Welcome to Odin III, a grubby little mining world on the dark and dusty backside of nowhere. It’s a world where everything that’s worth having is already owned by Galactic Mining, and where people come to squander their hopes and lives, working for the company and dreaming of striking it big. It’s also a world where strange, weird, and fantastic things can happen, and most of them seem to begin in a friendly little bar called Weber’s Place…
“Lost and Found”
by Pete Wood
Father Luigi took a long slow sip of wine at Weber’s Place, the best watering hole on the distant mining planet of Odin III. He’d had a long, hard day so far and just needed a breather.
He’d locked himself out of the church again and had to call his fiancé, Shelley. She showed up with the spare set of keys and they didn’t fit the lock.
It didn’t make any sense, but somehow that ended up being his fault. Shelley threw the keys on the ground beside the St. Francis statue in the rhododendron garden and stormed back to her office where she had some sort of pressing problem.
They’d been fighting a lot lately. About a lot of stuff. Both of their jobs came with comfortable places to live. Neither wanted to give theirs up. Then the little things that had seemed so cute—like his forgetfulness and her singing and cheerfulness in the early morning—had become annoying.
The prospect of being with each other forever just seemed overwhelming.
Two months to the wedding. Did it get better?
The door to the bar opened and Daraja, a retired Galactic Mining employee and the closest thing the tiny mining settlement had to a locksmith, entered. Sand and grit blew into the bar. Another dust storm brewing. They could spring up on Odin in minutes and might last hours or days.
Daraja leaned into the door to force it to shut. He had to brace his feet like a football player attacking a tackling dummy during practice. He removed his goggles and wiped his brow with his sleeve. Most people wouldn’t have ventured out in this sort of weather, much less trudge several miles from the mine to help somebody out.
Daraja smiled at Luigi and walked over to the bar.
Ingrid, the owner of Weber’s and its only bartender, pulled out a dusty bottle of Ardbeg Scotch Whisky—the good stuff—and poured Daraja three fingers. None of that Galactic rotgut for one of her best customers.
Daraja downed the drink. “Did I ever tell you about those storms when I first got here?”
“A million times,” Ingrid said.
“I haven’t heard it,’ Luigi said.
“Thanks, Luigi,” Ingrid said in a mock angry voice. She poured Daraja another drink.
Daraja studied the glass like a jeweler examining a stone. He took a small sip. He’d savor that glass.
“Galactic isn’t all that bad,” Daraja said.
Ingrid let out a loud stage laugh.
“They built the plasma barrier. Before then storms used to come in from the east. They didn’t just kick up sand and dust. They changed things. Little things. Like you’d come home and the books in your library weren’t the same. Before you had Faulkner. Now you had Dickens. Maybe you had petunias by the front door and now you had sunflowers. Tools might go missing from the mine.”
The wind howled outside. The windows rattled.
He took another sip of whisky.
Luigi had been stuck outside in a few storms himself. Everybody had. Things got pretty disorienting. “Anything ever happen to you?” he asked.
Daraja laughed. “Me? No. But I heard stories. Some people said that the storm ripped little holes in reality. Let other timelines brush through. Who knows?”
Ingrid smiled and patted Daraja on the back. “Why is it that somebody always has a friend who these things happen to, but nobody ever has a firsthand account?”
“Good question.” Daraja held out his glass for a refill.
After a couple more drinks and a few stories about the good old days in the colony, Luigi and Daraja stood up and buttoned their coats. They put on goggles and wrapped scarves around their heads like mummies with only slits to see.
§
Daraja had the lock open in a couple of minutes, even hampered by the sand pelting his face. They stumbled inside the sanctuary and listened to the wind howl through the heavy wooden door.
It looked like they’d be here for a while.
Luigi pushed aside a stack of hymnals and sat on the plush velvet bench. “I guess some sand or something jammed up the lock.”
“You have the wrong keys.”
Luigi studied the seven or eight keys on the ring. “They worked yesterday.”
“It’s just something that Odin does, Luigi,” Daraja said. “Random changes. Little switches from some other place. You just have to accept it. If you think about it, it’ll just make your mind go around in circles. Trust me.” He took a sip of coffee. “Like trying to figure out where God came from.”
“That I can handle,” Luigi said. He studied the keys.
“Of course, it may have been the lock that changed.” Daraja opened his backpack and removed a leather satchel. He unclipped it and took out some long metal tools. “I’ll make your keys fit the lock. I’ll bring you a spare set tomorrow after I get back to my shop.” He inserted a tool into the lock. “I’ll let Popov know Galactic should take a look at the eastern barrier.”
§
The storm broke and Luigi and Daraja went their separate ways. Luigi considered going home and skipping dinner at Shelley’s apartment above the communications office downtown, but decided against it. He didn’t need another reason to be in the doghouse.
Thank God the keys to the church van still worked. He bounced and rattled the five miles to the main street of the settlement. He did not lock the van. He took five minutes to get from the vehicle to Shelley’s place, because he kept double-checking to make sure he had his keys.
The succulent aroma of one of Shelley’s mouthwatering casseroles hit him when he stepped inside. Did he smell chicken and mushrooms? And the earthy scent of freshly baked bread?
She had lit a fire. The place felt cozy. Like home. Maybe he could give up the rectory for this. The rectory did have some rather worn furniture and a leaky roof.
Shelley kissed him and handed him a glass of merlot. “I’m sorry we’re fighting. I should have stayed and helped you with the keys.”
Luigi sat on the couch and took a sip of the wine. “It’s okay. It worked out. I got Daraja to help me.”
She shook her head. “You take advantage of that man, honey.”
“He likes to help.”
“The argument of a slackass.” She laughed and sat down beside him.
They relaxed and listened to the fire crackle.
“You know those god-awful mugs my mom sent to me? The orange ones with pastel flowers and scripture?” Shelley asked.
Of course he remembered them. They’d had a huge fight this morning about using the rectory’s dishes instead of her family heirlooms. He let sleeping dogs lie. “Sure.”
“They’re gone. Good riddance.”
He had an uneasy feeling. “Really?”
She snuggled close. “Yeah. And they’ve been replaced with beautiful antique porcelain. Wedding gift sort of stuff.” She leaned in close and kissed him again. “I love them.”
He downed the last of his wine. “Good.”
“You wouldn’t know where they came from would you, honey?”
“No. Um, no idea.” He thought of the dust storm, of the little changes Daraja had talked about. He couldn’t mention those.
She sighed. “They’re beautiful.”
He prayed she didn’t expect him to bring back the old mugs someday.
For the past few years Pete has been in the process of evolving into a fiction editor, God help him, first with The Pete Wood Challenge, then with Dawn of Time, then with The Odin Chronicles. Along the way he’s introduced us to the creative work of Roxana Arama, Gustavo Bondoni, Carol Scheina, Patricia Miller, Kimberly Ann Smiley, Kai Holmwood, Brandon Case, Jason Burnham, and many, many more. We suspect Pete’s real love is theater, though, as evidenced by his short movie, Quantum Doughnut — which you can stream, if you follow the foregoing link.
Pete Wood photo by Lee Baker.
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