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- Seen Jun 30, 2018
THUNDER HEARTS
Rated:
PG-13 for peril and some thematic elements.
The hook:
A young girl's plans to become a trainer were sidetracked by misfortune and she had to learn to live in a world of pokémon without one of her own, in a time of great change without guidance, with only her wits and her heart to keep her out of the darkness. The region has quieted since then, but the past is coming alive and it is nothing like she remembered.
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Part 01:
Thunder in Her Heart
Thunder in Her Heart
Hazel had started her career as a pokémon trainer somewhat late in life, on a day not unlike today, thanks to a sudden and untimely death.
The cemetery did not formally allow pokémon on its grounds. Animals, a group of which pokémon were certainly constituent members, could not be expected to maintain the somber countenance necessary for a respectful ceremony. They tended to irritate older, wealthier family members who, if they were pleased with what they saw, might soon be inclined to avail themselves of the director's services. Unofficially, it allowed certain families, for a small gratuity - a donation, really - to keep their most beloved pokémon nearby to help them through the difficult ordeal.
This rule, however, did not stop the shadow from following Hazel. Perched high among the dark oak trees it watched the skies, motionless as the leaves and branches in the midday calm.
The day had begun hot. Yesterday's storm had vanished overnight and not a cloud remained in the sky. Hazel sat alone in the back row of hundreds of chairs on a flat patch of grassy earth as dozens of people in black clothing shuffled uncomfortably past. Each of them carried a simple paper fan, white, with a slight curve along the edge like a butterfly's wing.
"Thank you for coming," said a young man, probably one of the director's assistants, greeting people under an awning. He spoke quietly to the assembled dignitaries and families, but even he could not escape the heat. Beads of shining sweat dripped down his glistening forehead. He handed the white fans to the guests who moved stiffly to their seats. Hazel tried to slide lower into her chair, but without the cover of shade she felt the full force of their quick, averted glances whipping at her like so many heavy and unyielding memories. It told her all she needed to know. They, like everyone else, were not the people she was waiting for.
Everyone seemed dressed for discomfort, an effort she had also made in the hope of remaining unnoticed. She had found a long-sleeved charcoal grey dress in her aunt's closet that morning and with a few pins it fit well enough. It seemed a wasted effort now. Her face was as famous as his. There was no chance anyone had not noted her presence and come to their own conclusions about her attendance.
The dry air burned her eyes and her throat itched when she swallowed. The hint of a breeze began to stir the trees, but passed after a moment. Hazel wanted to leave. She pushed herself out of the chair as an older man with a beard and thick glasses sat down on her left. He smiled to her, a grim, disapproving pucker, and she sat again.
The man wore a thick coat unusual even on a colder day and wheezed heavily. Across his cheek were what looked like old burns. Ragged red lines ran from his ear down his neck and disappeared under his collar. A single gash cut across both lips like a great canyon. It was not a disfiguring scar, far from it. It gave the man an empowered air, that of a man who has once faced terrible adversity and overcome it, a man who could stare death in the eye and not blink. He could have been an adventurer from years ago, a lone survivor of a lost expedition or a soldier from a forgotten war. A man buoyed by the strength of his experiences, not weighted down by them. Was that how her father could have looked, so steady, so unburdened?
The time came when everyone rose to view the coffin. Hazel noticed several famous people adjusting their suits as they had their pictures taken. There was the mayor of Rialta City, Holbrook, and his wife, both wearing stony, emotionless faces. They seemed to take the heat well. They looked dry as paper. The chair of Rocket Corp., Dr. Azadi, stood behind them, fanning herself furiously as the bracelet on her arm clattered against her wrist while throwing reflected sunlight in all directions. There were faces she recognized without names to put to them and names floating through her mind that she could put to no one because she did not know their faces.
The next hour passed as a dream. She walked when others walked, sat when they sat. People murmured among themselves, but no one spoke to her. Given the circumstances it was not surprising that no one had asked her to speak and that no one offered to speak on her behalf. They all shared the opinion that the man in the coffin was a hero. Hazel thought of him as less of a hero and more of a troubled man. Only words of praise were spoken for the man in the grave because heroes don't need to speak and it is easier to forgive the dead than the living. They had lined up to move past the casket, to see the face of a hero, but to Hazel he had no face, only a voice. He had a name, but he would always be nameless.
The ceremony was ending. It looked as though Hazel's mysterious correspondent would not show. Then an older, boney-looking woman took the other seat next to her. She wore a white coat contrasting sharply with Hazel's own grey and now sweat-covered outfit. The air around her felt cool by comparison. A small pokémon sat in her lap, curling its four legs under its body. It looked at Hazel, blinked once, twice, then shut its eyes. The woman sat very quietly, never acknowledging Hazel's presence, wearing a distant look on her face. The comings and goings of the funeral seemed completely outside of her notice. Some time passed then the pokémon, of a type she was not very familiar with and about the size of a house cat, walked into Hazel's lap where it curled into a ball to sleep.
Hazel started to hear music and noticed several speakers had been placed nearby. It was a sad, but comforting piece of music. Hazel found herself relaxing for the first time that day. The chatter and whispers faded away. Perhaps it didn't matter what others though. She was swept away, the only one in attendance who was enjoying herself. The pokémon in her lap gurgled some small sounds. It really was quite adorable.
"Be careful that you run your hand from head to tail," the woman informed her. Hazel had thought of petting it, not considering that it could be dangerous. "Those barbs can sting." Hazel put her hand on its head and slowly brushed down its back. The pokémon rumbled with a low, contented purr. It seemed to have woken from a light sleep just enough to enjoy the attention. She and the old woman exchanged no more words, instead listening to the music, the eulogies, the covered coughs and the sniffles, until the end of the service.
Alone and in pairs the attendees stood up to leave. The man in the coat seemed to have fallen asleep in his chair and whistled between in teeth. Most were moving toward cars to be taken to the governor's mansion for food and drinks and, presumably, more crying and good words for the fallen hero. Hazel had no intention of joining, but with a potentially dangerous pokémon in her lap she could not simply leave.
"If you don't mind," the woman began, "There are some things about which I wish to talk with you." Behind them a number of the black-clothed masses, some tall and frail, some short and round, collided in tearfully misaligned hugs and reassuring pats on the back.
"Alright," Hazel answered. She was glad someone had finally decided to confront her.
"You might not remember me," she paused, giving Hazel the chance to correct her. "I was a friend of your father. I gave him his first pokémon."
Hazel thought back. Her father had few friends that she could remember, mostly other trainers he had met while traveling. They tended to drop in unannounced, stay for a night, and disappear by morning. Then she saw the gentle face of a woman. In her mind it looked young, although the features were that of a middle-aged woman, and smiled with the warmth of fresh bread or hot cocoa. "Miss Cornflower. You gave my father his numel," said Hazel. She did know her, but this old face with its wrinkled brow and sad eyes was not the woman she remembered.
"I did indeed. When he was younger than you are now he came to my center. He was not happy that day." The curled pokémon opened its mouth in a wide yawn showing its small, sharp teeth. "I think this nidoran likes you."
Hazel was not used to being so close to others' pokémon. Her father had even chastised her for trying to play with his. He called them dangerous, not for kids. She always hated that about him. They were too dangerous for her, never for him. But she believed it. With every piece of her childish heart she believed he was invincible, that he could do fantastic and horrible things, up until the last day she saw him. At some point in their lives children inevitably realize that everyone, even a loved one, has human failings. For most those flaws are relatively harmless. For Hazel they included suspicions of murder.
Very softly Hazel's hands started to shake. Who was this woman who was and wasn't the kind face from her memories? A key was turning with an imperceptible click. She saw the hallway outside her old room and her father standing at the end of it, smiling. Why did she have to think of that after so long?
"You think he did it, don't you? That's why you sent me this letter asking me to come here." Miss Cornflower took Hazel's hand in her own. It was thin and rough like sandstone. An old hand like the rest of her.
"They hated one another. For as long as I knew them they fought like two bitter enemies, though they shared so much. No, I don't think he did it and neither should you." She patted Hazel's hand. It was the kind of gesture Hazel imagined her grandmother would use when she was being too hard on herself. The doors she had kept locked inside started to creek open.
"My friends all went to Prisola." Hazel's voice wavered. She could not keep the doors closed anymore. "We were supposed to get our pokémon together. I was going to get a slugma. You know, a fire type like my dad's. There was one at the center and nobody had them back then so it would have been special. My aunt came down to the train station and told us about the house and that I had come with her and stay at her place. I was so angry." Hazel wiped her nose on her sleeve. It had been a long time since she had cried.
The old woman put her arm around Hazel. "There's something I want to show you. Please, come with me."
Hazel got to her feet with Miss Cornflower's help. For looking so frail she felt immensely solid. A strong pillar worn away at the edges, but still standing. She led Hazel away from the graveyard to a stone path leading up a hill that was, thankfully, shaded. Someone had thought to plant a row of oak trees along each side the path and their branches formed a natural archway like dozens of clasped hands keeping its visitors from contemplating something so great and mysterious as the sky. It looked private, peaceful. Enclosed places keep thoughts from getting away and emotions from running high.
Beyond the neat rows of trees lay gravestones marking the individuals and families who had lived and died on the islands. They stood like silent guardians watching over the landside and its people. It was strange, now that she thought about it, that her family had no graves here. At the foot of the hill the rows ended in upturned earth. Some trees had been removed to make room for more graves. If it continued up the hillside, Hazel found herself wondering, the magic of this place might disappear forever.
Near its peak the hill grew steep and the path turned to roughly hewn earth steps and boards of wood to keep them from sliding. No graves stood on this part of the hill, but the trees remained and were much taller. Hazel felt winded after a few dozen steps. Miss Cornflower seemed not to notice and moved ahead as if sliding down the hill rather than up it. Hazel looked over her shoulder. They had gone quite far. She could no longer make out the faces of the people down below. She searched for the tree where the shadow had been, but could not distinguish it from the others.
Finally, red-faced with the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears, Hazel reached the top. It was flat and though ringed with the same trees she had passed under the center was clear. A few flowers bloomed red and violet at her feet. Bright sunlight streamed through the leaves as though they were the stained glass windows in a cathedral. It was cheerful here, a floating island in a sea of somber ceremony.
She sank to her knees onto the dry earth, breathing in the dust she had disturbed and coughing to expel it. Her body ached and throbbed like a single sore muscle. It had been a difficult climb.
Miss Cornflower stood with her arm resting on the shoulder of a young man sitting beside her in a chair that looked more like a throne. No, not a throne. A wheelchair. How a wheelchair could have made it so far up this hill she could not guess. They were talking, the old woman and a man, looking into each others' eyes and laughing at some private joke. It must have been a trick of the light because there was no other explanation for the transformation that had come over Miss Cornflower. She seemed every inch the shining youthful woman from her memory. All trace of age had vanished like a passing cloud.
"Allow me to introduce to you, or should I say reintroduce, a dear friend of mine."
The man beside her turned to Hazel and smiled. His features were obscured by the dust, or her own tiredness, or perhaps that was simply how his face appeared, indistinct and far away. Through the fog she saw only that his eyes shone with a peculiar golden sparkle.
A shock like a bolt of lightning struck her chest. Hazel fell forward into the dirt. Images of places and people out of time swam out of the grey, swirling barrage of lights: her mother beside the ocean on a windy day, the fire which had destroyed her home, her father now old, something dark and sinister lurking in the water, and someone who, more than anyone else, she did not think she would ever see again.
"Copper…" she managed to mouth the word with the last of her breath before the shadow came over her.
