01: A World Exploding in Fairies

If you want something you’ve never had,
you must be willing to do something you’ve never done before.

Thomas Jefferson

Fall seven times,
stand up eight.

Japanese Proverb

Abe Fallows was enjoying the rare winter sunlight in Seattle’s tiny Pioneer Station Park, frequented primarily by drug dealers, the indigent and those hurrying past. While cold, the sun felt warm, the wind wasn’t bad, and he couldn’t spend another day in the shelter. As he lay with his head tilted back, his arms spread wide and his muffler wrapped around his neck, he noticed someone approaching, glancing at the various vagabonds huddling in the small park. Figuring it wouldn’t hurt; he reached for his cup, still damp from his morning coffee from the shelter.

Seeing Abe, the man changed direction, heading towards him. He was older, wearing a dark trench coat with the collar turned up, a gray wool ski cap, and carried a decorated metal cane. He was clean shaven and a bit portly. Abe held his cup up, rattling the change in it. The man smiled, reaching into his pocket.

Abe lowered his cup, not waiting for the donation. “Wait, I know you. You changed your appearance, but I’d recognize you anywhere. You’re—”

“Shh,” Phil said, holding his finger to his lips. “The fewer people who identify me, the better.” Rather than using the cup, Phil handed him a folded bill.

Abe shook his head adamantly, not even glancing at the denomination. “I’m sorry, there’s no way I can take anything from you. You’ve already done so much for so many. You’ve given us all hope.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Phil said, waving the praise aside. “But this isn’t a gift. I’m hiring you. I’ve got a task I need your help with. Ask someone to watch your stuff; just don’t tell them who I am.”

Abe continued shaking his head. “For everything you’ve done for us, I’ll do anything you want for free.” Throwing his blanket off, he used the low brick wall he was leaning against to stand. “Let me talk to Frankie.”

Abe rose, faster than he usually did, but then it wasn’t every day he was visited by someone this important. This was the man who’d single-handedly emptied Philadelphia’s homeless shelters, curing the mentally ill, hiring those without ready job skills, and giving everyone he couldn’t cure hope they might still eventually be. He’d suffered for such largess, as a surgeon brought a suit against him, backed by his hospital, forcing Phil to undergo an unwanted surgery which resulted in the loss of his unique ability to help others. Since then, he’d been in hiding, running from one city to another, avoiding the spotlight, rarely remaining anywhere for long. Always intensely private, he was more upset at his inability to aid those coming to him—even though they asked nothing of him—than he was unappreciative of their admirations. He wanted no recognition, he only wanted to help those no one else could or would. The medical professions’ pills were ineffective, and even then, they were expensive, requiring regular doctor visits which few homeless could manage. Few doctors ever volunteered to meet the homeless on their own turf, treating them as equals rather than creatures of pity or scorn.

Abe wanted to brag, pointing him out to everyone, but was curious what Phil wanted. Abe knew he no longer retained his abilities since his abortive surgery, yet he was also aware Phil was involved in research into the beings he once combatted.

The claims—repeated endlessly by the homeless whenever they met—were that mental illnesses weren’t caused by people’s malfunctioning brains, but by invisible creatures from other worlds who came here only to inflict as much suffering as possible on the poor and destitute. Knowing their afflictions weren’t of their own volition meant the world to the mentally ill, even those with little hope of reaching Phil in Philadelphia. It meant their mental illness was part of a larger war against an alien race intent on mankind’s destruction—recasting the homeless from helpless layabouts to front line warriors combating the invisible aliens the rest of humanity didn’t care about. Realizing that, they refused to give in and accept their depression, schizophrenia or addictions. Instead, they chose to raise their heads, facing their difficulties head on, taking their prescribed medications but arguing with doctors about reducing the amounts to more manageable levels so they could think clearly enough to improve their lives.

Abe was familiar with mental illness, having his own issues. Despite a strong work ethic, an unfortunate incident caused his life to crumble and ever since he’d struggled with them himself, eventually accepting it as his wont in life. Now, however, he knew it was anything but.

“Frankie, could you watch me shit? I’m ... going for a walk.”

He glanced up, noting Abe’s benefactor behind him, facing the other direction as he studied the decorative totem poles along First Avenue where it bisected the park.

“You know better than goin’ off with some stranger ya don’t know. He might want anything. We’re best supporting each other.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout ‘em,” Abe assured him. “I knows ‘em. I’d trust ‘em with me life!”

“If you’re sure, though if you ain’t come back soon, I’m calling someone to check on ya.” However, Frankie grabbed his artificial leg, strapping it on so he could reach Abe’s spot if necessary. “Be sure to take your whistle and mace.”

“I will. I never go nowhere without ‘em. My momma don’ raise no fool! And don’ worry, I’ll be back to collect me stuff, though I don’ know how long we’ll be. I thinks he’ll buy me some grub.” That was something virtually all the homeless understood, accepting aid from strangers in the form of food—even if you didn’t completely trust them.

“Just be careful,” Frankie suggested, concentrating on his leg rather than the stranger behind Abe. It was clear he hadn’t recognized him. When Abe turned, Phil was already heading down First Avenue, almost to Yesler Way. Worried, Abe trotted after him, not wanting to risk disappointing him.

“We need a quiet corner where we won’t be disturbed,” Phil said as Abe caught up.

“Won’t be disturbed, or won’t be seen?” Abe asked, dropping the poor speech he adopted to fit in with the other homeless. They never trusted the well-educated. Even though he was rusty at speaking in full sentences, Abe was eager to impress Phil.

“The latter.”

Abe directed him down James Street, which cut back in a diagonal direction. “I thought you couldn’t do the things you used ta?”

“Things change.”

He clutched his chest, jogging forward so he wouldn’t fall behind. This was beyond a mere miracle, this was positive Divine intervention. He didn’t know what he’d done to win this opportunity, but he wasn’t about to squander it by asking stupid questions.

Abe Fallows wasn’t the type people typically granted favors to. A big, stocky man, he served in the army in Afghanistan, tracking down Al Qaeda agents until an improvised explosive device incapacitated him. He was medevaced to Germany and then San Antonio, where they performed several emergency surgeries. They’d managed to extract the shrapnel, but they left pronounced scars which disturbed people. Worse, he suffered from severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), which would throw him into fits of panic at the slightest disturbance, scaring those around him.

Discharged with only a twenty-five percent medical disability, he couldn’t land a job because of his unstable personality and his looks. Unable to work, he lost his home and then his wife. Not wanting to scare those he cared for, he set himself apart and ended up living on the street, which is where he found himself now.

He possessed a large, ugly scar running down the side of his head where they’d operated, something he shared with Phil. The sides of the scar were still an alarming pink. He had another crossing his nose, making it difficult for people to look him in the eyes.

Despite what had happened, he was still a decent man who only wanted a chance to prove himself. Somehow, Phil, a man who’d seen the invisible, saw his hidden potential. He wasn’t about to disappoint the man. He may never get this kind of opportunity again.

“There’s no place you won’t be noticed in the park, but there is an alley just beyond the Pioneer Building where the druggies shoot up. Someone might stumble across us, but they’re more interested in a fix than in who we might be.”

“Lead on. Don’t worry about anyone troubling us.” Phil raised his cane. “I have protection.”

Abe turned left at the Marcela’s Cookery into a narrow alley where the tall buildings blocked the sun, allowing the cold to penetrate his heavy coat. As he led Phil down the alley, ending up behind a few empty dumpsters, Phil turned to him. He unbuttoned his trench coat, folding down the lapel hiding his face, and began circling him slowly.

“What’s your name, son?”

“I’m Abe Fellows.”

“Well, Abe, you can’t move, for obvious reasons. I haven’t battled these before, so I’m unsure what to expect. I’m a bit out of practice, but at least they have no reason to suspect I can affect them. What is it you suffer from? I can see the depression, but that’s not as severe as your main concern. Your dragons are few and small, but the others might be tricky.”

“I have PTSD ... You’re actually gonna cure me?” Even realizing it was counterproductive looking a gift horse in the mouth, he couldn’t stop himself. “Why me? I mean, no one ever gives me a second glance. I can’t accomplish nothin’ if no one offers me the opportunity.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ve got a full-time job for you. It ain’t always easy, but it’s vital. Here, you’ll need these,” he said, passing him something.

Glancing at it, he saw a tiny bit of plastic and a thin, miniature flashlight. His mouth went dry. He recognized and knew how to use them. He’d heard the stories repeated multiple times. Like everyone with mental illnesses or living in the streets, they recounted them endlessly.