Wicker

They’d been tracking the location of Zokay for over two years now. Sure enough, as they suspected, it moved to and from Earth. But some weeks it was like a slingshot: it would be bright as Venus, and then the next week it was barely visible. And other times it was way more gradual, moving at a slug’s pace. Some times it changed direction; it would appear to be on its way away from earth and all of a sudden would inch closer, before turning back around again. It always went in what appeared to be a straight line coming towards them; never moving side to side, but staggering back and forth. They had notebooks full of measurements and observation, but they hadn’t made a dent in solving the mystery. But that night in 1868, they got all of the explanation they needed.

It was a normal Saturday night for them. Irene was peering through the 9.6 inch lens while Sandy was at the wooden helm waiting for her commands, when all of a sudden the candles dimmed. All of them, and there must have been at least 30, simultaneously flickered and then regained their glow. Sandy shook his head quickly, sure he must be having some sort of episode. He hadn’t had all that much to eat that day, he supposed…

But then it happened again. And again. And again. In quick succession.

“Irene!” he exclaimed. “You must look at this.”

Irene stepped away from the telescope and looked around the dome. It was absolutely alarming. Each candle would simultaneously darken, reducing its flame to a low simmer, and spark again. They were paralyzed with a mixture of intrigue and fear.

“Wait a minute,” Sandy said after some time. He held a finger up as if to quiet Irene so he could listen to the tiny flames.

“What is it?” Irene inquired after several minutes.

“Yes. I’m sure of it.” Sandy nodded, and then rushed over to his briefcase sitting just beside the trap door. He began rifling through it, and came out with a notebook of his. “It’s Morse Code.”

He opened the old notebook to a page with a series of dots and lines. “Everyone serving the state had to learn Morse Code when it was first invented here in the 1840s…It’s an optical telegraph. I think…I think someone is sending us a message.”

Irene gasped. She had always felt that Zokay had a sentient nature, but assumed it was her attachment to it that clouded her rationality. But could it be? Could the planet really be trying to communicate with her, its most dedicated worshiper? She brought over a pen and paper to where Sandy was huddled over the chart in his notebook. They held their breath as Sandy moved his gaze from the speaking candles, to his legend, to his hand moving across the page. After a few minutes the candles stopped dancing. For a moment, the gravity was sucked from the room, and Irene and Sandy felt themselves grow heavy. It was as though they were crumbs on the floor and they could be sucked up by a vacuum at any moment. When the sensation dissipated, Sandy looked down at his notebook. A clear message had been revealed.

As your planet takes, our color is bled dry.

Irene could not believe what she had just read. All this time, Zokay was trying to get close enough to speak to anyone who would listen. She had no idea what the message was talking about, but knew that it was a grave warning.

***

They resolved to write out a formal study outlining their findings. They did not quite understand what Zokay was warning against, but they knew that if the message was sent to the public, surely it would make sense in time. In their paper, they documented the planet’s weekly orbital location, their hypothesis that Zokay was attempting to move closer, against the forces of the universe, in order to communicate with Earth. Sandy and Irene knew that their document sounded absolutely insane. But their laboratory was the most esteemed in the U.S., and Sandy was a high ranking Lieutenant in the U.S. navy. With these accreditations attached to the paper, surely it would get a least some recognition.

The report was one hundred and sixteen pages long, including graphs, maps and drawings from over the years on almost every page. They completed writing it in the spring of 1869, and planned to print several copies of the full report, and sixty smaller booklets with the information condensed, for the layperson. They were determined to spread Zokay’s warning at all costs.

***

Foggy Bottom got its name because of its location along the Potomac River, the river at the bottom of the hill that the observatory sat on. Though at the time it was still considered a prime location for the observatory, mists and fogs from the swampy area below often impeded views of the sky. In 1877, just following the discovery of Mars’s moons by Asaph Hall, the Naval Observatory was moved from its location atop the highest hill on Foggy Bottom. Cloudy views were not the only reason that this petition to move the observatory came about, though. Each year, a mysterious disease would sweep across the observatory’s staff and students from May to October. More than half of the Observatory’s attendees would sicken and many would die. Later, it would be discovered that the illness was malaria, caused by the Potomac mosquito, but in 1869, after Sandy and Irene’s studies were complete, the cause of the ailments suffered by those in Foggy Bottom were still unknown.

Just weeks before they were set to print, Sandy grew ill with the unnamed disease. It took him swiftly and painfully. Irene cared for him. He came home from work one day with what seemed like a flu, and by the next day he was bedridden for one week until he took his last breath. She held cool compresses to his head when he grew hot with fever, made him soup and tea that he could not keep down, and held him while he shivered and moaned. After three days of this, they both realized that he was going to die.

“Irene,” he said breathlessly, “We must rush to publish.” In tears, she nodded. They both knew that with him dead, their already unbelievable research would not have a chance of being trusted. She was but a woman, and a woman publishing such information on her own would be considered hysterical. Without Sandy alive to persuade the public, no one would bother to read about Zokay’s warning.

So with Sandy sick in bed, Irene got to work. She visited every printshop in the metropolitan area. She was turned down eight times. Three shops were too busy. Three others were too small to do such a hefty job in such a rushed manner. And two simply denied her request because they could not fathom a woman having the money or the need to make such a request on her own. After the eighth rejection, she sat down on a park bench, defeated. Her feet ached and she was exhausted from staying up all night with her deteriorating spouse. The sunset was imminent, and Irene had to return to Sandy, who by now was too weak to fix himself supper. But there was one more shop, slightly on the outskirts of town. After some rest, pure determination pulled her body four miles more.

The print shop was in a small stone edifice that sat at the corner of a dirty residential street. It was on the second story, and below it was a butcher, which was closed for the day. Irene’s stomach churned at the sour smell wafting into the corridor where she trudged up a skinny staircase. A small bell jingled meagerly when she pushed the door of the print shop open.

“Hello?” Irene called out. Unlike the other shops she’d attended, which were bustling and loud the minute she entered, there appeared to be nobody there.

“Give me a minute!” She heard what sounded like a female voice pipe up from a small office in the back.

Irene busied herself by reading a news article that was framed up on the wall. It pictured a man and a woman with their arms over each others shoulders, proudly standing behind their printing press. The headline read “HUSBAND AND WIFE OPEN COMMERCIAL PRINT SHOP IN COWTOWN.” The article went on to elaborate on the achievements of the husband and wife on starting a business in a rougher neighborhood, known for its livestock and slaughterhouses. As she was learning about the husband, formerly a cattleman, a pregnant woman hobbled out to greet her. Irene guessed that the woman was about her own age.

“Sorry about that, I was in a bit of a frenzy when you walked in,” she held up her hands, which were covered in ink. She wiped them off on a towel that was sitting on the counter. “What can I do you for?”

“Not a worry,” Irene returned the woman’s soft smile, and reached into her bag. “How quickly could you print one copy of this?” Irene pushed the full manuscript across the counter, “and sixty copies of this?” She slid the shorter form booklet beside it.

The woman picked up the booklet and flipped through it. She read it in its entirety, which took about ten minutes. Irene waited patiently, prepared for another rejection. The woman looked up at Irene from the last page. Irene was shocked to see no judgement in the woman’s eyes, but a delicate curiosity.

“Why the rush?” She closed the booklet and put it on the counter, leaning her elbow down beside it. She held eye contact with Irene.

Irene took a deep breath. “My husband is going to die.” She held the breath. The length and disappointments of the day began to catch up with her. She felt her eyes well up with tears, and let out a sharp exhale. Something about the pregnant woman’s tired gaze made Irene feel she could trust her. “He is going to die and our work will all be for naught. No one will believe me after he’s gone.” She began to really cry. She held her head in her hands, “I apologize, it’s been a hard week,” she sniffled.

She felt arms wrap around her neck. The woman had come around the countertop to give her a hug. “I lost my husband just last month.” She whispered, and she too began to cry. The two strangers held each other for minutes. When their tears slowed, they pulled away, and Irene started to laugh. She realized they did not know anything about each other.

“I’m Irene,” she let out a mix between a sob and a chuckle.

The woman giggled in exchange, wiping her eyes. “Bertha.” She snuffed, straightened her posture and shook her head quickly, as if shaking away the sadness. “He left me the business,” she gestured to the scattered desks and papers floating around her, “so I must carry it in his name…and for our son.” She lay her hands on her belly. “And I take it you have a similar situation?”

“Something like that.” Irene nodded. She wasn’t in the mood to go into depth. It was for Sandy, it was for Zokay, it was for her father, it was for the woman standing before her, and that woman’s son, and everyone else who would come into this Earth.

“Come by day after tomorrow eve.” Bertha put both of her hands on Irene’s shoulders and squeezed. “I will have these ready for you.”

“Thank you,” Irene exhaled, and crossed her right hand to her left shoulder, laying it on top of Bertha’s. “I am eternally grateful.”

***

Irene walked up Cowtown to Boundary Street, and the landscape returned to manicured parks and sidewalks free of live-stock. By the time she reached home, the night was black, and though it wasn’t visible by the naked eye, Irene knew Zokay was glowing above her, waiting to see what she would do with its message.

She opened the front door quietly, so as not to disturb Sandy’s rest. She tip toed into the bedroom, where he was sleeping with labored breath, and undressed silently, slipping into her nightgown. When she lay beside him, she felt him stir.

“Reenie,” he choked out.

“Sandy,” she rest her palm on his cheek, “I’m here darling. I’m here.”

“Reenie,” he wheezed again, and swallowed painfully, “I’m going to die before we publish.” She nodded slowly. This much was obvious. “I’m going to die. And you have to get the word out Irene. Whatever it takes.” He dragged his hand up to squeeze hers on his cheek.

Tears streamed down her face. “There are colorful planets out there,” She quoted her father, “and nobody can see them.”

“Nobody but you.” Sandy whispered.