The flat, wide wall of white rock showed how the earth had split, and her bedtime stories had never truly encapsulated the horror. Manifest had once been a bastion larger than the entire island of Cerul. And it had tumbled into the sea in one cracking moment of fear and loss. As Sevyn looked out over the half-sunken ruins, she could hear the cries of all the lives the sea had swallowed that day as if they were still in the air.
“So it’s a sad story,” I murmured.
Yesterday on the ferry, I’d seen the wide, tall, harsh stone wall below the old fort. It had been impressive, true enough, but how would it feel after the CGI littered the scene with the remains of a fallen kingdom?
“Ryder, what…” My brother was asleep, his mouth open. I straightened his legs and pulled the blanket over him. He flopped on his side, and I was a little sorry he hadn’t stayed awake until the end of the chapter. I was now wide awake.
Before I closed the book, I noticed some pencil scribbles in the margin.
SAN ANDREAS FAULT PARALLEL—OBVIOUS.
It was my dad’s handwriting. Old and faded. Was this his copy? Wait, he owned a copy? I shut it and carefully placed the book next to Ryder, as if it had turned into a land mine in my hands. My dad’s feelings about these books were something I avoided out of a biological sense of self-preservation.
I crawled into bed, picturing fictitious Manifest falling into the sea, wondering if it would look like all the wretched blockbusters where LA cracks off the edge of the continent and gets swallowed by the Pacific.
Parallel—obvious… Is that where he got the idea?
To date, my dad’s only true moment of literary fame hadn’t come from one of his books, but a rather infamous obituary he wrote for the New York Times. In it, he’d described his mother and himself as being “on opposite sides of the San Andreas Fault. Always grinding against one another. Always threatening disaster.”
I’d read the obituary more times than I cared to admit. It had fascinated me. Made me wonder how my dad could have been at odds with his own parent—although after the last few years, perhaps it was just research on Thorne family tendencies.
My dad and I had been pushing against each other since way before Felix Moss came into our lives. Since before Ryder, even. All the way back to the catastrophic event with my literary tutor. That was, what? Nine years of resentment and frustration building underground between us? I kept stuffing my feelings down, but I was running out of room. What would happen if I told him how I hated being my brother’s stand-in parent? Or that my music wasn’t my “little hobby”?
I imagined the earthquake would be a ten on the Richter scale. Fire and flood. No survivors.
EVYN FILM: ELEMENTIA
DIRECTOR: CATE COLLINS
ON LOCATION: DAY 3
ARAN ISLANDS, IRELAND
FILMING NOTES:
A.M.: SEVYN’s docking in Elementia and introduction to MAEDINA.
P.M.: EVYN’s initial conversation with BYERS.
After dark: One take burn of MAEDINA’s tree. BE READY.
ETC. NOTES:
Ryder Thorne is joining the crafty crew.
Iris Thorne is meeting with Julian Young for lunch.
Make sure to give Eamon O’Brien brief interviews on your Thornian background for his “Making Of” blog series.
MEANWHILE ON SOME LITTLE-KNOWN EDGE OF THE WORLD...
I woke too early, groggy and stiff, to the sound of someone knocking.
Ryder slept through it, snoring lightly. I checked my watch. Ten o’clock at night in LA, which was what in Ireland? Through the blinds over the tiny trailer window, the sky was dawning with slivers of orange. The knock returned, louder this time. I shot out of bed before it woke up Ryder, only to find Cate Collins—in a full-body, black spandex suit.
“Filming CGI this early?”
“Funny, love. Your father said you run.”
“You talked to my dad? When?” I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice. Tried and failed. He hadn’t even replied to the text I’d sent two days ago.
“Last night after the excitement.” Oh great, now Cate had told my dad what happened before I had a chance to spin it. “Get dressed. I’m rather serious about running.”
“I don’t run on vacation,” I said.
“This isn’t a vacation. It’s time you and I talked that through.” She walked away, stretching her arms over her head. I changed into my workout gear, curious but also confident that this forty-something-year-old would not be able to keep up with me.
Wrong again, Iris.
A half hour later, we were running along a cliff walk that veered within feet of a twenty-foot drop to the ocean. Inishmore was silent except for the occasional screech of gulls and the tussle of the waves against the gravel beach below. It was beautiful, but more than that, it was different. How could LA’s congested vibrancy exist on the same planet as an island missing from time and seemingly pleased to be so lost?
Ordinarily I ran with headphones, drowning out the world, but Cate kept her nose high, eyes searching the landscape. I followed suit. She sprinted on the uneven ground, while my stride shrunk until my sides hurt. Cate slowed and looked back. “We can power walk now.”
“Great. Thanks.”
She was taking pity on me, but maybe she was ready to talk. After all, we weren’t out here for the epic scenery. “I read your grandmother’s books when I was out of film school, still digesting LA. I missed home, and this is what I pictured. In my heart, Elementia will always look like Ireland.”
“Isn’t that weird though?” I asked. “Isn’t Elementia all collapsed stone cities and burned forests? Isn’t it abandoned?”
“It is until the second book, when it begins to flourish.” Her light tone proved she was surprised that I knew this much; I didn’t tell her I’d learned it last night. She sighed and
