Anxious Gretchen: Space Archaeologist
As much as I hated early mornings, my drive to work was my favorite part of my day. The traffic on the route from my spartan, university-provided lodgings to the Colony was nonexistent. Not to mention, the view was spectacular.
Glorious pinks and oranges cast by the rising sun painted the Newfoundland landscape in a lush, heavenly glow. The perfect serenity was broken only by the Atlantic's rhythmic waves, the gentle hum of my engine, the intermittent cry of seabirds. And Dylan's snores.
I elbowed him. "Dylan, wake up.”
He burrowed deeper into the passenger seat and pulled his unzipped jacket close like a blanket. He hated mornings even more than I did.
“Dyl! Dylan!” I hissed, elbowing him harder. “Dylan Okamoto! Wake up!”
He grabbed my arm before I could jab him again. “Quit it.”
Smirking, I shook out of his grip. “We’re almost to the dig site.”
"Then let me sleep until we get there," he whined.
"Rough night?" I glanced in my rearview mirror to double-check that the rest of my undergrads were following us to the dig-site. The two sedans were still there, and though I couldn't see inside them, I imagined their drivers were navigating in hungover silence.
"No, last night was great. The five-fifteen wake-up call? Not so much," Dylan replied, pushing himself upright. Two and a half months into our summer internship, and Dylan was still the only person here I felt comfortable being friendly with. I had been the TA for his Introduction to Archaeology course the previous autumn. When I had been assigned my team of undergrads at the beginning of June, I had felt dizzyingly relieved to see a face I recognized. Dylan was a hard worker, a fast learner, and, unlike me, excellent with people.
He stretched his arms forward, eyes shut against the strengthening morning light. "You should've hung out with us."
I shook my head. I knew the invitation to commiserate about our day with a few bottles of crappy wine had been nothing but a formality. Undergrads didn't actually want to socialize with their Ph.D. supervisor. No one really wanted to spend time with me in social settings, anyway. "No, I would've put a damper on things."
"No, you wouldn't have," Dylan said, his eyes now wide and earnest. He rubbed at his sunburned cheeks and gently returned my elbow nudge from before. "We wanted you there. We don't share our cheap booze with just anyone."
"That's the other thing," I said, turning right. "It's weird drinking with nineteen and twenty-year-olds."
That startled a delighted snort out of Dylan. "I always forget that your dad is American and that you grew up down there. This is Canada, Gretchen. The drinking age is lower here."
I eased the car into the parking lot. "I may be fifty percent Canadian, but drinking with people who aren't even twenty yet feels one hundred percent weird."
Dylan laughed tiredly as I pulled into my unofficial spot and cut the engine. "Well, we're probably going to do it again tonight. You should think about joining."
Two sedans pulled up alongside us. The wan, disgruntled faces of my young team frowned at me through the windows.
Logically, I knew they were unhappy due to the early hour, unseasonable cold spell, and their raging hangovers. That didn't stop the voice in the back of my mind from suggesting that it was really because none of them wanted to spend the day working with me.
"I'll think about it," I lied, opening my door and swinging my messenger bag over my shoulder. I shut my eyes and inhaled the sea air—once, twice, three times—attempting to settle my anxiety. It was my second summer as the Ph.D. candidate managing the undergrads at the dig-site at the former Colony of Avalon, and I was still struggling when it came to directing my charges
Social situations—especially those in which I was in an authoritative position—were the worst.
Nine sleepy, not-yet-twenty-year-olds emerged from their car, mouths puckered in unhappiness. A particularly strong gust cut inland and caught the sides of Dylan's jacket, dragging him backward. "Oh, fuck this, Gretchen. I'm going back to bed."
"Get moving before I fail you," I threatened half-heartedly. I double-checked my bag and pockets to make sure I had everything, my cell phone clattering against my pill bottle in my jacket as my fingers fumbled across them.
"You no longer hold that power over me," Dylan argued, tugging his knit hat over his ears. He lumbered towards the employee shed, beckoning his compatriots to follow. I turned the collar of my jacket up against the chill and followed their stomping, mud-caked boots across the crushed gravel lot, all of them murmuring about coffee beneath their breath.
Upon reaching the shed, Dylan yelled, "Yo, Borowicz, keys."
I hoisted my bag higher onto my shoulder and wound my way through the group. I slid the key into the shed door, gently nudging it open.
"Tossing the keys would've been a lot faster," Dylan pointed out with a small smile. He scratched his forehead, his beanie shifting to reveal a mess of dark, greasy hair. The undergrads' propensity for skipping showers was something I would never understand.
I secured the keys in my pocket and switched on the light. "The keys could've been dropped or stepped on or—"
"Blown into the ocean?" Dylan suggested, his brown eyes meeting mine in understanding. He was joking, but I nodded all the same. No matter how far-fetched, worst-case scenarios were always at the back of my mind. "We're at least two hundred meters from the shoreline. There's no way the wind is strong enough to carry a ring of keys all the way to the water."
I shrugged. The other students ambled into the shed, heading directly for the coffee pot.
"Alright, the storms have been pretty bad this week. We have to check for flooding on the seawall this morning before we start our regular duties," I announced to general despair. They all hated me, of that, I was ninety-nine percent sure.
Our job was to maintain the historical Colony of Avalon by preserving the buildings and outdoor sites. We also supervised teams of visitors at multiple active dig-sites while they played archaeologist for the afternoon.
"Once you get your coffee, grab your trowels and meet me at the wall in fifteen," I said. A wave of silent disdain met my order as stained mugs were distributed.
I cringed, wondering if they had heard me or were blatantly ignoring me. I knew they were most likely too tired to muster up the energy for a response before having their coffee, but I couldn't stop myself from fidgeting. Dylan patted my shoulder in solidarity. "Go ahead and scout it out. I'll grab your trowel and make sure the sheds are locked before we head down."
I nodded my appreciation and headed outside.
I relished the solitude as I tramped through the silent Colony, my boots squelching into the muddy walking paths that led past the gift shop towards the remains of the blacksmith's forge. Kittiwakes screeched across the pale sky, the ocean settling into a gentle churn as I reached the seawall.
I looked down at the aged, stacked stone wall, which stood wearily in its perfectly excavated rectangle. The past week of intense wind and rain had battered it brutally. The foremost trench in front of the wall was already underwater, and the second was threatening to reach total submersion within the next few days.
I cursed myself for underestimating the water level and not bringing my galoshes. This meant a hike back to the equipment shed unless I wanted to spend my day laboring with sodden feet. Either way, I would endure the judgemental glares of the undergrads.
I turned to summit the hill when I noticed a slash of vibrant, green light on the seawall that shouldn’t have been there. It formed a perfectly straight, vertical line, like a jumbo laser level, bisecting the wall into equal halves.
“What the hell?” I looked around, trying to find the light source, wondering if it was one of my students playing a prank.
Seeing nothing unusual, I braced myself for the inevitable grossness of soggy socks and made my way down into the sodden pit toward the strange light. I waved my hand in front of it, but it didn’t waver. Gingerly, I reached toward it.
The moment my hand made contact with the wall, the sliver of light expanded.
I retracted my hand immediately. Or tried to. My palm was inexplicably stuck to the grimy stone. The green light continued to expand, engulfing my hand as I tried to free it. I overbalanced, dropping on my ass into the shallows. My bag slid from my shoulder, sinking into the mud. Water seeped into my pants. “Shit.”
I got onto my knees. The light now encased my hand up to the wrist. I stood up but slipped on the silt. My free hand caught my fall before I broke my face on the edge of the seawall.
Both of my hands were now trapped.
"What the hell?" I whispered between forced, deep breaths. What the hell was I supposed to do? “I NEED HELP!" I yelled frantically as my hands grew numb.
By the time my elbows were consumed, I could hear my complaining undergrads cresting the hill. "Gretchen! Where are you? What's wrong?" Dylan shouted, the seawall blocking me from view.
"Dylan, I'm stuck, I can’t—"
I braced my feet as best I could and tugged hard. With my shifting weight, my boots lost all traction against the silt. I shrieked as I fell, a painful collision with the seawall imminent.
But then, the wall was gone, and I was no longer falling down but—impossibly—up. I screamed. Colors raced by me in an iridescent swirl. My chest contracted, and my vision blackened.
I dropped onto something solid, my head bouncing off a painfully solid surface. I cursed, cradling my skull as I curled into myself. I shut my eyes against the suddenly too bright light. I tried to settle my breathing by inhaling deeply, holding my breath for a few seconds, then releasing it.
There was a rustle of fabric from across the room. I shot to my feet.
The monochromatic gray walls were illuminated by searing amber-blue light. It was devoid of anything but an amber platform with a spindly metal arch upon which I now stood. I spied one expansive, oval window on the opposite side of the room, beyond which was only opaque blackness. Maybe a darkened hallway?
But most importantly, I was not alone.
"Holy fuck," I gasped.
The being before me was tall, exceptionally so. It had long hair that faded from brilliant, luminescent silver at the roots to pristine white ends. Two large, navy eyes looked back at me over a hawkish nose. Two small ears and one mouth with a concerned tilt to it. It—she, possibly—appeared human except for her purple skin and odd hair.
Whoever, whatever she was, she blocked my only way out of the room.
"Who are you? What's—what's going on? Where am I?" I asked, my voice trembling along with my body. Maybe there was an old tunnel hidden beneath the seawall, and I had fallen underground? But that didn't explain why the underground of a 17th-century colony would be so modern. Was I somehow inside someone's tricked-out doomsday bunker?
The purple woman held her hands out to the side, palms facing me. She said something indiscernible in a language that sounded like gibberish. The words were soft at the edges, sharp as pickaxes at the center.
"Where are we?" I tried again. "What's happening? Are you—are you kidnapping me or something?"
I took her silence as confirmation.
I needed to get out of there immediately. I rushed towards her, my aching body protesting every movement. My water-logged boots slipped against the smooth floor.
The being steadied me and had the audacity to look hurt when I recoiled from her. I blinked hard at the hand before me—at its six fingers—trying to grab my forearm.
"Don't touch me!"
I twisted away and crashed into the marble-smooth wall. I needed to get out of there, I couldn't stay, this creature, this thing, might kill me. Something pressed gently between my shoulder blades. "No, no, no," I shrieked. I lashed out with a numb fist and lunged for freedom.
She shouted, reaching for me again.
"I don't— I don't—" As my lungs constricted, speaking became nearly impossible. The floating, detached sensation of lightheadedness washed over me. The room pitched violently, and my knees buckled. The being caught me a foot from the floor, one arm around my waist, the other protectively cradling my head. She shifted me into her arms, a mockery of a bridal carry. I rolled my head toward the window as we passed it. If I could figure out where I had been taken, maybe I could figure out how to escape.
Through the cloud of sweaty strawberry-blonde hair that had come loose from my ponytail, I saw a vast expanse of velvet black cradling a large yellow planet with rings in the distance.
Saturn. That was Saturn.
The undergrads have finally driven me crazy, was my last, inane thought before my mind went mercifully blank.