Half a Light, the Arrival of Moe
Amongst the trees he stood, a silent form,
She, like the leaves, danced in the summer breeze.
The plan, he'd hoped, would keep her safe and warm,
But she, alas, declared her own release.
The summer passed, and with it, fleeting grace,
She searched for luck, a four-leaf clover rare,
Amongst the three, a lost and lonely space,
Where music's blade, a sorrow she must bear.
No possibility remained to hold her near,
The taste of honey, blossoms soft and sweet,
A fading dream, now banished by the year,
As winter's grip, a bitter, cold defeat.
But memory, a whisper, soft and low,
Retains the warmth of love's forgotten glow.
The Arrival: Half a Light (The Story of Moe)
Chapter 1
As I stepped off the Greyhound bus at 3 am in Banff, the eerie silence enveloped me like a shroud. The only other passengers, two Australian backpackers, had vanished into the night, leaving me with my suitcase, wet fur, and backpack. Once a bustling hub, the old Canada Pacific Railway station now stood deserted and closed, its shady reputation seemingly a myth on this chilly April morning.
With no phone in sight, I sharpened my claws and trudged to the nearby Chevron, searching for change and a way to call for help. The cashier, sympathetic to my plight, warned me about the dangers of walking alone at night, especially with bears lurking in the nearby forest. He stared at me, surprised by my ability to handle two large bags.
"I'd suggest waiting outside the bus station until 8:00 AM or hanging around the Royal Canadian Mounted Police outlet until 5:00 AM," he said, his expression dead serious.
I laughed, an experienced hiker familiar with the woods of Oregon and California. But he pressed on, his expression unyielding. He hadn't spent time in the forest and shuddered at its suggestion.
"I think I can do it," I said, studying the town map. "It's only four miles away."
He handed me my change, and I thought about it for a moment. As a seasoned skier and hiker, I figured it would be no problem to haul my luggage up the mountain. I had one more bag waiting for me at the resort, courtesy of Greyhound.
The cashier warned me again, "Don't go near the forest. They can get you at the edge. Don't go in the forest. They'll strip your fur off and then some."
I chuckled an experienced hiker who'd spent countless hours in national parks and forests along the West Coast. But I soon discovered that every local in Banff was convinced that unsuspecting tourists would fall prey to a hungry Grizzly Bear.
Despite the warnings, I set off on my journey, lugging my suitcase and backpack up Tunnel Mountain Road. Cars whizzed by, and cyclists pedaled past, but I was not deterred. Just as I was about to give up, a kind stranger stopped his car and offered me a ride to the resort.
"I'm not going to make it," I admitted, grateful for the reprieve. "Maybe I should reconsider and accept your offer. Not that many cars have gone by."
I gratefully accepted the ride and soon found myself sitting in the lobby of the Douglas Fir Resort, waiting for the housekeeping manager to arrive. I had been hired to work there, despite my inability to drive, which I wouldn't learn to do until I was thirty-one years old. As I waited, I reflected on my failed marriage and my determination to start anew in this beautiful mountain town.
The cashier's warnings echoed in my mind as I settled into the lobby, but I was relieved to have made it to the resort safely. I spent the next five hours waiting for the housekeeping manager to arrive, reflecting on my journey and the kind stranger who had given me a ride.
Eventually, the housekeeping manager arrived and decided I was more suited for sales, with my furry good looks and light, sleek physique. My job became greeting customers and posing in the gift shop window. It was a three-month contract, and I was thrilled to have found a new adventure.
At home, when not working, I wondered about the time machine. Had I secured it properly? Would the thick layers of tarp, tape, and bubble wrap protect it? I was very concerned and tried not to think about it as I wrote in my journal in the evenings.
Online, I learned that some lyrics I had reinterpreted in the vein of sixties pop music had won a literary award. I was happy, but it was a sign of progress, unrelated to my true literary ambitions. Coming to Banff was an attempt to find some quiet, some meaning in the chaos around me.
I wrote in my journal. I thought as I stepped off the Greyhound bus at 3 am in Banff, the eerie silence enveloped me like a shroud, heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth. I thought of the passengers who left and wondered where they ended up working. It was possibly the Australian backpackers were passing through, but they clearly knew someone in town.
When I walked around initially after my arrival, I noticed the train tracks by the old station. I thought of how the ancient Canadian Pacific Railway was built at a cost to the country. Having secured a debt, they had hoped to recoup money from shipping and sales. The area had a shady reputation, and I worried a little as I walked. It seemed safe, though. Perhaps the burly town and its partying reputation were myths. The morning was slightly chilly, but the sun was out. I noticed the weather through the window.
I woke up with a start at four in the morning before I fell asleep again. The darkness was almost palpable, and I shivered as I gazed out at the desolate streets. The only sound was the distant hum of a diesel engine, a faint reminder of the world beyond this isolated mountain town. I stretched my feline body, arching my back and extending my claws, feeling the familiar thrill of adventure coursing through my veins. My phone was charging.
With no phone in sight, I sharpened my claws and got up for a quick walk. Nobody had called to check on me. My earthly contacts were supposed to call me from time to time, via cell phone. They had gifted me one during the time of ship exchange back on Mars. I walked over to the local gas station on the far side of town, a mile from where I lived.
Bored and slightly cold, I trudged to the nearby Chevron, searching for change and a way to call for a check-in. Where were the payphones, I wondered. The only sign of life was a dimly lit convenience store, its windows steamy with the smell of freshly brewed coffee and stale donuts. I pushed open the creaky door, a bell above it jingling in protest, and stepped into the warm glow of the store.
The cashier, a gruff but kind-hearted man with a thick beard and a battered truckers' hat, looked up from behind the counter, his eyes narrowing as he took in my bedraggled appearance. "You okay, buddy?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly.
I nodded, trying to shake off the chill of the night air. "Just looking for some change and a way to call someone," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
The cashier nodded sympathetically, his expression softening. "Well, I can give you some change, but be careful out there, okay? The bears around here ain't no joke."
I had heard this before. I laughed a deep rumble that shook my chest. As an experienced hiker familiar with the woods of Oregon and California, I knew the risks of venturing into bear country. But I also knew that the chances of running into a grizzly in the dead of night were slim to none. I had hitchhiked my way across the Left Coast a few months before, just after my initial arrival, to familiarize myself with the ways of the locals.
"I think I can handle it," I said, studying the town map spread out on the counter. "It's only four miles to the resort."
The cashier warned me again, his expression dead serious. "Don't go near the forest, buddy. They can get you at the edge. Don't go in the forest. They'll strip your fur off and then some."
I chuckled, a low, throaty sound. I'd spent countless hours in national parks and forests along the West Coast, and I knew the drill. Curious, I decided to spend more time in the forest. Who knows what was there, as a chilly haze of mist hung low over the lodgepole Pine. I went back home and went to sleep.
Now, I looked over my journal entries. How would I describe my incursion into Mars and the time machine, I wondered. I was still figuring out human life and existence. Reports were due back every two weeks. My journey had been funded in exchange for some spy reports. It was a chance of a lifetime. I secretly hoped to settle on Earth, or at least extend my mission, before returning to the Sagittarius constellation, where the WOW signal came from years before. I wanted to know them, not have them know us.
It was all in secret. I closed my journal, stared at the typewriter, and thought of my report. I outlined it on paper and put it aside. I would file it tonight, and send an email to my contacts in code. They were impossible to reach. I could not find a payphone and was banned from owning a cell phone. I wondered if I could get away with a disposable prepaid phone from one of those Best Buy kiosks at the train station. Who knew...I wondered.
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