in a case when he walked in the door.

“Your Uncle Jaik is lending this to you, so be very careful with it,” he said, “I thought you might want to record a show piece for your audition presentation next calendar block.”

Orien took the black case and opened it up. The device had a reel-deck, like a projector, an 
eyepiece on one end and a scope on the other. Orien shut the case and brought it to his bedchamber where he placed it beside his bed-table. He came out of his bedchamber and his father had brought food.

His mother was awake, setting the table in the dining quarter. She had a miserable look to her as if her nap had not calmed her at all. Orien’s father ate with Orien and Alto, while their mother sat in the living quarters, drinking a steamee with Felice on her lap. After the meal Alto presented Orien with a slim rectangular violet package tied with red string. Orien opened the gift.

It was an image scroll. Orien unrolled it and it had a flash image of Derek Strogan, playing harp and smoking a stik. Derek Strogan had been Alto’s favorite music performer and when Orien had been much younger, Alto would play discs of his music for him. 

Orien accepted the gift and took his brother up on his invitation to his bedchamber.
Orien’s brother played some recordings from ‘Off Balance’, Derek Strogan’s group, and it made Orien feel sentimental. He enjoyed it thoroughly.

“The title and refrain of this particular tune was taken from a quote in a letter. The lyrics sum up the contents of the letter…” Alto explained.

While the hardened tunes played, pounding rhythms, and steel strings harping, Orien surveyed his brother’s room, dimly lit by string lights, with image scrolls of performers, and Alto’s own sketches and paintings: A coalpoint rendering of a darkspawn creature, winged and surrounded by fire, a canvas piece of blood red chaos, an abstract collage of mayhem and disaster which Alto titled, ‘Dasahd’s Eval Fog’.

Orien listened, studied his brother’s creations plastering the walls and found himself, in his imagination, roaming a dark underworld.

Orien got up from the floor, where he had been lying on his back, and he opened up his brother’s chamber door to let in Felice.

Orien was relieved to be free of his nightmare trance. Felice slipped in and Orien, with his hand on the doorknob said, “I’m about ready to turn in.”

“Okay. I hope you had a good birthday.”

“I did. Thanks for the gift.”

“You’re welcome,” Alto said.

Orien turned down the hall and went into his own bedchamber. He hit the light tab and as the room was lit, he noticed a book on his end table next to his radio. Orien recognized it and he snatched it, holding it in his hands. 

‘Questions Answered for Late Youths on Enlovment’, was a book written by a professional medic, not a lurid piece of erotica. Orien was desperate to know about relations, cut off from knowledge in his early life, he had questions which he felt no comfort in asking anyone and he wanted to put to rest his fantasies regarding the female kind and learn the reality. Sexual relation or enlovment was something companions engaged in and Orien wanted a companion therefore it was important for him to understand the physical acts.

Orien, hit the tab to light the string bulbs in his viewing room, and he went inside, sat on the black trunk, shut the doors, and opened up the book in the hopes that he would no longer have any questions and no longer have any fears.

IV.

A strong emotional bond with your mate is beneficial for a satisfying enlovment experience…
Orien thought about this quote from Dr. Drew Leposte’s book as he found himself getting lost in the shimmering gold and fire of long hair in the lady sitting in front of him in his ‘Basic English Scripting’ class. 

Orien knew the importance of friendship and an emotional bond, yet at his age he had impulses. He wanted to run his fingers through the lady’s hair in front of him. Gwenvere was her name. The daydress she wore was blue like the sky in bloom season. Orien wondered what made her heart beat, what stimulated her mind, what could he do for her. He could imagine that he would be a great lover, but what he wished to achieve, this healthy emotional bond seemed beyond him. He was nervous in communicating with most people especially ladies.

Orien’s instructer gave the class a study assignment, which Orien jotted down in his planner and the bell signaled the end of the school day. 

Orien closed his planner and placed it in his shoulder bag. He couldn’t help watch Gwenvere walk away. 

In addition to his hormones, Orien’s mind was also raging, as was typical of him, as he walked down the hall on his way to the library, with elaborate fantasies of dancing and holding a lady close to him. 

His thoughts were interrupted as he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned himself around and no one was behind him, then he turned back and a dark-haired lady was standing in front of him, with her hands behind her back. She was wearing a black satine daydress. She was grinning, holding in a giggle. He wondered what she had found funny about him. It must have been his pimples and bracework, he thought.

“I was wondering…” she said and a red-haired lady-friend of hers who was standing behind her giggled, “there’s a group of us going to Mckay’s, we walk there every Friday, and I wondered if you wanted to join us.”

The red-haired lady couldn’t hold in her giggles. Orien wondered what they had been planning. If he joined them at Mckay’s, would it be to tease him?

“Thank you/Charlene/for the invi-invitation/but I/I’m on my way to see my tutor-“
Charlene interrupted him, “Okay, well maybe next time, anytime after class you want to join me at Mckay’s or something, I’d like that,” she said and her and her friend turned around and walked away.

Orien wondered about the confrontation. He imagined himself at Mckay’s and he remembered his problems with Lena, several day-sets prior, when he longed to talk to her but couldn’t.
Orien breathed. He had reached the library and opened the glass doors to an emporium of shelves and stacks. He sat at a table, got out his loose-paper book, his planner, and his paperbound copy of the novel, ‘My brother, the hero.’

Orien stared at the stupid little book. The flash image on the cover was two colonial soldiers, one holding the other, who is wounded, and a battle raging behind them. Orien had no interest whatsoever in the book, it was very much like the previous book he was supposed to have read, ‘Medal of Bravery’, except instead of taking place during the old war, it takes place during the new war. 

The sound of the door cracking open and footsteps echoed the silent library, and Orien tossed the book. It slid, but stopped just at the edge of the table. Anya sat down at the chair in front of Orien.

“So, what’s in your planner for the evening?” she asked and Orien handed it to her.

“So, you’ll just be continuing with your reading log, then?” she said after reading the page. Orien pushed his chair all the way back, threw his head up, and became completely limp, his arms hanging lifeless as he groaned, “Aaaahhhhhhh.”

“I know. I know,” Anya said. 

Anya used to babysit Orien, but he hadn’t really seen her much since he was a child, except on holidays. Yet, he was fine with her tutoring him as she was in some ways like an elder sister and she was fun and easy for him to relate with.

“I’ll help you get through this,” she said, opening up Orien’s loose-paper log, “C’mon… get out your coalpoint… date the page…”

Orien sat up and jotted the date at the top of the page.

“Chapter twelve.”

“I hate this book,” Orien said.

“I would, too. It’s below your level, I know, but your teacher has assigned it to you and you have to complete the assignment…”

“I don’t understand why…” Orien whined.

“To improve your score point so you can move on to higher learning… it’ll get better in the coming years, you’ll have better assignments. Right now, I need you to work with me. What happens in Chapter Twelve?”

Unable to recall what happened in the chapter Orien opened up the book and his eyes rolled as he read:

He was dead. It couldn’t be, but it was. I would never see Uncle Gordy after that. I didn’t cry at his funeral. ‘Brave boys, don’t cry’, papa told me, and I was brave like Uncle Gordy. I was brave like my brother Tomy and like Tomy I would become a soldier.

Orien heard the childish, stupid voice in his head. He didn’t identify with the character. He didn’t have any sympathy. He remembered not wanting to continue on when he read the first sentences of the chapter, but for Anya’s sake, because she was doing the best to try and help him, he had done it.

“This is the chapter where Chip enlists in the army.”

“What inspires him?”

Sigh.

“The death of his Uncle Gordy.”

“His brother had also enlisted, right?”

“In Chapter Nine. Recruiters come to Chip’s school and his brother enlists, but Chip can’t 
because he isn’t of age… but now he decides he’s going to lie about his age… is this book 
trying to encourage youths to enroll in army service?”

“That’s an observation you can put in your log.”

“No. My teacher wouldn’t like that.”

With Anya’s couching Orien made it through the reading log entry. Orien had other assignments he needed to get done as well, but they were quick and he finished most of them on his own.
Anya looked at her watch as Orien was just finishing his science reading.

“Are we just about ready to finish for the evening?” Anya asked.

“Yes. I’m finished,” Orien said closing the book. Anya got up from her seat and Orien followed, gathering his books and putting them in his shoulder bag. Anya waited for him at the library door. He met her there, and they walked outside.

“So, what have you been reading outside of your studies?” Anya asked on the way to her jet. Orien felt himself shake. He would have to lie. Something he never liked to do, but he couldn’t tell his lady cousin that he had been reading Dr. Leposte’s book on physical enlovment.

“A thriller by Harlee Sainte.”

“Which one? I love Harlee Saint! The Banished Ones?”

“No, but I read that one a little while back,” Orien said as they reached Anya’s jet and she opened up the pilot side, as Orien got into the co-pilot side, “This one’s called, ‘Invasion Zone’”

“I’ve heard of it, but haven’t read it,” Anya said, as she started the ignition of the jet with her keytab, and the vehicle elevated. If she had read the book, that would have been fine, as Orien had also, although not as recently as he let on.

When Orien walked into the cottage, after being dropped off by Anya, he heard the simmering of a pot, boiling on the stove. Orien put his shoulder bag down and walked into the kitchen to find Pace, staring at a boiling pot on the stove.

“What are you cooking?” Orien asked.

“Oh. That’s right.” Pace said. Then he stared at the pot some more.

“So, what is it you’re cooking then?” Orien asked again.

“I guess you can put the noodles in,” Pace said.

“Did you take a potion?” Orien asked.

“I have anxieties. A friend of mine gave it to me…” Pace said. 

Orien put the noodles in the pot and he was disappointed with Pace. He had trusted him. It was Pace who had given Orien Dr. Leposte’s book and it was also Pace who had introduced him to the poetry and music of Irv Relson, so surely he was intelligent, but messing around with potions didn’t seem a very responsible choice.

Orien had been recommended potion remedies just last chill season for his anxieties, but Alto had convinced him not to accept them, since the side effects would likely be as bad as the conditions they were supposed to cure.

Orien had been thinking about it quite a bit, lately. Seeing Pace in the state he was in, he saw why his brother had been afraid of him taking potions, but it was a different matter altogether to be taking potions as recommended as an anxiety remedy by a medic. Pace was probably lying about what he had taken and he probably was under the influence of Delusium.

After helping Pace prepare the pasta, Orien sat with him to enjoy the meal. Orien’s mother walked into the dining room to say goodbye as she left for work. Pace wasn’t much company, not being altogether coherent for the moment and Orien decided not to join him after being invited up to the attic.

Orien instead shut himself in his viewing room, put his headset on and clicked the button on the projector beside him as he sat on the black trunk and watched Al Wulworte on stage performing a comic routine, talking about his marriage which had ceased after two years and his experiences after the cessation and his last relationship. It was the opening scene to ‘Vic and Suzy,’ and Orien was viewing it for maybe the fifth time.

 The reel show jumped forward in time to Al, playing the character Vic, on a date with Suzy. They argued and the reel-show jumped back in time to when they first met. Orien liked this way of looking at events. He liked being given the pieces, seeing how the characters related with each other at different points in time and trying to decide along with Al Wulworte why he failed once again with his lady, like solving a puzzle. Orien also liked it, because, like ‘Broken Faith’ and like Dr. Drew Leposte’s book it gave him insight into elderhood, and what he had to look forward to, for better or for worse, whatever pleasures and pains, in his future.

Orien watched another reel-show, and read a book of adventure serials before going to bed. He was awake for most of the night. He didn’t need to wake early for classes as studies had ended for the day-set and he had the enddays of Saturday and Sunday to look forward to.
On Saturday, Orien awoke around the tenth toll, went back to sleep, and awoke again thirty chimes later, turned over and couldn’t seem to find a reason to wake until on the twelfth toll he dragged himself out of bed, stretched and creaked his muscles.

Alto was on the couch with his harp, practicing cords, while a news program played on the radio. Orien ate breakfast, washed up and clothed himself. He poured himself a steamee in the kitchen and stepped outside.

Orien felt a cool breeze along his arms crawling the length of his skinny body, forming 
goosebumps. His mother was sitting on the porch steps smoking a stik and she turned her head at Orien’s presence and said, “It’s chilly, where’s your coat? The chill season is nearly here, you know,” and as she spoke, puffballs of dark gray smoke escaped her chapped lips.
Pace was leaning on the rail of the stepway and Orien saw that he was smoking one of his hand-rolled stiks without any noticeable disapproval from Orien’s mother, maybe because this time he actually was smoking simple dry-leaf and not herbs.

“We should take a walk,” Pace suggested and took a drag from his stik.

“I used to go jogging on days like this. In the morning with Orien’s father. Orien was just a little boy,” she reminisced in a trance-like voice, “One morning he was supposed to be playing in the yard, his cousin was babysitting, but she wasn’t looking after him and Orien wandered off to find us. I was so frightened that I had lost my little boy…”

She rambled on and Pace nodded, as if listening, and kept dragging on his stik.

“…I picked up the communicator, this wasn’t the one in the dining quarters we have now, this was our old home communicator-and the man from Jaybes said that Orien had walked all the way to the general shop-he went looking for us but never found us-and asked the man at the money counter if he had a communicator to page us at home-and he remembered our page-code, such a smart boy, remembering…”

Orien rolled his eyes back. He was becoming annoyed with his mother’s fixation on Orien as a youth. Orien didn’t want to be reminded of his youth, because he didn’t feel youthful anymore. He was hoping to be accepted into the arts school and when that happened he hoped he would be able to leave his past as a youth behind. It was hard even to imagine his youth, as it meant imagining a time when his parents were together, not living in separate places with separate lives.

“How far would you go on your jogs?” Pace asked, blowing smoke.

“Well, we’d jog to the South school, and we would run the track in the recreational field.”
Orien’s mother slipped the last stub of her stik in her lips and took a long drag, when she released it she coughed just a bit and a cloud of dark smoke rolled out into the cold air.

“We should take a walk down to the South Building,” Pace suggested.

Orien’s mother gave a deep breath and sighed as she got up from the stepway.

“No jogs. No, I don’t do that anymore, I don’t have that energy…”

She flicked her stik out into the front lot, and Orien watched it go as he held his arms folded and shivered in the Harvest season breeze.

“No jog, just a walk,” Pace said, stomping his stik out, “Ori, come along!”
“I need my shortcoat,” he said.

Orien’s mother was walking up the front trail. She turned and said, “You should grab that reel recorder and make tape for your presentation.”

Orien heard her, although he was already halfway out the door. He was hurrying, hoping to be outside before Pace and his mother got too far for him to catch up.

In his bedchamber, he opened up his wardrobe cabinet, and found a black hidecloth shortcoat. Orien tied it up and took a look at himself in the nearby mirror. It was a fashionable coat for his brother’s generation. Derek Strogan wore a similar coat in the image scroll pinned on Orien’s wall. It was unfortunate that the other youths in his schooling had been following the most recent fashion trends, making him seem an outcast, because in his mind, he looked tough.

Orien was becoming distracted as usual, but he shook himself out of it. 

He took the black case from the floor, plunked it on his bed and opened it up. He took the blank tape-set and spooled the tape onto the reel. He screwed the handle-grip on and clutched the device in his hand. It was heavy, but Orien could carry it just fine with one hand. He was tough.
He rushed out. Pace and his mother were waiting for him at the very end of the front trail. Orien placed both his hands around the handle of the recorder and placed it in front of his face. He placed the eyepiece over his right eye, closing the left.

He was now seeing the world through black and white reel-vision. As he walked along with Pace and his mother, he flicked some of the switches and dials along the side of the machine. The lens zoomed in and out. He focused on his mother. He stopped. Her face was sad and tired. He focused on Pace. Pace stuck his tongue out. Orien zoomed out and Pace was walking backwards. He spun into a dance move. Orien turned around and tried walking backwards. His shadow was moving along the dirt path. The image darkened as an indicator on the bottom read: ‘EXPOSURE’ with twelve bars, as Orien rolled the dial and they became ten. He rolled the dial back and the machine let in more light, making the image brighter. His shadow became faint. He stopped.

The group turned down primary path. Orien turned himself around, following his mother and Pace. He hit the red record light on the machine and he heard the reel spin within. He turned around and followed his shadow, recording its journey along with him.

“Come on!!” his mother said, “You’re gonna get hit by a jet!”

Orien hit the red button, turned around and his mother was waving him forward. Pace was on 
the other side of the path. Orien hurried to his mother and crossed the path with her to meet Pace as they entered the lot for Hilliar South School for late learning years 9-12.
Orien put the recorder to his eye once more, taking in the structure of the brick building, wondering what sort of presentation he could come up with to ensure enrollment in the arts school. He had wanted to put together a reel-show, but he had no friends he could rely on for performances.

Orien taped Pace and his mother as they entered the gates to the recreational field. A tall man was sitting on a bench by the pitchball patch, while a lady youth, presumably his daughter, played fetch with a small gray hound.

Pace found a pitchball on the ground, which he juggled as he followed Orien’s mother to the track. She stopped and got out a packet of smokstiks, handed one to Pace, who took out a flamestik from his pocket and lit it.

Orien followed them with the recorder. There was not much activity in the field, so Orien shut it off and gave taping a rest. He caught up with Pace and his mother, feeling a bit of disappointment, hoping there had been something worthwhile to record, but he supposed it had been wishful thinking as there wasn’t likely to have been anything exciting.

On the way home, Orien kept imagining the arts school. He had never been inside it, but he knew there were multiple buildings, including the main house and the art house. It would be quite a change from being at Hilliar North. The more he thought about it, the more he knew he’d prefer the arts school over the South Building, but he would have to give a presentation by the end of next day-set and he had no idea what he would come up with.

“Did’ya know Irv Relson took a study course in reel-tape recording?” Pace said, as Orien walked alongside him down Emarldleaf way. They were just at the postboxes at the end of the cottage’s front trail.

“Yes, I remembered that from the book.”

“I can give you help on a show-piece,” Pace suggested. They turned down the trail.

“No, I’ll do it on my own, but thanks,” Orien said and they walked up the steps and into the cottage. Orien turned into his bedchamber.

After putting the reel-recorder back into its case and placing it by his bed-table, Orien took off his shortcoat, tossed it on the floor, and laid on his bed in thought. He couldn’t watch any of the footage he shot, just yet, as Alto had the mini-projector, but he tried to come up with ideas. 
Irv Relson’s showpiece as described in the biography, had a political message with footage of marching soldiers and captions. His fellow scholars at the University thought it was preposterous.

Orien imagined himself, in the audition, showing an abstract showpiece, that everyone would think was brilliant for a late youth, something symbolic.
Orien sat up and bent to reach under his bed and take out his typescripter. There was already a ream of paper in it. He sat it on his lap and thought about shadows as symbols.
His shadow, as he followed it, recording it, was a lone dark figure. Orien was a lone figure, not being able to communicate with ladies, not being able to motivate his fellow scholars to be in 
his reel-show.

 He typed: 

I am a shadow.
Aren’t we all shadows?
Walking along, 
we leave a shadow behind
and that is us
and that is me.

It sounded abstract enough for Orien. It could probably be interpreted in many ways. He was satisfied with it and thought he would use it to describe his showpiece. He pulled the ream of paper out, put his typescripter back and put the folded paper on his bed-table. 

He lay back down on his bed and fantasized, wondering if he might meet a lady at the audition. The arts school would have many lady scholars studying performance acting, which would be an ideal match for Orien, wanting to be a show conductor. Orien’s mind did its usual wandering, until he finally decided to click on his radio and listen to a program.

V.

The next day-set did not start off well. It was difficult for Orien to hold in his frustration following his ‘Basics of English Scripting’ class. He hadn’t exhausted any of his energy after lunch break, as he didn’t take part in any of his fellow scholar’s field activities. He had wished to be able to defend himself, to speak up to his teachers, but he only felt comfortable discussing his issues with counselors who did nothing to help. It seemed he only could confide in his cousin.

Orien took off in a rush at the sound of the bell in his last class of the day. He walked with a steady pace down the hall, in a furious state, and when he clutched the handle to the library door, he felt like slamming it open hard and shattering the glass, but he didn’t. Holding in his emotions, he felt a great anger welling up inside him, like water boiling. It hurt his head. 

He put his head in his hands when he sat down at the table to wait for Anya. He couldn’t wait to talk to her. He knew she would support him. He knew she would understand what few others did.

He felt her hand on his shoulder and he unfolded from his position. He opened up his shoulder bag and took out a packet of loosepapers.

“Look at this,” he said to Anya.

The packet of papers was fastened together with binding clips to form a log-book. The score point in red on the front of the log was 70.  Anya leafed through and seemed to smirk at the teacher’s comments.

“This is why I had been refusing to do Ms. Hartle’s assigned work. She doesn’t know anything. I don’t understand how she is holding a position as a class instructor.”

Anya set aside the log, walked around the table and sat in the chair in front of Orien.

“She’s used to teaching a set curriculum. The schooling board has certain standards that teachers have to follow and she follows the standard of learning year eight. She just isn’t used 
to teaching beyond that level.”

“I approached her after class, a calendar block ago and asked if I could script more serious poetry verses! I don’t write rhyming verses, I mean for my poetry to have importance, to have value and she wants us to script pretty verses… “

Orien’s voice carried in the empty library, and Anya let him rant. His face was red and he was close to tears. He just couldn’t understand it. He had read Irv Relson’s work and wondered about his style, where he had learned to script verses the way he did, because for Orien, the best way to express himself when he set his typescripter on his lap, was to use the same method of long and short statements and questions. Ms. Hartle was unfamiliar with this style, it seemed.

“She said I could write in my own style, but I get my report back and she says I’m not following her instructions. I don’t care about her instructions!”

Ms. Hartle was pushing for verses with a specific rhythm and rhyme. If Orien could script that way, he supposed he would, but he couldn’t, and anyway, he wanted to be thought of as an exceptional scholar, with exceptional abilities, that’s why he tried scripting beyond standard for his learning year.

“Sshh…”

Anya signaled him to lower his voice.

“You’re not going to like what I have to say, but…”

“Then don’t say it. I don’t even want to hear about it,” Orien interrupted. His voice was crackling and he became conscious of it, which reminded him he was a youth still and not a higher learning scholar.

“Look, Orien, for the time being you have to get through this learning year, take out, ‘My brother, the hero’ and I’ll help you do the final entry for your log.”

“What is the point?” 

“If your final score point for the learning year is too low, you’ll have to repeat this year, so let’s just do the work and I promise, things will get better in your higher learning classes.”

The process involved in becoming a higher learning scholar seemed slow and painful to Orien.
Orien opened up his shoulder bag. His throat hurt from holding in his emotions, from bottling up his tears, because he felt that crying was another sign of being youth-and not being brave, just the same thought as the character in ‘my brother, the hero’, strangely. Being youth also meant not being taken serious. 

Orien relaxed as he discussed the book, ‘My brother, the Hero,’ with Anya. She told him to breathe and he breathed deep, which seemed to make his eyes water, and the tears he couldn’t help from forming, he wiped away with his arm. Anya comforted him as best she could. She had a maternal quality to her for Orien, as he remembered being an early youth and having her around as a babysitter. She was family and she understood him. She was also intelligent. He never thought himself any wiser or any dumber than Anya. He found some comfort in that and it seemed to help. 

Anya seemed to be Orien’s best source of therapy at that particular time in his life, but she was not his regular therapy counselor. That gentleman’s name was Dr. Brahm, and it had been Anya who recommended him to Orien’s parents, having once had regular sessions with him. For this reason Orien felt comfortable in agreeing to therapy sessions, having previously turned down the suggestion. 

Orien’s session appointments were on the third day of every set, but having talked already to Anya about his frustration with Ms. Hartle, Orien seemed to be feeling fine enough about his situation in the coming days and it didn’t seem there would be much for him to share with Dr. Brahm.

He waited on the couch at home, with Felice in his lap, looking out the window, and upon seeing his father’s silver jet, slowly coming up the trail, he gently prompted Felice to move from the comfort of his lap so he could get up. Felice jumped off and headed for her pillow. Orien snatched his shortcoat from the arm of the couch where it had been draped, and he was out the door.

It was quiet within the jetcar, at first, until his father spoke up, while guiding the jet along Primary path.

“I have to discuss something with you,” his father said. There was no radio music playing in the background. The radio was not playing because it seemed the discussion that would follow would be a serious one. 

“It’s going to be difficult for you to answer,” his father said, “but it’s important. Your mother and I will be separating from each other permanently. Who would you rather stay in the cottage and look after things? Myself or your mother?”

Orien had not been paying much attention to his parent’s conflicts. Their arguments seemed to be something out of a serial he might follow on the radio or something out of fiction. At that moment, however, Orien did not feel himself in a fictional story. He was in a real situation and had to make a real choice, but not an easy one.

He hated himself for what he thought at that moment. He thought about his mother, in the cottage, napping all the time, he thought about her sitting alone, sipping her steamee and needing him. He thought about her in the moments when she still seemed to believe him to be a youth. He thought of her referring to him as her ‘little boy’.

“I’d rather stay with you,” Orien said and in his mind he knew just how much he wanted it. There was a bit of guilt at pushing his mother away and confusion at the fact that it seemed the right choice, the only choice.

“All right. Don’t let your mother or anyone know we talked about it, ‘right then?”

“’right then,” Orien said and took a deep breath because everything was all over. The choice was made and he could just forget about it and forget why he made the choice. He would soon be living with his father rather than his mother, as long as his father would be given the cottage. Once that became the reality, he needn’t have to think about how it became so, it just would be.
When Orien and his father arrived in the back lot of the office building, entered through the back door and followed the stairs up to the second quarter, Orien felt skittish, having only had two appointments so far. He was still getting used to Dr. Brahm.

Orien sat himself at the couch in the waiting lounge, and took a pulpbook from the sampling at the table.

The bold red title on the front-piece of the book read, ‘Titanites Annual’ with a caricature drawing of the ruler Dasahd. Orien flipped open to the contents and found an article by humorist Al Wulworte, whom Orien knew from the reel show ‘Vic and Suzi’. He flipped to the article and there was a short biographical blurb, with a caricature drawing of Al. Al had contributed to the book many years before he became a show conductor, but hadn’t contributed an article since those early days, according to the blurb.

The character in the story was a typical Al Wulworte character. A nervous gentleman similar to the type he portrayed in some of his humor-shows.

The story began with a therapy session where the nervous gentleman told his counselor of his lady trouble. Orien thought he could relate having social anxieties and problems communicating with ladies and with his fellow peers. In Al’s story the character is given a treatment by the doctor to help him with his particular trouble with his lady friend-but, Orien didn’t get a chance to finish the story. 

Dr. Brahm was waiting outside his door. Orien closed the book and put it back down on the table.

Dr. Brahm smiled, opening up his office door for Orien. Orien shook hands with him. The doc had a good, comforting grip.

Dr. Brahm’s office was a decent size. It was small, but not cramped, and the chair in which Orien would sit was right in front of the window. He could even turn to look out at the town center. Dr. Brahm sat on the couch in front of Orien, making it seem as if they were on equal terms, although the doc was elder as his white hair gave evidence to.

“So, how has everything been going? With your studies?” Dr. Brahm asked.

 Orien shrugged his shoulders but said nothing.

“How about your parents?” 

Dr. Brahm cleared his throat. He reminded Orien of a sort of friendly uncle, a more charming version of his Uncle Jaik.

Orien didn’t want to think about his parents as their conflicts were outside the office and outside Orien’s life. He had enough time to think about them while he was in his father’s jet, on the way to his session.

“What was it that you were absorbed in reading?” the doc asked after a long silence.

“I was reading an Al Wulworte story,” Orien said.

“There’s a name I haven’t heard since when I was at University. After that news story got out about him and that young lady, though…”

“He’s a talented showman and a scripter,” Orien said in Al’s defense, “Have you ever seen ‘Vic and Suzy’?” he asked.

“Not since my University days.”

The doctor had his hands folded on his lap and seemed almost to be like a grown child.

“It’s about a companionship,” Orien explained, “and I’ve seen other humorous shows about companionships. This one is interesting because although it doesn’t work out there are times when the two characters/they share good moments/laughs.”

Orien had become excited thinking of ‘Vic and Suzi’ and having passion and appreciation of good scripting and good showmanship. He began to think about his future as a show conductor. He hoped when he got to that point in his life he would make a worthy contribution to the art form. It might even be possible to produce color on reel tape at that point, as it had been possible on earth.

“So, in viewing this show about a companionship that comes to an end, do you wonder about your parent’s companionship?” the doctor asked. 

Orien didn’t like this trick to turn the conversation.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t really think about their companionship. I don’t really care,” Orien said, hoping they could talk about something else.

 He thought about Lena again, but he couldn’t hope for advice from his elder gentleman counselor on his own late-youth matters of the heart.

“You must feel something with what’s going on between them,” the Doc continued, “They are your parents, they brought you up together, and it must be difficult to see them no longer in that situation. No longer together, I mean.”

“I don’t feel like I need parents anymore, so it doesn’t matter to me, whether they are together or separate. I’m smart enough to make it on my own if I wanted to, anyway.”

Orien was tapping his foot. He became aware of it. He couldn’t help thinking about Lena. He was anxious to end the conversation about his parents.

“That’s a very proud thought, but why do you feel that way?”

Orien wished he felt comfortable enough to discuss how he felt about ladies, and about Lena. The character in the Al Wulworte story had no trouble with opening up to his counselor, but then 
the counselor in the story didn’t keep asking questions about the gentleman’s parents.

“I know a lot. My dad says I have book knowledge, but then he says I need more than book knowledge to survive life’s challenges… I don’t understand. My teachers want me to do their assignments and my parents want me to get good study scores, but then my father says I need more than book knowledge/this doesn’t make sense/and if I already have book knowledge, why is it necessary to follow my teachers assignments?”

“The reason why teachers set assignments for you to be scored on, and set deadlines for them is for you to learn to be disciplined,” the doc explained.

“I can’t. I don’t like being told what to do by elders, I just want to read my books, and focus on my own personal studies. I would rather set my own deadlines… for writing projects or shows, so I can reach my goal of becoming a show conductor quicker.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing if you get accepted into this arts school you’ve told me about.”
The doctor folded his legs and sat in silence. 

“Has your tutor been of any help to you,” the doc asked. 

“That’s been somewhat helpful, but…” Orien started. It wasn’t what he wanted to talk about.
Orien was reminded of several day-sets back, when a lady had asked for his company after classes. He shouldn’t have told him he was going to see his tutor. She must have thought he was stupid to need tutoring. He supposed he must have gone right out and said it because he was nervous and couldn’t think of anything else.

“I’ve been feeling very nervous around my peers,” Orien explained, “very alone, it’s like what that specialty medic talked about last chill season, and… he recommended I take remedies. What remedies are available?” 

“If you were to give potions a try, he will probably recommend something for anxiety and something for focus. Small doses, hopefully. You would have to speak to Dr. Patsen.”

“I think I might ask him.”

Orien had appointments with his specialty doctor at the end of the calendar block and they usually discuss potion remedies. Maybe it was time for Orien to agree to them.

Dr. Brahm discussed alternative methods for curing anxiety. He went over a breathing exercise with Orien, having him first relax his eyes and close them and having him breathe in from his upper abdomen and slowly work his way up to breathing in through his chest and letting the air out, like a wave of ocean being slowly pulled by the wind.

Orien was asked to open his eyes and Dr. Brahm let him know his time was out for his session. Orien felt relaxed, he felt an odd bit of confidence, feeling he could breathe strongly. He stood up straight from his chair and if Lena had been outside the door, he felt he could speak to her with courage.

Orien had his arts school audition two days following his therapy session and he remembered the breathing exercise he had done with Dr. Brahm.

His heart had been in a pounding rhythm and he was perspiring without control. His head ached, flashed with terrible images of a silent audience viewing his reel presentation and laughing at him, because all he had to show was a shadow. To calm himself down, he sat on his bed in his chamber and closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing as he had been instructed in his session. Try as he did, however, it was not working as it had in the Doc’s office. He couldn’t empty his mind-and he was suddenly startled at a knocking on hard wood.

“What are you doing in there!” his mother ejected.

“Nothing,” Orien said, in a panic. His mother’s hostile tones made him feel a tinge of guilt, 
although he wasn’t sure as to why. He opened his eyes.

“I/I’m just about ready,” he said. He grabbed the mini-projector by the handle and stood in his room, looking around in confusion before he set the projector down to grab his short-coat.

“You’re going to be late! Let’s go!”

He put on his short-coat and grabbed the mini-projector, put his hand on the door knob, but then stopped and walked back to the bed-table where his radio was and took the disc-player he had borrowed from Pace. He was afraid to see his mother’s face when he opened up the door, because he had been wasting time and he would be late for his audition.
So much for calming down his breathing, it was becoming irregular again, speeding up and slowing down and speeding back up.

His mother was standing, holding the front door to the cottage, waving Orien out, she seemed angry with him.

“We have to get going, I have to make a stop right away!” she said and Orien rushed out the door and got into his mother’s red jet.

The red jet went through all the familiar paths of Hilliar, going up the hill, and it halted at the front lot of Pleasant Hill Druggist and Apothecary. Orien waited in the jet for his mother and understood her behavior, finally. She needed her potion. 

Orien was beginning to see the benefits of potion taking. Perhaps a potion for him to feel calm and relaxed was just the right thing for him. His breathing wouldn’t be erratic, and he wouldn’t have to think about it, all with a simple potion remedy.

Orien’s mother soon came out of the shop, and tossed a small disposable dosage cup, in the waste bin next to the entrance.

She sat in the pilot’s chair and placed the white pouch bag containing the potion bottle by Orien’s feet.

It was a long ride to Penhaven, all the while Orien kept imagining how he would get to his schooling each day when he got accepted. He supposed there must be a transport that took scholars to the school, it was just such an incredible thing to imagine being flown such a long distance, taking nearly a half toll just to be brought to schooling.

The red jet halted at the bottom of the small hill, behind a silver jet. Orien’s father got out of the silver jet. Orien stepped out of his mother’s jet and he followed his parents up the hill.

A tall boy scholar with black hair, dressed in impressive, proper attire, that included a formal day-shirt and a red collar tie, was making his way up the steps to the brick building of ‘Penhaven Village School for Performing and the Arts’ with his mother.

Orien hurried up and walked in the door after them.

A bald man with a mustache was chatting with a spectacled lady with hair that had strands of both light and dark gray. She wore a long violet day-coat, and an assortment of wristlets and necklets including ones made of herblace. The gentleman was dressed formally.
Orien followed the tall black-haired boy into a room, while the boy’s mother shook hands with the lady in the violet coat.

“It’s good to see you, Lydia.”

“It’s good to see you.”

There were no chairs or desks in the room, just a shining polished wood floor in which late youths were sitting and chatting. The room resembled a small ballroom rather than a classroom. The tall boy sat himself down with the group and Orien sat down next to him.
There was a group of three scholars, standing in front of a blackboard at the front of the room. One of the three scholars was a lady, the likes of which Orien had never laid eyes on. She was to Orien, the most beautiful lady he had ever seen up close. He knew of many pretty faces in his late schooling, but as pretty as those ladies were, this lady had a quality of which Orien could see her posing for flash images for advertisements for ladies attire or perfumes. He could imagine her acting in reel shows. It made Orien quite excited for the opportunity to study at the arts school.

The lady in the violet coat entered the room, folded her hands in front of her and waited for the attention of the group. She was smiling, as if dazed, as if stupefied by herbs, and made no call to the front, no clearing of the throat, just waited with patience, until the tall heavy scholar standing next to her, gave a great whistle. 

The group was silent and the boy, a beast of a gentleman scholar standing next to the violet-coated lady like a bodyguard, clapped his hands together.

“Welcome prospective scholars! And how are you doing? My name is Graig, I am a third year scholar at Penhaven Arts. May I also introduce Samson, to my left, a fellow third year…” 
Samson, a boy scholar dressed rather like a music performer with a headcap and sleeveless day-shirt, seemed the type that would mix well with Pace, bowed.

“And first year scholar, Helena-Liz,” Graig continued and the lady curtsied, fluttering her extraordinary lashes and smiling with an irresistible charm, so irresistible that to Orien it was rather disappointing when the gentleman named Samson, put his arm around her waist and she brushed his back with her delicate hand, affectionately. They were clearly companions.

“Welcome, before we get to talking about daily life at the arts school, I must introduce you to our Deputy Administrator, Lydia Lubek,” Graig said, gesturing to the lady in violet, “She, along with Bolin Rickefeld, founded this school four years ago with the hopes of creating a learning community in which late youths of artistic talent, could be given the freedom to express themselves, with the same privileges given to University scholars.”

“Thank you,” Lydia said, “our school has been growing over time from this small building you are sitting in, to now many separate specialty buildings and each year we let more scholars in. Most scholars who audition are given the opportunity to attend, so have no worries, you can all relax as you go through your presentations and show off your talents. We’re very interested in seeing what you have to offer our school, and we’re very glad you have selected to attend with us and be a part of our growing community.”

Lydia’s long speech was met with applause. Graig continued, “Firstly, before we give you the opportunity to show your talents, we will have introductions. Parents-we’re going to have you meet in one of the upstairs classrooms with some of our staff-and scholars, we’re going to have you sit in a circle and allow for chances to get to know each other-so, let’s regroup-parents follow Lydia down the hall and up the stairs-“

The parents, who were standing in the back, followed Lydia out of the room, and the prospective scholars stood up as Graig, Samson and Helena-Liz joined them in a circle. 
Orien sat, with absolute glee, next to the beautiful lady, Helena-Liz, once everyone was seated, and he felt his breathing become heavy. He could smell her perfume, the scent of scarlet-blossoms in bloom. It made him nervous. He squirmed in his spot, unable to keep himself still. First sitting with his legs crossed, then feeling uncomfortable, sitting on his knees.

“Everyone settled?” Helena-Liz asked. When she spoke, Orien drank her words like a potion, “we’re going to try a little activity, starting with Samson, we’re going to go around the circle, and ask the person to our left a question, for example-Samson, what is your artistic focus at the school?” 

She turned her head to look at Samson.

“I am a music performer and I play harp.”

Samson turned to the lady youth to his left with various types of herblace necklets and wristlets, much like Lydia Lubek and with hair in dreadknots, with vivid shades of red.

“What is your favorite leisure activity?” He asked.

“I suppose, that would be… painting and drawing… that’s why I’d like to be accepted into the school,” She replied, seeming awkward at the unusual game, “I guess…” she turned to the boy next to her, a boy with eyeglasses and a snobbish appearance, “What is your favorite color?”

“Blue,” the boy replied. He said nothing else and the group laughed. 

“It’s alright,” Graig said, “There’s no such thing as a silly question.”

Everyone had a turn to ask questions. It was mostly a female group with the exception of Orien, the tall black-haired boy and a boy with glasses and with every question Orien’s turn grew nearer and nearer and he would have to ask Helena-Liz a question.

When Orien’s turn came and he turned to look at Helena-Liz, he couldn’t help blurting out the words, “I-I think you’re pretty,” and she blushed and said, “Thank you.” 

Orien blushed back, suddenly terrified as the group laughed at him, and Orien felt beads of nervous sweat forming along his forehead and creeping from his pits. Orien’s face was flushed red, “Uhhh… Are you… a… a dancer,” he stammered out.

“Actually, I am. I’m with Penhaven Art’s own Virtuoso Dance troupe,” She answered with a polite smile.

“You may be wondering what was the purpose of that little game?” Graig said, and explained, “We want to encourage you to take an active role in getting to know your peers, when you are accepted. We take great pride in being not just a school, but also a small community of like-minded individuals. It is important that we encourage lasting friendships.”

A few of the prospective scholars snickered at that, even Samson and Helena-Liz seemed to be holding in laughter.

“I know it sounds silly, but, that’s the way Lydia wanted me to tell it,” Graig confessed and the group let out their laughs as on cue, Lydia returned to the room.

“Are we ready to begin presentations?” She asked.

“They’re ready,” Graig replied.

“Volunteers to start off?” Lydia asked. The lady with the dreadknot hair held her hand up, “I 
suppose I can start,” she said, “Hi, my name is Meagen…”

The group chirruped a “Hello,” back and Meagen began untying her shoulder bag. She pulled out a sketchbook and held it vertical, in front of her chest. She thumbed several pages and flipped to reveal a coalpoint rendering of a setting sun and a watchtower.

“I’ve always been interested in art, whenever I see something beautiful, I want to capture it. I drew this while on respite at the Nautouk Shore. My grandfather has a cabin by the beach. I took a walk one morning… and I drew this.”

Orien couldn’t believe what he was hearing as he couldn’t imagine such an inspiring, creative person existed, not being exposed to the like in Hilliar. He certainly knew none of any type in his current schooling, but perhaps they were all hidden away. If Orien were accepted into the arts school it would mean being surrounded by creative-minded individuals.

Meagen showed several more of her drawings, and after her presentation the group applauded, and the boy next to her stood up and gave his name. He had a monologue prepared from Thebuek, a popular old-style performance scripter. He was asked to stand at the front of the room, in front of the chalkboard, and the group turned to watch him perform.
His performance was rather impressive and met with applause. Next to go, was a curly-haired lady, who played flute, and when it came time for the tall boy with black hair, who was named Duglus (though he preferred Dug) to give his presentation, the group was asked to go into the next room, so he could make use of the piano in it.

Dug played a piece, which he had personally composed, and Orien had been impressed. It was far different from the hardened-style music of his brother’s friends. It was a classical melody, almost romantic, like something that might play in Orien’s dreams as he imagined himself in a ballroom, dancing with Helena-Liz.

Orien knew at the finish of Dug’s piece and the flurry of applause, that it would be time for him to present. He wished he had more to say, more to show, but what he had, would not impress many, with what had already been seen.

“I’m Orien Sage/from… from Hh-hilliar Town. I have a reel presentation,” Orien said. He untied his shoulder bag with his projector. Lydia opened up a storage room in the back and wheeled in a wooden cart for him to place the projector. He walked over to the cart and spooled the reel onto the projector. Lydia unfolded a sheet of white canvas in front of the chalkboard ahead.
The reel projector was in place and set. Orien brought out Pace’s discplayer from his shoulder bag, sat in a chair and unfolded it in his lap. He flipped the switch on the projector, and the machine whirred, as an image was projected on the canvas of a shadow trailing a dirt path with a reel recorder in it’s hand, while the discplayer in Orien’s lap played a small bit from the group ‘The Wide Open’.

He flipped the projector switch after a chime, and the image was gone. His presentation was over.

“That’s/That’s all I have,” Orien said, sounding almost ashamed. The snobbish boy with spectacles raised his hand, “Well, what does it mean?” he asked.

Orien shrugged and said, “W-What do you want it to mean?” 

“What was that music?” Meagen asked without raising her hand.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” Samson said, “who is it by?”

“It’s by ‘The Wide Open’,” Orien said, “I really like them and Irv Relson/his poetry verses, I like.”

“The person with the shadow…” Meagen said, “it’s like he’s on his way somewhere… or 
coming back from someplace. Maybe a maniac on his way to find a victim…like in a horror show.”

“Very nice. I’m a bit of an admirer of ‘The Wide Open’, myself,” Samson said, “Very nice,” he repeated. He applauded, as did Meagen and the rest of the group. Orien took a deep breath and it was all over.

Lydia opened the door back up to the next room and when the prospective scholars followed her in, their parents were sitting and waiting. The group sat down, while Lydia gave a few words about the academic side of the arts school.

“…We don’t use a traditional credit scoring system,” she explained, “We have only three marking levels. Incomplete, Acceptable, or Exceptional (with or without honors), if your study work matches neither criteria, you get no credit.”

Orien was fascinated by this particular concept, not having to deal in number scores. His scores were always low in his late learning, which is why he needed tutoring, but according to Lydia, as long as the scholar showed he understood all the points in the teacher’s syllabus for his classes, he should have no problem with receiving acceptable credit.

After Lydia finished talking, Helena-Liz talked a bit about the Virtuoso Dance Troupe and auditioning for it. Graig talked about the theatre shows and mentioned that they did respite season productions and that incoming scholars were always welcomed to audition and take part in those.

“Ladies and gentleman, we’ve come to that time. Time for us to part,” Lydia said in the appropriate dramatic fashion of a stage performer, “I want to thank all of you for sharing your talents. We will let you know at the end of the calendar block if your name has been drawn for acceptance. Until then, keep focused. Believe in yourself and your work. You all have great skills. Thank you again.”

Orien remained seated a bit, while the others stood up to meet their parents. He suddenly felt crowded in the room, while everyone shifted around and talked. Orien couldn’t help thinking he had done wrong. He hadn’t really explained much of the shadow and what it symbolized to him, perhaps because he wasn’t even sure of the answer. The only explanation was in the poetry verses he had scripted, that he hadn’t shared.

His parents were standing in front of him asking if he was ready. His father had picked up the projector and was holding it by its handle.

“Yes. Yes, I am ready to/to go.”

Lydia was chatting with Duglus’ mother. Orien slowly walked toward the door behind his parents, but he stopped, hesitated and his parents kept walking ahead of him. They were already heading out the door, unaware that Orien hadn’t followed.

Orien stood in front of Lydia and Dug’s mother. Lydia smiled and turned her attention toward Orien, “Speaking of whom,” Lydia said, “I had just been telling Phyllis about your presentation.”

“My son makes reel shorts, too. Do you have your own recorder?”

“Well, no… my parents can’t/they don’t/My uncle has one,” he said.

“Well maybe you and Dug will create shows together if you get accepted,” Phyllis joked, and 

Orien actually felt intrigued at the notion. Maybe they could be a team, working together to create shows?

Orien noticed his own parents standing at the doorway, waiting. Orien was trying to think of what he wanted to say to Lydia and cut right to it, ignoring Phyllis, stating to Lydia, “I/there was another part to my presentation/a poem. I have it written down.”

Orien was trembling with his usual anxiety, not wanting to keep his parents waiting. He untied his shoulder bag, found the loosepaper he was looking for, and handed it to Lydia, “Here it is.”

“I’ll give it a read. Thank you.”

“It was nice to meet you Orien,” Phyllis said.

Orien joined his mother and father at their jetcars outside, not sure of which way he was going, whether to go with his mother in the red vehicle or his father’s silver one. He wanted neither. He wanted to stay right where he was, to make his home in the arts school with his newfound friends, to live there and be a boarder, although it wasn’t a boarding school, he’d make it his home, because staying there meant not having to choose any sides. Staying meant being his own person, not being attached to his parents.

His father offered to purchase him a steamee and take him to his favorite bookshop. Wanting to know how his presentation went and wanting to talk about it. Orien accepted his father’s invitation.

“I’ll see you back at the cottage, before I take off for work,” his mother said and she got into the pilot’s chair of her red jet, as Orien entered the co-pilot side of his father’s silver one and parted from his mother for the remainder of the afternoon.

VI.

Several day-sets would come before the end of the eleventh calendar block, and the end of harvest season. The weather became colder on planet Promythica, but snowfall seemed still far from approaching as if the ice of chill season were a cloud far away, like the arts school of which Orien would dream about, but had yet to know if he would even be attending. 

He suffered through exam studies, but Anya helped him along the way until final exams came just before the start of chill season and the traditional holiday feast in celebration of harvest’s end. 

Orien heard much chatting in his classes amongst ladies and gentleman youth, discussing how they were spending the holiday. 

Orien listened as a lady named Lolia, in sweet whisper tones, like musical notes in a classical piece, could be heard behind him as he struggled in his final mathematics exam of the term, distracted.

“…Auntie Olga usually visits us in Hilliar, but this year we’re going to visit her in Nautuk, for a three day holiday, and we’ll be celebrating feast there…”

Orien recalled visiting his Aunt Tessa and Uncle Moren by the ocean shore in Nautuk town, with his mother and his brother as well as Anya’s family for harvest end feast many years ago. He also recalled the beautiful coalpoint sketch of Nautuk shore by the lady youth named Meagen in his audition.

Orien felt he was the only scholar not finished with his exam. He scribbled down numbers, solutions, not even certain if they were correct, not really caring, and closed the testing booklet. He supposed Anya would help him study for the inevitable retake, but it was fine. His mind just wasn’t on his studies.

Orien wanted to be in Nautuk with Lolia and her family, although he didn’t know Lolia very well, he imagined he’d get along with her as if she were Lena, but then he remembered he was very nervous with Lena in all of his recent encounters with her. It was not like it had been when they were youths. Still yet, he imagined sitting in a cottage room at a dining table drinking warm cider with Lolia as an alternative to a meal with Alto, Pace, and his father. 

The cottage would soon belong to Orien’s father. His mother had been searching around for her own housing and was making up her mind about a quarter room in a building at the center of Town, of which she had shown Orien. 

The classbell rang and Orien deposited his exam at the instructor’s desk and left the class for lunch break, which was a silent affair, his fellow scholars were discussing the usual, sporting events, not pitchball though, but the coming chuteball tournament, the final game of which would broadcast on feast day.

Outside in the schoolyard, Orien did his usual wandering with his head down, and watching fellow lady scholars at the corner of his eye. 

Lena was talking to two boy scholars, who seemed to be at ease with charming her, much unlike Orien would be, although the potion his medic had given him had minimized his shakes and twitches.

He wondered how Lena would be spending her holiday. If she were spending it at home, she would be right down the path from Orien, on Sunblossom Path. If they had been closer friends, it might have been possible for him to join her and her family. He would have liked that.

Orien had only his Physical Health class and domestic skills class after break and neither required exams, although jogging track left him winded and tired. 

He had very low energy it seemed, for the past several days. It was possible it may have been a side effect of the potions. Possibly he just couldn’t find reason for motivation, as he would rather be at Penhaven Arts.

The transport let Orien off at the end of Emardleaf Way and he was surprised to find his mother waiting for him. She seemed like a statue, motionless, standing with her hands clasped in front of her, she asked, “How were your exams? Do you think you did well?”

“I don’t know. Probably not well,” Orien said, uninterested and in plain tones. 

They continued their conversation as they walked, slow, in a mechanical fashion.

“But you studied with Anya, right?”

 “A little bit,” Orien replied.

“I’m sure you did fine. She’s done a very good job helping.”

Orien and his mother walked with shadows trailing behind. They turned onto the front trail and 
approached the cottage.

“I signed the agreement with the housemaster at the Franksen building,” his mother said as they reached the top of the porch steps, “I’m going to need you and your brother to help me gather my things and move in.”

Orien’s head was filled with a blank space being so tired from his exams and the school day. 

“I’ll be moving my bed in tonight,” she continued, “and some other things, but maybe on feast, after your meal, we can decorate, maybe put up some wreathes and lights for chill season…”
She smiled. She opened up the cottage door.

“You’re not working tonight, then?” Orien said freeing himself from his longcoat. He felt a chill inside the cottage.

“No. I’m not. I think your brother’s with Pace, in the attic, if you want to let him know when it’s time for us to leave.”

“Sure,” Orien said and after he browsed the kitchen cabinets and found little to eat but the usual, he heated a prepared meal and ate. He took a sip of steamee from his mug and heard feet descending the ladder. Alto and Pace were stepping down from the attic.

“Ori, you’re home!” Pace said, “Alto and I were just thinking about taking a walk.”

“No, we weren’t,” Alto said turning his head on the way to his quarters, “I have academy assignments I have to catch up on…”

Pace was signaling a message to Orien’s brother, voiceless, and Orien got the impression that he was up to something, but Alto said, “Go ahead and have one last bond together before you leave,” in a huffy manner which Orien didn’t catch, he only heard the words spoken and asked in response, “Leave where?”

“I’m moving back in with my parents,” Pace said.

Alto was gone behind the door of his bedchamber, which shut with a ca-crick, as Orien’s chair cricked out, and Orien took his longcoat off the corner hanger and put it back on.

On the steps of the porch, Pace lit a stik and offered Orien one. Orien was still too tired to think as he tried to consider whether to smoke or not and tried to think why not, but the words, “No thanks,” came as automatic to him.

As they walked Orien felt the heat of the smoke from Pace’s stik, float in the air and warm his cheeks. He inhaled and it made him cough. 

“…I was quite popular with the ladies at your age…” Alto bragged along the way and told stories of his exploits. 

Orien felt conscious of his own pimples and bracework, which felt heavy on his teeth. He imagined if Pace had been so popular he must not have shared the same deformities Orien had. Orien thought he would never be the type to attract a lady as his pimples grew more and more each morning.

They were approaching Sunblossom Path and approaching Lena’s cottage.

“Don’t you have a lady friend who lives along that path?” Pace said. Orien replied, “Yes.”

“Let’s see if she’s home, then!”

Orien stopped walking.

“No. No,” he said, surprised that he didn’t stutter, but still nervous to confront Lena as an awkward skinny youth, with big lips and a big nose, and skin that was pockmarked and pimpled. He was ugly. He wanted to turn around.

“This is why I took you here, I want you to knock on her door and see if she’s home.”
Pace meant well, but he didn’t seem to understand that when he had been a late youth he was likely more confident and likely better looking. It had been easy for Pace to be charming with ladies as a youth.

Pace was walking ahead and Orien was still in his spot, his brain trying to decide what it wanted to do, but unable to, as he saw two ladies sitting on a bench and he recognized Lena and her sister. He couldn’t keep his feet from moving ahead, his eyes attracted like a magnet to Lena.

“Hi, Lena,” he said passing and seemed to want to continue walking, but Pace had stopped and asked, “What brings you ladies out of doors, this evening?”

“Minding ourselves,” Lena’s youth sister, Dharla said. Her eyes were like an animal’s. Both ladies seemed like tigrets, not wanting predators to invade their territory.

“This is my friend Pace,” Orien said and gestured Pace back, “Let’s go now.”

Pace was staying put, so Orien joined him at the front patch of Lena’s cottage. Pace dragged his stik in a suave manner. Lena faked a cough and Dharla mimicked.

“Can you not smoke that dirty thing, in front of my sister?” Lena said.

Orien felt low, although he wasn’t doing anything wrong, it was Pace who was being rude, he still felt low.

Pace took a drag of his stik, not listening and blew a smoke-ring as if to impress the ladies, but he seemed to fail as they got up from their bench, with a,  “Eeecch!” of disgust.

“Go away, you slob,” Dharla said, violently opening the front door and retreating.

“Scoundrel!” Lena said, following Dharla inside and slamming the door.

Orien wanted to cry. It was as if Lena had called him a scoundrel. He wished he had said or done something to prevent Pace from bothering her, because he would never forget the look on her face which seemed to hold Orien as being just as much a scoundrel for associating with Pace.

Orien walked on and Pace followed alongside.

“Thanks! Thanks a lot!” Orien said, sarcastic, “That did me no good at all! Why did you have to act like that?”

Pace brushed Orien’s comments off, claiming, “They enjoy it,” and trying to sound superior stating, “You don’t know this yet, but ladies find the whole scoundrel act irresistible. Privately, they weren’t as appalled as they let on.”

“They seemed fairly appalled to me,” Orien said in a mumble, his face down in shame, as Pace blew smoke, and tossed his stik out and stamped it in the dirt.

Orien didn’t want to be a scoundrel and he hoped Pace was wrong, yet scoundrel or no scoundrel Orien was a small, thin youth, with none of the masculine traits to which a lady would find appealing. He couldn’t help his thoughts and feelings.

Pace stopped and lit another smokstik while Orien stood and kicked a pebble with his boot, frustrated and heartbroken. Orien turned and walked back toward the cottage, wishing that Pace would simply disappear, but Pace followed to share more advice about ladykind, to which Orien didn’t care to listen.

Orien and Pace made it back to the cottage, walked up the porch stepway and once inside Orien wanted only to retreat and the best place to hide was his bedchamber.

“I’ll be in my chamber doing some scripting,” he told Pace, “let my mom know, she wants me to help her move into her new place.”

“I’ll be moving out tonight as well-”

“I’ll see you next time you play a show with Alto,” Orien said and he closed the door to his bedchamber where he could be alone. He crouched, looking underneath his bed, wishing he could hide there, but instead of crawling into the empty space to curl up in shame for being a ‘scoundrel’, he pulled out a square black case, hoisted it and himself onto the bed and lay. He unfolded the case in his lap and there was a sheet of clean white paper along the ream and he tapped his fingers on the round letter buttons.

SCENE I

ROMEN is sitting in a chair facing the audience, speaking to someone off scene.

ROMEN
I had known Elyza for six years of my youth, before I asked for her companionship. She was not interested.

Orien had asked Lena if she wanted to be his lady-companion when they were age 12, but being much in her youth at the time, it was not an appropriate time to be thinking of companionship. For Orien it had seemed just as appropriate a time as any and he had hopes, which went beyond understanding of reality. 

He was now creating the character of Romen, who he planned to feature in a reel short. He scripted a tragic story of lost love, inspired by his feelings for Lena, yet despite the story being tragic, Orien tried to find humour.

Orien finished scripting the untitled piece on the morning of feastday, ending it with a funny retelling of the incident with Pace, allowing himself to laugh at it. His amusing interpretation, however wouldn’t replace the memory of the real incident and he was still embarrassed.
Orien tore the final page out of the scripter, folded the machine up and put it back under his bed. He got out of his bedrchamber and the morning hours had already passed. He was past due for taking his medicine.  

He walked into the kitchen and opened up the medicine cabinet. He took out the two potion bottles and a spoon from the drawer. He filled one spoonful of black fluid and downed it-a relaxant for his shakes, and one spoonful of the green fluid, for focus.

The liquid was flavorless at first, but had a peppery feeling in his throat that made it harsh going down. He had just swallowed down a spoonful when he heard the house communicator buzz.
Orien walked into the dining quarters and picked the communicator up off its cradle.

“Can I speak to Orien Sage, please?” said a female voice on the phone. It was the voice of a lady-youth of about Orien’s age and she was asking to speak to him. 
He wondered if it was Lena, if she forgave him for Pace’s ghastly behavior. Orien brightened up and informed her, “This is Orien.”

“My name is Helena-Liz,” the lady said, and Orien felt as if his spirit were ascending to fly off and away to a town called Penhaven where a unique school for gifted artists was located.
“We met at the Arts School,” she continued, “I’m the pretty lady, remember?”

Orien did remember, though felt embarrassed.

“Yes. I remember,” he confessed.

“Are you enjoying your break from classes? Have a good feast in store this afternoon?”

“Oh. Yes,” Orien lied. He would be feasting with his father and brother and they weren’t planning on any extravagant meal.

“Glad to hear it. The reason I’m voicing, is to congratulate you. I was asked by Lydia Lubek, you remember her? She’s the Deputy Administrator. I was asked to page all the incoming scholars and let them know of their acceptance. I thought I’d make everyone’s holiday, that’s why I chose this morning.”

“Oh…” Orien thought for a moment before the words translated in his mind, “So… I/I got accepted, then?”

“Did I make your holiday?” Helena-Liz said. Orien could imagine her smiling face on the other end, as he had remembered it.

“Actually, yes.”

“I’m so glad! Lydia will probably set up a date sometime in bloom season to have you sit in with one of our scholars in their classes, to get a feel for the daily routine and I’ll probably get to see you again.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Congratulations again.”

Orien thanked her, and restored the communicator to its cradle.

From there on, everything would be new. Everything would change with the following year’s harvest. His mother would be living in her own quarters at the Franksen building and Orien would be away at the arts school, only returning to his father’s cottage in the evening. His home would be the arts school, and Lena won’t matter, because he would meet new ladies, interesting ladies, artists and creative types, like Meagan and dancers like Helena-Liz. He had only to struggle through his remaining studies at Hilliar North, with Anya guiding him along the way, before he would leave it all behind forever and become someone and something new. Orien was soon ready to be the person he had always dreamed he would be.

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