Chapter 11: Side Effects

It was a Sunday brunch unlike any Neal had ever experienced. He and Peter were treated like royalty while their loyal subjects catered to their every wish. June and Sara had managed to scrounge a banquet. He suspected Sara had liberally tossed around El's name to grease the wheels.

Scrambled eggs, ham, sausage, biscuits, pancakes, fruit, orange juice, coffee—he'd never complain about hospital fare again. While they ate, Peter recounted their experiences on Merope. His own recollections had a dreamlike quality. If Peter hadn't encountered the shilkas too, he would have thought he'd invented them. As for his ability to communicate telepathically, Peter said Phineas could do the same thing with both shilkas and chittaks. Did that mean Neal was at least part Meropian too?

He spoke briefly on the phone with Lavinia. Phineas was still off-world—where she wouldn't say. She insisted on postponing any meetings until Phineas returned.

El was the most intrigued by how the shilkas and Phineas had been able to block his pain. "I hope I can persuade Phineas to give me samples. There's no drug I know of that would deaden your symptoms so effectively while allowing you to be alert."

"Oh, I wouldn't say he was alert," Peter countered. "He was . . . well, loopy is the only way to describe it."

"Neal?" A grin spread over Sara's face. "I would have loved to have heard him."

"You wouldn't believe what a chatterbox he is when he's drugged," Peter said, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "We couldn't get him to shut up."

If Peter didn't have a tray of food in front of him, Neal would have flung a pillow at him. "I thought my comments were all highly relevant and informative."

"So you do remember!" he said with a laugh. "Do you happen to recall a certain musical interlude?" He turned to the others. "There we were, trying to sneak out before the ghasts caught wind of us when Neal insisted on serenading us with a Beatles' song."

June smiled. "Neal's always so thoughtful." She turned to him. "Which one did you grace them with?"

"It was 'Blackbird,' a logical choice I thought. It was dark. We were trying to escape. I was singing it very softly as I recall."

"Only because I held my hand over your mouth," Peter reminded him.

He knew what Peter was doing and he welcomed it. Joking about the ordeal made it seem less terrifying to the others. But not to him. Memories of Sornoth and that endless night with the ghasts continued to haunt the fringes of his mind. All he had to do was close his eyes and he was back with them. He hadn't described the details to Peter. He hoped he'd never have to.

Sara seemed to respond well to their banter, at least some of the time. One moment she'd profess her dismay at not having gone with them, sounding every bit as frustrated as Mozzie. The next she'd revert to looking at Neal with big eyes like he was about to turn into a shilka in front of her. She'd follow it up with mock threats of the grilling they'd receive from her. He couldn't keep up with her mood swings. He was forced to conclude that their experiences had made a hash of the world she thought she knew.

He could relate. He was as muddled as her lyrics. Confusion about who he was. Curiosity about how he and Peter were healed. Surprise over unexpected emotions. But mainly anger. Thaddeus had died because of Sornoth. He nearly had as well.

Everyone wanted to know about the monstrous leopard, but he passed out shortly after Sornoth mauled him. The next thing he remembered was being awakened by Peter and Phineas. Hours had passed between the two events. How long had the leopard stayed in the cell with him?

"Phineas believes it was Sornoth who abducted us," Peter said. "He could have been acting under orders from the high priest at Leng or Azathoth himself."

"A leopard able to create a wormhole?" El shook her head. "For even a saber-toothed one, I find that difficult to believe." She turned to Neal. "Did you sense a personality?"

"Or telepathic messages? No. I remember him stalking me . . . and the attack." Neal let a shrug convey the rest. "Then everything went black."

"Why did he stop?" Mozzie asked.

June stared at him, horrified. "Be grateful he did!"

"Of course I am, but if what Phineas told Peter is correct, the leopard must have had a purpose. Neal, did the shilkas tell you anything about the attack?"

"They fled just before he arrived, and I was unconscious when they returned. Sornoth may have planned to come back to finish me off."

"Or transport you back to Leng," Peter suggested. "In your weakened state, you would have been easy to control. We know nothing about how wormholes are created. Perhaps it takes a while for one to form. Sornoth may have initiated it but by the time it materialized, you'd exited stage right."

El stood up. "And that's what we should all do. Neal and Peter need to rest." When Peter started to protest, she held up a warning hand. "Don't even try. There will be plenty of time to catch up later."

Neal sympathized with him, but he didn't protest. He'd caught June yawning and Sara must be running on fumes. As soon as they left, he planned to question Peter about all the details he might have omitted from his account to the others.

But mainly he wanted to thank him. He didn't remember everything that happened in that fortress, but he knew with absolute certainty he wouldn't be back on Earth if Peter hadn't been there.

#

Midafternoon El allowed him to return home. When he stepped inside June's house, he was greeted by the pungent aroma of shrimp étouffée. She was in the kitchen stuffing mushrooms for dinner. Mozzie and Sara would join them. When he offered to help, she insisted he rest instead.

He wasn't tired but jogged upstairs anyway. Physically he felt fine, but emotionally? Something was going on, and he only had an hour or so before the guests would arrive to figure it out.

He flopped on the bed and gazed up at his skylight. The sky was overcast and murky—just like his thoughts. The only thing he knew for sure was that he didn't feel like he had only two days ago.

The problem wasn't Merope. Or that he could communicate telepathically. He'd grown to accept the possibility he might have an alien lurking somewhere in his family tree. There was no point in trying to puzzle out why or how. He'd have to wait for Lavinia and Phineas for that. His communications problem wasn't with extraterrestrials.

Nor could he blame it on Sornoth, except perhaps indirectly. His brain was likely suffering from terror overload and this was the way it had chosen to cope.

It was, when you think about it, absurd. He'd just returned from another planet. A hostile alien race was intent on conquering Earth. And all he could think about was Sara.

Her behavior at the hospital continued to baffle him. Even more perplexing was why he was so fixated on it.

When she entered the hospital room, it was like he saw her with fresh eyes. She was no longer simply a friend, but someone he hoped could be much more. Had she realized how turned on he was? When she smiled at him, he went mushy inside. Well, not totally mushy.

Was that it? Was he the cause of her discomfort? He groaned aloud. He felt he'd done an adequate job of masking his feelings, but maybe not. Hopefully she attributed it to him having been unconscious.

And that could be the case. His infatuation could be a temporary phenomenon—a delayed reaction from the stress of being on Merope. He remembered how his senior year he and Kate had gotten so stressed over their upcoming exams that they decided to combat it by making love. He'd never had such amazing sex. Afterward, they'd always looked forward to exams.

Delayed shock from the information overload on Merope could be having a field day with his hormones. That was probably why Sara had been transformed into someone so desirable. Not that she wasn't attractive. Just the opposite. With that flaming hair, soft green eyes, and a figure that would make a stone respond, she could have anyone she wanted. But he'd never thought about her romantically. She'd always been Kate's friend.

No longer.

Maybe it was the euphoria of being back on Earth. When he awoke, Sara was there. He'd nearly died. It was only natural that he'd experience something when he saw a beautiful woman gaze upon him. Clearly he must have a lot of pent-up hormones from being a monk for so long. Now they were all demanding attention.

He stood up to pace. The clock was ticking. Sara would soon arrive.

His dream about Kate apparently had acted as a closure of sorts. Her flying off as a bird was brought about by June singing "Bridge over Troubled Water." So far so good. All eminently logical.

His experiences on Merope were cathartic. He knew he'd always love Kate but now he accepted she was a part of his past. Ever since her death, his feelings had been encased in ice. Now he was thawing out. Again, quite natural. Peter had been reminding him for weeks it was time to let go.

But the exhilaration he felt at the hospital was much more than a gentle thaw. He paused to gaze out the window. The sun was sinking below the spire of St. Jude's church. He needed to pull himself together, burying any trace before embarrassing Sara as well as himself.

If he gave in, he saw how it'd play out in his mind's eye. Unable to suppress his ardor, he'd ask her to go on a real date. She'd tease him at first. Once she realized he was serious, she'd be tactful in pointing out what a bad idea it was. She'd be upset their fake dating had given him ideas. Then there would be all the awkwardness of rejection. She probably wouldn't feel like they could work together anymore.

Or, suppose she went along. Then, when his passion dissipated, he'd hurt her even more. It wasn't fair to put her through that, not after all the kindness and help she'd provided him. Cold showers—that's what he needed. Lots of cold showers.

This could be an effect of space travel. He'd studied decompression sickness when he took scuba diving at Miskatonic. Traveling through a wormhole could conceivably produce a similar effect. This time the trip seemed to last much longer than any of his other experiences. That could explain why he hadn't displayed the symptoms before.

Decompression syndrome was called the bends. What he was experiencing could be space bends. Although the term wasn't really appropriate. Space wood, perhaps? He snorted, glad no one was around to hear it. He didn't remember that being a symptom of decompression illness, but interplanetary travel could provoke some unusual reactions.

If he could just keep a lid on his hormones, they'd gradually settle down. He wouldn't inflict himself upon Sara.

It made him wonder if Peter was experiencing the same reaction. Was that why he declined June's invitation to join them that evening? Peter had said he wanted to relax with El tonight. If Peter felt like him, he wouldn't be resting much.

#

Sara paused at the door to June's house. She could hear the muffled sounds of singing inside. When June had invited her over for dinner, she was concerned that it was too soon. Neal had only been released from the hospital a few hours ago. Wouldn't he need to rest?

Apparently not.

She retreated a few steps to peer through the living room window. Neal was playing the guitar. And the song? What else. "Bridge Over Troubled Water" or Troubled Warblers. Neal's dream of her muddling lyrics was a positive sign . . . and a reality check. Anyone who was interested in her romantically wouldn't dream about her muddling lyrics.

She'd deliberately mangled the lyrics of "Woodstock," singing about starlings instead of stardust, as a tease. At the time she didn't know how meaningful those lyrics were to him. He was a starman. Both he and Peter were starmen. Why couldn't she be a starwoman and visit other worlds? If she had her way, she would be.

Her momentary infatuation was just that—a weird effect caused by stress over his abduction. They'd laugh about it someday. It would soon be over. But until then . . . she braced herself. She'd need to be vigilant to prevent any relapse. She didn't want to risk spooking a skittish starman.

When she rang the doorbell, both greeted her at the door.

"Mozzie's not here yet," June explained as they walked into the living room.

"I heard you singing. Please don't let me stop you."

"You sure you don't want to join us?" Neal asked cheekily. "You were doing a great job in the hospital."

She made a face at him. "I wouldn't be that cruel to my hostess." As they took their seats in the living room, she added, "I wish I could sing, though."

"I bet you could learn," June said confidently. "Neal didn't sing when I first met him."

He picked up the guitar and began strumming it. "Byron taught me how to play and they both encouraged me to sing. When I came to their house after school, more often than not June would be in the kitchen singing."

"I should take cooking lessons from you," she said. "As Neal's probably told you, I'm a disaster in the kitchen."

June smiled tolerantly. "That could be arranged, but only if you sing."

She had no desire to learn how to cook, but as a way to see Neal more often, the offer had potential. This could be the antidote to the temporary insanity she found herself in. She'd also be able to monitor more closely when he took off on another adventure so she could hitch a ride. "All right. If you're willing, so am I. What song should I start out on?"

June thought a moment. "Since you're into birds—"

"Not really."

"Of course, you are," June said comfortably. "You've already sung about warblers and starlings. There are many wonderful songs. The Beatles' song 'Blackbird' is one of my favorites." Her expression softened. "Byron loved that song. It came out shortly before he passed away. Neal sang it at his funeral." She turned to him. "You should perform it for us."

As he sang the song, her heart raced. Paul McCartney couldn't have sung it better. This was bad. She needed to focus on something else before she made an idiot of herself. She pictured herself trying to fry an egg. The egg would stick to the skillet. Her efforts to remove it would be futile so she'd pour more oil into the skillet. The oil would catch on fire. The egg would explode into flames and become a lethal missile. First the kitchen, then the entire house would turn into an inferno. Neal would guide June outside to safety then he'd return to save her. Meanwhile, she would have escaped out the window. He would think she was in the kitchen and collapse in the kitchen from smoke inhalation.

June was now singing along with him, but she was in the burning house trying to rescue him. She'd cover her hair with a damp towel and race back inside. Crawling through the smoke on her hands and knees, she'd find him passed out on the floor. Drawing on her inner superwoman reserves, she'd drag him to safety. Once they were outside on the lawn, she'd administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Prolonged mouth-to-mouth resuscitation . . . Now she was as hot as him.

"You should join us for the next refrain," Neal insisted, breaking into her thoughts

This wasn't right. He was supposed to be unconscious from smoke inhalation. She shook herself and attempted to sing. It wasn't her fault that she sang about the blackbird frying rather than flying. They thought she was joking. If they only knew.

"That's all well and good, but you need your own song," Neal said. "I called you a mockingbird because you're such a good actress and so persistent. We should make 'Mockingbird' your song."

"The way James Taylor and Carly Simon sing it? With you singing along?" Her mind raced ahead. She could punt the cooking challenge and avoid setting the house on fire.

He nodded. "You up for it?"

"You're on. Let's make this a double-dare. It's up to you and June to teach me to sing it well enough so that by New Year's we can perform it at the coffeehouse without you being embarrassed."

He broke into a laugh. "By New Year's? That's only six weeks away. I admire your confidence and accept your challenge."

By the end of the year, he would be back in the friend zone. She would have discovered all his annoying habits . . . if he had any. He'd never know about the fantasies she was imagining, like, for instance—She snapped the lid on those wayward thoughts and sighed. Was she doomed to think of burning houses for the next six weeks?