Fallen Between the Quarks II

As the week went past, the thoughts that were seeded began blossoming, though just barely, in each of the minds of Three’s three. Olivia was much focused on preparing for the concert that was to occur later in the month; they were playing quite the complicated piece, and she was determined to have it perfected by the end of the week, to have it perfected thrice over by the next. So Olivia put to the side the thought of Pan’s Door, as she found herself calling the work she had started writing but not writing, and pushed through the piece the conductor sought to have performed. Olivia liked the conductor; she was a nice lady, Mrs Silverbell, kind and caring, passionate about her job and those of her fellow members of the orchestra.

Candice Silverbell was twenty-six when she became the conductor of the orchestra, the daughter of a prominent pianist, the sister of an eloquent politician, the then-fiancé of a mailman. Olivia had met the last, a man she felt was quite worthy of the majestic conductor. His name had been Ryan Tellivan before he’d gotten married to Candice Silverbell and changed his last name to hers, stating that “such a name as Silverbell fits more the beauty of Candice than Tellivan could ever hope to.” And so, the Tellivan line was ended.

Olivia was walking down the road that led to the library when the second message – her received shard of it – appeared in her mind, causing her to stop and look suddenly at the sky. She saw a bird fluttering by and realized that it did, indeed, need a place inPan’s Door, as did all other animals, for Pan was the rustic god, the god of pastures and fauna. Perhaps, reader, you wonder what the relevance of such a scientific message as those the scientists of One were sending to birds could be. Allow me to explain such a relevance to you, then; see that the scientists of One believed they were sending the rays into void space, into nothingness, and that they could rant to the null without consequence. Having received no responses, despite their hopes, each scientist felt the urge to rant about their lives, their needs and wants, and so they did, not realizing that their ramblings would affect the lives of three in a different universe. In effect, the scientists believed they were playing music to a deaf crowd, when in fact they had made the mistake of assuming the crowd would understand that it was music at all. The most recent message sent was as so, with minor edits performed by me:

Greetings!

If you are receiving this message, we of [the galactic address] would like to inform you that we mean you no harm whatsoever, that we wish peaceful communications. As we believe that one should only perform deeds for the benefit of all denizens of the world, and in an attempt to familiarize you, receiver of this message, with the customs and ideologies of our habitat, we have attached messages concerning the thoughts and mind—sets of those with whom you would first communicate with should you deem us worthy of acknowledging. END

I, one of the scientists of Pan’s Door, am twenty-six years old, a year being the time it takes to revolve around our star. I guess you could say I’ve been around the sun — what we call our star — twenty-six times, then, an interesting revelation. Today is [the date], and the weather is pretty nice, I suppose. It is cool, a breeze carries the heat away, but leaves just enough to maintain comfort. I rather like it. The birds outside — another species of creature we have here, one that flies, unlike us — are singing their beautiful songs. I oft have want of a kind of bird-watching chamber. My parents had one in our house for a while, filled with birds of all kinds, of varying songs and colours. I miss that house, the birds within it, and my parents. I really think Pan’s Door should have one in our facility; it would be nice, to hear such splendid songs throughout the year. Until next time, I suppose. END

I, another scientist of Pan’s Door, am twenty-one years old, and a sound technician. I guess that makes me sound like less of a scientist, but I’ve never really cared for titles. Too many people hold too much attachment to such things. I feel moderately bad about not going into such detail as that which I’m expected in explaining things, but that’s how I am, and I was told to be as “me” as possible. So I am. I’m actually really curious as to what you might look like, not so that I can judge you as so many others would, but so that I can have a limit of possibilities; right now there are too many, circling round about in my head. I can still focus, but it’s just… not quite discomforting, but not quite comforting, either. I hope you reply or something… that would be pretty cool. END

I am another scientist of Pan’s Door, senior in age and position, twenty-nine years old. I wish more of my fellow scientists would remember that, my position, my seniority. Oft times they merely brush past me, treat me with an astonishing lack of respect as that which I so obviously deserve. I got where I am by hard work, not by a recruitment ad, not by some prearranged appointment, but by working. It seems the youth of today is simply not what it used to be, a respectful group of individuals. I am ashamed to work with them at times, admittedly. They can be rash, unreliable, irresponsible. However, I am glad to have worked with them, for without them I could not have begun what has led to what I am doing now, sending a message into the voids of space, hoping for an answer, trying to understand where and why and how the ray we have fired has gotten where it ends up. Perhaps someday we shall know. END

— Pan’s Door, Research and Development Division

And so Olivia noticed the birds.

George, on the other hand, wallowing in his self-hatred and self-pity — a fatal combination, surely — found relief in the realization of what he could do to pay the universe back for causing him such grief. He could cause the world grief in reply, an eye for an eye. The world had gotten rash, cruel, irresponsible; George would do to it what it did to him, a way of reform; in realization of its callousness, the world would grant George thanks and become better in the process. George’s thoughts raced, as did his pulse; he thought of his wife, Annie, and his children, Tommy, Jezebel, and Lucy. George opened the communications book that nearly everyone in the city had, a book filled with names and numbers so that one could connect with another instantly. With half a thought, George noted the time would be three that following morning, and Annabel Lewis the lesson.

And August, our dear little August, the youngest of the bunch, was thinking about choosing a career, about exploring the world as he wished, and the way to go about it. He, as many would and had said, was on the cusp of finding his niche in the world, of discerning what he wanted to do and how to go about it. There were so many possibilities, he would discover, so many choices that he could eliminate or heed should the need arise. He sat in the safety of his rowan tree — everyone called it his rowan tree, those who knew him and the relationship he had with that tree. He had nourished it ever since he could knock over a cup of water; his mother’s great-aunt had planted that tree, had brought the sapling from a place it would have died in and planted it in the heart of the park within the city that grew around it. It was he who checked on the tree after storms, not the park committee. August’s name suited him well; the park committee leader had been quoted as saying “That young man is as noble as he is foolish. I hope all of us can be like him someday.” August’s way of living defied sense in many people’s eyes; he was a college student who worked nights and roamed during the day, when not in class… how could he, a person with so little money, be so happy, and give so much? People oft knew his face more than his name, heard rumours of him from the children and elders, heard kindnesses attached to his name that made him seem like a charity.

August sat in his rowan tree, meditating, eyes closed, left forearm leaning across his forehead, right arm across his stomach, knees dangling across another branch, a jacket loosely supporting the back of his head. He was daydreaming, a favourite pastime of his, exploring the mental extrapolations of his remarkable brain. His eyes matched that grey that the sea gets before a storm prepares to strike; they were loosely engaged in following a falling and fluttering bird, a crow. His hair was a much darker red than that of Olivia’s — whom he knew, more in terms of status than in person — but not quite brown. The breeze blew through the branches and kept August comfortable and cool; he thanked the tree for taking such grand care of him. Somehow or another, August’s mind came upon the thought of finding someone to settle down with or explore the world alongside; he wasn’t yet sure which he preferred. He cared not for how they looked — not really, for beauty is to be found in everything, regardless of form — but for how they were, how they thought. He wanted someone who could be themselves and allow everyone else to be themselves as well, someone who loved everyone as unconditionally as he did. A smirk appeared on August’s face; he didn’t believe it would be easy, to find such a person. He didn’t care.

“If things are easy, then we become complacent in our existences,” he murmured to himself and the tree. “And then there’s no point in existing, no?”

A chuckle bubbled up from within August’s throat and escaped into the world. The crow dived down and past a girl who was awaiting the cars to finish passing so that she wouldn’t be late for her appointment with one of her friends. Olivia squeaked a bit at the passing crow, but otherwise remained composed. A gentle smile appeared on her face as she imagined what it had looked like when the crow darted past. Olivia hadn’t noticed, but the couple behind her had smirked as well, revelling in the facial contortion that had occurred. Olivia stepped across the crosswalk and into the park, where her friend awaited with lunch, sandwiches, chilled tea, and lemon cake. The fourth viola, Janie Tomlinson, seventeen years old and already a decorated member of the orchestra, despite her position, was like a younger sister to Olivia — anyone who observed them would assume such; the fact they looked the misconception did not in any way aid in dispersing it.

“Hello, Olivia!” greeted Janie in her bubbly voice. “That crow was something else, wasn’t it?”

Olivia chortled, replying in her voice that reminded one of the lower measures of a flute, “Ah, it just wished to share in the excitement of our picnic, is all. How are you, Janie?”

“I’m quite alright. I hope you don’t mind the sandwiches… turkey and cheese. I forget if it’s you who doesn’t like turkey or Alice.” Alice was Janie’s section leader, first viola.

“It’s Alice; I love the stuff. What kind of cheese is this again?”

“Sharp cheddar, if that’s alright?” Olivia smiled, nodding vigorously as she took a bite of her sandwich. Sharp cheddar and turkey sandwiches reminded Ms Carver of Mrs Carver — that is, of her mother. Olivia’s mother used to make these sandwiches before Olivia and her twin brother went off to school. Olivia briefly wondered how her brother — Charles, often referred to as Charlie or Char — was doing. It had been three weeks since they last spoke; Char was an archaeologist and had been working on a dig a few countries over to that within which Olivia called home.

“That’s quite alright, Janie. It’s quite delicious! Thanks for lunch.”

“Well thanks for being so sweet to me, even though I’m just a kid.” Janie had always been treated as if she wasn’t worth much due to her age. Olivia had helped change that, explaining to the others that Janie had been accepted by the orchestra’s board, which included some of the top music critics in the world, and that they — those maltreating Janie — were participating in behaviours much more childish than Janie. Ever since, Olivia and Janie had been pals, and Janie was treated significantly better.

“You’re not just a kid, y’know. You’re a person, and as such you deserve to be treated.”

Above the two, a young man nodded his agreement with such a statement.