Василиса Чмелева – The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City (страница 6)
"The surface up there is mostly flat, slightly convex in the center and sloped. Hang gliders love it for that. People usually come here briefly and with a specific purpose—to artificially elevate themselves, to feel like a bird, but then, when the magic of flight fades, they leave as if they were never here. It’s always sad because of that, but also curious—which next city of winds will take them away?"
I stepped away from the girl who had suddenly appeared from behind the rocky ledge I was leaning against.
My company in this desolate wilderness clearly didn’t unsettle her. But her appearance left me stunned.
"How long have you been here?" I asked.
"Since birth," she shrugged. "Well, not right on this spot, of course, but in my own home. I live behind this cliff. And every time the cold evening wind blows, every time I hear the late train rushing past our outskirts—I remember the City of Winds. Oh, how often I remember it!"
The girl with asymmetrical features and wide-set eyes—large as saucers and slightly slanted—stared at me, pressing her thin lips into a friendly smile. She wasn’t a beauty, yet somehow the whole picture made her appealing, and even the natural desolation harmonized with her.
Her voice carried an excitement she was desperately trying to mask as playful cheer.
"Selena," she offered me her hand in greeting but immediately tucked it back into the pocket of her summer overalls, adorned with colorful wooden and plastic badges.
Her springy gait reminded me of either a carefree teenager or a space traveler in a bulky suit—an odd clash of hesitant nature and reckless extroversion.
As if reading my thoughts, the girl stopped pacing frantically around the motorcycle and ran a graceful finger along its seat.
"So, are you just going to stand there, rooting yourself into the ground?" she asked. "In that case, I should mention that the soil around here isn’t particularly fertile—so you’re unlikely to sprout grass, but you
I’d stopped listening to the girl who called herself Selena somewhere in the middle of her ceaseless monologue, so I missed the question directed at me.
"Don’t tell me you’re another investor-developer. We’ve sent plenty of those packing empty-handed. You see, the appeal of our land is its emptiness and solitude. We don’t want that changed."
"No, no," I hurried to cut off her musings. "I have no agenda, honestly. Just passing through. You could say I’m traveling."
"So… just because?" Selena arched a thin brow skeptically. "Well, if it’s
The girl nimbly scrambled onto the lowest ledge of the cliff and sat down, tucking one leg beneath her and wrapping her arms around her knee. Taking a deep breath, as if exhausted by her own chatter, her smile faded for a second—but then, as if chastising herself, Selena grinned at me again, wider than before.
"I trust my intuition, and it tells me you’re harmless," the girl concluded with an appraising look. "You
"Just me at the moment."
"Really?" Selena didn’t believe me, nodding toward the child’s footprints nearby.
"There’s a boy with me, but he wandered off somewhere."
"A child shouldn’t be left alone in such a desolate place," she said, resting her chin on her knee.
"Don’t worry about him—he’s a local to the bone.
"Still, if you want to come to my place, stranger, you’ll have to find your companion first."
"And what were
"Playing hide-and-seek," Selena replied calmly.
"With
"Depends on the day," she said airily. "Today…
"Think I stepped on a snake," came Oscar’s voice as he approached.
The kid emerged from behind the rocks and glared at the girl:
"Selena."
"Heya, Ozzy!" she beamed. "Long time no see! How’s life? How’s your grandad?"
"Just
"Three set out at sunset toward the flaming mountains. They carried a map, a flask, and an age-old dream!" Selena laughed.
"Okay, now that’s just too much," I muttered, heading toward the motorcycle, eager to put distance between myself and this odd hippie girl. Dealing with the kid was hard enough as it was. "Let’s go, Oz," I said, handing him the helmet. He stared at it, alarmed.
"What a pity," Selena sighed. "I thought we’d spend some time together."
"We need to head back—it’ll be dark soon," I replied, trying to start the bike.
The engine sputtered pathetically, but the machine refused to budge.
"Perfect. Just perfect!" I dismounted from the lifeless hunk of metal and kicked it in frustration.
"Don’t tell me Kurt sold us junk," I said to the kid, who’d already taken off his helmet, clearly pleased by the breakdown.
"How should I know?" Oscar shrugged. "I don’t know squat about bikes."
"Or people," I grumbled. "You’re the one who told me to trust him."
"I said I didn’t want to walk back. The rest was your call."
I glared at Oscar, who was clearly mocking me—just like everything else in this godforsaken place—and let out a groan of exasperation.
"Since you’re not going anywhere, it seems, you’re welcome to come to my place!" Selena chimed in.
The terracotta leather boots touched down on the dusty ground, kicking up a small cloud of sand. Selena approached us with a smile, absentmindedly tucking a strand of her wavy ash-blonde hair behind her ear as she walked.
"You live in a trailer?" I stared in surprise at the small, light-gray van.
"I need to travel comfortably to the places I want to be," Selena replied, inviting us inside.
The interior was pure hippie-nomad perfection. Along one wall stood a narrow bed covered with a patchwork quilt stitched from mismatched fabrics. A similar rectangular rug—woven from coiled fabric scraps—lay on the floor. A wall-mounted shelf held a twin-burner gas stove and a tiny kettle.
Beneath the long window (which swung outward to form a makeshift awning) sat a table and a lumpy purple beanbag. Every inch of wall space was plastered with souvenirs and mini-signs bearing city and state names. Under the bed, I spotted a thick stack of letters tied with a black shoelace.
"Wondering what’s in them?" Selena asked, following my gaze.
"I don’t make a habit of snooping," I said, shaking my head.
"Yeah, right," the kid snorted.
"Generally speaking," I amended, remembering the ill-fated cigarette that nearly burned a house down.
"But I’ve always loved wondering what letters hold," Selena mused, pulling the bundle from under the bed. "Sometimes I reread my favorites—to feel closer to the people who wrote them."
"I’d rather just visit someone than endlessly write letters. Or reread them," I scoffed.
Selena plucked a neatly folded sheet from the stack and tapped it with her thumb.
"Sometimes circumstances make it impossible to visit those you want to see," the girl replied sadly, "but a letter—that’s already an action! It’s a connective thread that keeps relationships from fraying."
"Seems like unnecessary effort to me," I disagreed.
"What’s worse in your book: unnecessary effort or complete inaction?" the kid chimed in, addressing Selena.
She twirled the paper in her hand, kissed it, and tucked it back into the stack, carefully tightening the shoelace around them.
"Complete inaction," she finally answered. "When someone does a lot—even if it’s misdirected—you see the effort. It shows they care enough to try, however they can. Even if it’s just a scribbled note about where they are. But in the territory of inaction? Absolutely nothing grows. Just scorched earth and emptiness taking root. Nothing survives in that environment—only indifferent stillness."
"Sounds like our neighborhood," the kid remarked.
Selena smiled at Oscar and moved toward the back of the van, where a curtain divided the space. Behind it lay a deflated two-person air mattress—the kind used for floating on water.