XII. Squid
Two adventurers had ridden into Bowershim, four were leaving.
This thought repeated itself in Ingrid Felton's mind as they rode out of town. Her heart was not in it. Despite the cool, matter-of-fact way she had been able to recite her plan to Doody at the breakfast table, it was hard to feel confident about their chances.
It was a case of too many question marks. How, and where, was she supposed to fall asleep so the lucid dream Doody had placed so much emphasis upon could be induced? What would happen if she couldn't induce such a dream? Ingrid had read enough about lucid dreams to know they required skill and patience and practice. Was there enough time for her to learn? And even if there was, what if she were to go into the demesne of her own head, conjure up the Carlson Glass, summon Jo-Jo...and then find the entity unwilling to cooperate? Very few details about Jo-Jo remained in Ingrid's memory; she was a ghost from another time, a ghost who had never been real to begin with. The memories that did remain were all negative. Could she really be counted on as an ally?
Her friends were also aware of these issues. She had pointed them out not long after leaving Bowershim. Scott, who was still grumpy over his encounter with Lon Kolk, could provide little comfort off the top of his head, but did agree her doubts were deserving of deep consideration. Varion and Dixon seemed to be distracted by the fact they were striking out into the region for the first time in five months. They rode their niddi in relative silence, sometimes pointing to things on the roadside that interested them: a wooden house built in the treetops of a chestnut lane; a woman strumming a gittern by a covered bridge.
Distracted or no, Ingrid felt grateful to have two extra men riding with her on this journey. She was going to need all the help she could get. In Bowershim, Varion and Dixon had been adamant about obtaining another pair of niddi so as to accompany her and Scott to Horseshoe Bay. Ingrid hadn't pressed them as to why, though she had her suspicions. They wanted to help defend the place they had come to think of as home.
The breeze remained steady as afternoon slipped closer to evening. Dandelion seeds played over the road, some landing in the trees, others catching stronger currents to more distant places. None of the men seemed inclined to talk. Ingrid looked at her map again and guessed they would reach Horseshoe Bay sometime next morning.
The prospect of seeing her true birthplace after so many years of lies and rejections had been an interesting one from the start. And as her mind toyed with it, Ingrid felt her interest blossoming into something brighter and more colorful. Eager to forget her doubts for awhile, she let it come. What would the bay look like? At her kitchen table, Lisa had described two large homes gone to ruin atop a cliff-face. A trail, she went on to say, led up that cliff-face from the water. In her mind's eye Ingrid could already see it. Artist that she was, the vision made her want to paint, or at the very least find some charcoal to sketch with.
It made her want to do something else as well. Her eye went to Scott. He was riding with his head down. The brim of his hat cast a shadow on his eyes. His face was coarse with stubble--just the way she liked it. The sun had given his arms, which were strong from his time working with meat butchers, a light tan. The niddy's reign was clutched in his gloved hands. Ingrid also wore gloves--white, lacey ones that matched the dress she had on. She took off her pink flowered hat and ran her fingers through her hair, lifting it so the sun's rays could find their way to her scalp. She arched her back and took a deep breath.
"Everything all right?" Scott asked, his voice sounding deeper than usual.
A smile that must have been very odd to see rose to Ingrid's lips. Scott smiled back, though his face was quizzical. Ingrid kept staring without knowing why this hunger had come upon her. Horseshoe Bay couldn't be the sole reason. But whatever the case, it was undeniable that Scott Wesley Bremman was beginning to look like a meal spread on a table for her--a meal she wanted to devour like a tigress.
"You're in trouble when the sun goes down, Mister," she told him.
The quizzical expression turned to worry. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No. You did something very right."
***
They camped that night in a cemetery set back on a grassy slope. An iron fence surrounded it, but the gate was not locked. A single, ancient-looking mausoleum, its windows dark, overlooked the headstones. Most of these stones were mossy and illegible. Broken angel wings lay half-buried in the grass. Wreaths of dead flowers rattled in the wind.
They shared a light meal, then Varion and Dixon, no doubt wanting to be alone for reasons similar to Ingrid's, wandered off after securing the niddi. Shadows cast by the trees soon enveloped them, leaving the rest of the slope to its two remaining, living occupants.
"Let's go?" Ingrid said.
"Where to?"
She cast her eyes about the stones with an appetite in full caper now that the banquet was so near. Near one was what looked to be a small dogwood tree. Pleased by the flower petals alighting like birds from its boughs, she led him over by the hand.
They unpacked their bags. Scott was able to anchor one of the blankets using a few rocks he found in a nearby pile of rubble. As he went about this task, Ingrid took off her hat. She unlaced her gloves, and then her boots.
Scott rose, dusting off his hands. Barefooted, Ingrid approached him. A sudden, stronger gust of wind infiltrated her hair, so its locks were dancing in a fiery waltz as she put her hands on his shoulders, stood on tip-toe, and kissed him deeply. Two strong arms took her waist, bearing her up.
"My dress," she plumed, swaying a little on her feet.
He unbuttoned the back of it. It fell all the way to the naval, allowing the night breeze access to her delicate skin. Nice, but not enough. Ingrid paused to unfasten her brassiere, then let that fall too, freeing her breasts. But before Scott could reach for them, she opened his shirt, so upon turning around her back came in contact with his bare skin. Scott was now able to reach around her body with his hands, which he did eagerly, lifting the breasts from her ribs as her lungs seized another deep breath.
Ingrid opened the belt of her dress. She then made her way upward to seek one of Scott's hands and lead it back under the light fabric of her underwear. Feeling his touch over the wetness of her sex caused her knees to buckle, but he caught her up with his other arm while two of his fingers plunged deep and curled backward. A cry of pleasure escaped Ingrid, and the dress fell to her ankles in a heap.
She wanted to lie down with him now. Scott eased her naked body to the blanket, where she could watch from its softness the conclusion of his undressing. Her intention was to let him love her the traditional way, but at the sight of his excited penis (it looked ready to burst at any moment) the notion of her ravishing appetite shifted to a different ideal. She motioned for him to stay on his feet whilst rising from the blanket, moving forward on her knees until the object of her hunger became all there was to see.
Ingrid reached out. As her hand came in contact with the tight, hot skin of his shaft, Scott jerked and let out a cry of his own.
"Everything all right up there?" she whispered.
His breath gushed. "Yes but I'm right on the edge, honey."
"Is that a fact? So I’m in a dangerous situation here?"
"Very, very dangerous."
"I see."
She opened her mouth and took him inside. For a moment it seemed like he was about to pull way, but the pleasure of her temerity was perhaps too absolute to decline, for in the next his hands were exploring her hair, coaxing her deeper. Ingrid took a breath and held it as the wide bulb of his cock neared the back of her throat. The taste of his skin—salt and sweat--made her want to swallow him whole, but she wasn't sure she could accomplish this feat without choking. She gave his buttocks a hefty squeeze instead, maintaining the flow of her saliva by keeping her tongue busy.
"Ingrid?" Scott gasped.
The word was both question and warning. Ingrid continued to gorge, keeping her breath held, hoping this would be answer enough.
It was. Scott's entire body stiffened. Knowing full well what it signified, Ingrid fought to hold her breath for just a little longer. She knew he desperately wanted what was coming. Yet in that moment, as the night wind gusted through the dogwood tree and the flower petals danced, Ingrid was certain she wanted it more.
Nevertheless his deluge, when it came, was violent. A viscid, salty fluid gushed over Ingrid’s tongue. Her fingernails clawed. Scott's penis gave off a second jet, then a third and a fourth. Mouth now dripping, Ingrid was forced to back away, gasping air through her nose. Or rather, trying. His thick, heavy seed had found its way into her throat, blocking the passage, and it was stubborn. Swallowing hard, Ingrid tilted her head, giving Scott a reassuring smile. It helped, but not very much. She had to swallow twice more before further speech became possible.
"Oh wow," she told him, once there was sufficient breath. "That was...good, scary fun."
He laughed and knelt down. "Scary?"
"I wasn't sure how it was going to feel--which only made me want to do it all the more." She gave him a smirk.
"I'm sorry. I was pretty--"
"Oh don't you dare be sorry for that. I knew I had you under my spell and it felt good. Plus I've been wanting to tear you to pieces all day."
His head tilted. "Perhaps I can return the favor?"
"I hope so. I want to be relaxed before I fall asleep so I can practice Rupert's lucid dream technique."
"Okay," he whispered, already lifting her hair to place a number of soft kisses on the back of her neck.
They needed to wait a few minutes, but once he was ready again she turned to seize hold of his shoulder-blades. As before, the blanket beckoned. This time Ingrid accepted its embrace without a second thought. She bent her knees and opened her legs wide. Everything down there continued to function as intended; there was a tingling, throbbing sensation from every hole, as if they were in bloom for their arriving guest.
The guest came in. Ingrid's back arched. She opened her mouth. Opened, opened...she wanted everything opened for him. All of her most secret, sensitive places. It was lust--lust for the coarseness of his skin, the rugged, raspiness of his blue-collar hands. Lust for the hotness of his breath, the wideness of his chest, the firmness of his buttocks. And yes, lust for the tanned, blood-filled shaft of his cock, with the balls underneath carrying a full load of heavy ammunition.
But it was also trust. Trust that Scott, seeing and touching and tasting every part of her naked body, would not betray the hand that led him through these secret places. He would plunge them, certainly. He would leave no part of her unexplored, driven by a desire that grew stronger with each of her soft, pretty sighs. Yet it was giving, not taking, that interested him. It was pleasure, not pain, he wished to inflict. It was water and sunlight and pollen. It was the heat of a summer wind, the cool plume of an ocean mist. It was the goose bumps under a quilt on a cold and snowy day. It was a camp-fire. It was a desert rain. It was an old and favorite poem rediscovered in surprise. It was comfort. It was safety.
And finally, above all else, it was love…
***
Love beneath the wooden trunks of majestic things.
Expecting to see trees, Ingrid looked up. But there were no flora and fauna to greet her eye. And the trunks were not actually trunks at all. They were the beams of a giant Ferris-wheel, with gondolas of red and gold--each the size of a garden gazebo-- gliding by a platform wet from a recent rain. Faces peered at her through the windows, some smiling, others tinged with fear. One car squeaked as it passed, which seemed to set off all the rest. They began to rock gently on their hinges in a stiffening breeze.
"They're all right," someone said from behind her.
Ingrid turned to see a handsome man dressed in a white. In one gloved hand he held a cane. In the other was a top hat.
"Rupert," he proclaimed, taking a bow.
"You don't look like Rupert."
"I was teaching a girl how to see her drafting board. Showing her the colors."
As if this explained everything the man waved his cane in the air. The platform disappeared, to be replaced by long stalks of whispering green grass.
A mighty, hollow crack from high above made Ingrid forget her befuddlement at once. She looked up again. Now from about fifty yards away, the Ferris-wheel was looking back at her. It had somehow broken off its frame and taken a terrible forward list. The center badge logo at the top of the main support--CP for Cedar Point--loomed.
"Hey!" Ingrid screamed.
It was almost drowned by the screaming from the gondolas. In spite of all logic Ingrid could hear the people in them. Fists pounding on glass. Sobbing. Panicked pleas for help.
"OPEN! OPEN THE DOOR OH GOD!"
"IT'S GONNA FALL IT'S GONNA FALL!"
"WE'RE TOO HIGH! SOMEBODY GET THE LATCH!"
"Stop it," said the man with the hat. His eyes were calm, his face wearing a pleasant smile. "You're doing this, Jo-Jo."
Another crack, like thunder, from the wheel. Ingrid stumbled as the ground began to shake. A jet engine sound filled the sky. The wheel tipped, slowly at first but gaining more speed as its center of gravity shifted.
Meanwhile the pleasant man continued to reason with her. "Just understand that things like this don't happen," he insisted.
Maybe not before, but now? Oh yes. And given the angle of the wheel's trajectory, Ingrid judged--with a terrified rush of backbone tingles--that the giant CP logo was going to land smack on top of her.
She turned to run. No one stopped her--the man in white had disappeared. Screaming, Ingrid leaped fast as she could through the tall grass. The Ferris-wheel now sounded like an avalanche of steel. Its din owned the world. Unable to help herself, Ingrid looked over her shoulder. The CP logo grinned back. It was all she could see. She gasped--
***
And awoke.
Bright sunlight stabbed her eyes. Shielding them, she sat up. The punishing rays were coming through the trees at an angle. Early morning then. A small campfire burned nearby, giving off tufts of wood smoke. Over it hung a tin pot. Please let that be coffee, Ingrid thought, before casting her gaze around for Scott. He was nowhere to be seen. But for a few twittering birds in search of their breakfast, the gravestone lanes were empty.
She was about to call out when he crested a hill by the mausoleum. A towel covered the waist of his otherwise naked body, and his hair was damp. Regardless of this (and regardless of the cold corpses that lay buried everywhere), the smile on his face could not have been warmer.
"Hey there, beautiful," he chimed, stopping near the fire to reach for a cup. "Coffee?"
Ingrid returned the smile. "Magic words. Do we have any sweetener?"
"I think that Farraday woman had you pegged as a double-double kind of girl right out of the gate, yes."
"Oh god," she laughed, "don't go Canadian on me now, Scott, I've got enough regions to keep track of as it is."
The coffee steamed as the cup was placed in her hand. "That's what growing up on Lake Erie does for a fella. Culture mish-mash." His brow went up with a new thought. "Did you dream last night?"
"I did as a matter of fact. But I couldn't control it."
He put on some clothes, and she told him everything she could remember as they breakfasted on coffee and bread with hard-boiled eggs. Varion and Dixon appeared two minutes into the recounting, which obliged her to start over. Not that it mattered. The gist of the dream was easily enough painted: She'd botched it. At least on that particular try.
At the end of the story Dixon gave her a piercing look. "You know if I dreamed of a giant Ferris-wheel falling down on me I would go out of my fucking mind."
"I do a lot of drawing and painting in my spare time," Ingrid said, making sure the blanket wrapped around her was covering everything sufficiently. "That's got to be connected with how crazy the basement of my head is."
There was a brook running behind the mausoleum deep enough to bathe in. Ingrid partook in this exercise without indulgence, not liking the feel of the cold water on her skin, or the slimy mud of the bed on her feet.
They rode from the cemetery at a little before nine a.m. (Scott had thoughtfully stolen the pocket-watch from Doctor Bowershim's bedroom). By ten the road was sloping into a valley of sorts. The trees thinned out, giving way to spacious fields dotted by neat, cozy cabins. In front of one doorway two boys and a dog were playing catch with a wooden ball. The backyard of another home had laundry out, sheets billowing in a breeze that now carried the distinct scent of the lake.
That lake--Coldfrock--could be seen as a chalky blue line along the horizon. It looked bigger than Ingrid imagined, more like Lake Erie than any of Norwalk’s minor bodies of water. And indeed it was. Rather than remain at rest in the distance, it began to loom as the morning wore on. The chalkiness of its color became richer and darker. The sky also grew darker. Over the past hour clouds had begun to dodge across it on a strengthening wind. Ingrid's hair lifted; the hem of her skirt flapped.
They stopped on the side of the road to pick wild strawberries. A traveler passing in the other direction told them that to reach Horseshoe Bay they would need to veer right towards Myrobalan at the next fork, then turn left at the second intersection. These instructions proved to be accurate while at the same time lacking in perspective. It took another hour to reach the fork--the niddi ambling along without a care in the world—and forty-five more minutes to arrive at the prescribed intersection. It could b