Chapter Text
There are white columns. There's a ceiling with geometric patterns, beaming light in a structured, modern feel. There's a calm and studious atmosphere, layered hushes of concentration. Open spaces denote visibility, practicality and modernism. And, of course, bookshelves. Dozens of them. Some neatly arranged, some with books scrambled. People sitting at round tables, others checking books.
The National and University Library of Iceland.
A funny scene plays in the English section.
Eleven.
Or the name she chose to disguise herself for ten years now, Eleanor, an undergraduate in The University of Iceland. Yes, she knows how to read, speak and write in Icelandic, but she prefers her mother tongue when hunting for good reads.
The now 26 year old woman stands on her tiptoes to reach that one unorganized shelf with the thickest book spine she’s ever seen. She stretches as much as her body allows to, but her height can only take her so far. She leans closer to the shelves, determined to grab it and led by an unknown feeling. An inclinating need to accomplish this.
It’s pathetic to do this when you actually have the power to levitate the book you want, however, she is in public. The place is fairly crowded.
Fortunately, El’s curious and persistent fingers are extending closer to what she’s focusing on.
Almost there.
Almost there.
There we g—
Not only the book she wanted, but many others, rattle and start falling, provoked by the clumsy weight of both her body and her hand. Then a thud on the woman’s temples almost makes her see stars.
The object that caused it proceeds to fall on the ground while she winces from the impact, hands to her head. It’s not the one item she tried to reach previously, but another, not as thick, with a dark violet grimoire-like cover and gold designs glinting as the light touched them. El squints her eyes and grabs the book hesitantly. Firstly, she’s impressed by the pretty colors. Then, she pieces together letter by letter, engraved in the cover. Her eyes get wider and wider at the realization of what she just read.
The Storyteller and the Mage
Michael Wheeler
It can’t be.
Is it the Michael Wheeler she’s thinking of, or another?
His name is kinda common, right?
She’s seeing double now. Purple and yellow swim in her eyes. They try to refocus. But not before her grip on the book starts trembling. It falls on the floor once more. Other people in the library are staring judgingly at the disarray. The mess culprit falls to her knees, still shocked and not caring about anyone or anything else around her. She dares to pick up the deep violet book again. El thinks it could be her mind playing tricks. But the words are still there, engraved on the hard cover. Like a signpost on a road. A very uncertain, dangerous road. Or maybe a Pandora box.
She finally opens it, flipping pages frantically, immediately searching for the information she craved all those years.
About the author
The woman feels her heart skip a beat and heat come over her face as she sees his face framed in a square.
It’s Mike.
Her Mike.
To her surprise, he’s sporting glasses in the picture. Even with the accessory, he’s still ridiculously attractive, elegant even. It suits him. The same huge piercing dark eyes that resemble supermassive black holes, surrounded by sprinkling meteorites on his cheeks. The same strong features, be it nose, jaw or lips. A faint idea of a beard and sideburns cling to his jawline and chin like whiskers. A contemplative, serene look. It still takes her breath away.
She brushes the paper with her fingertips. He’s even more handsome than when—
“May I help you, miss?” El hears a soft spoken voice from above her head in Icelandic.
She slowly looks up from the puddle of books, most of them scattered around because she didn’t even bother to realize the jumble she made on the floor.
“Oh, sorry…”
El scrambles to her feet and proceeds to help the Librarian rearrange the other books while pressing the plum-tinted item from her newfound beloved author close to her side.
“Sorry that I made a mess. I got distracted by this book I found.” She explains quietly, reality coming back to her.
The Librarian - a woman she saw here before but never talked to, possibly twice her age and much taller, with a neat bun and preppy clothes, aquamarine eyes and a badge draping from her neck - turns to her after efficiently placing the books back on the shelf.
“Oh, that purple one. It’s really popular in the U.S. right now, everyone’s talking about it. It’s a medieval fantasy novel. It received so much praise that the author plans for it to be a series of six books. In fact, he announced that the ending’s already written. I saw it on a website.”
El only has a minimal idea of what a website is, but she’s barely listening to the woman in front of her now. A suggestion starts taking form in her mind. A very bold, reckless, hopeful suggestion.
Well, it’s been ten years. Ten long, excruciating years from that fateful day in November 1987. And almost six years since the Cold War came to an end.
It’s November 1997 now. El has nothing to lose.
“Do you happen to know how I can contact the author?” The brunette almost stutters in her question, a hint of desperation in her tone. Is he still living in Hawkins? She doesn’t think so. She hasn’t done the Void thing for years now.
“Sure, his fan mail address might be in the author’s info section.” The Librarian helps her find the page again, following down the text of Mike’s brief biography with her finger.
El can barely look at his picture again without trembling. But she stops in her tracks.
This doesn’t look like an address at all.
“michaelwheelerauthor…hotmail…dot…com?”
Her helper notices her confused look.
“Ah, he only takes on-line fan mail. Updated with the latest technologies. I’m impressed.”
“On-line?” The younger woman blinks at her, as if she were speaking Greek.
“It’s a term for all things on the internet.” The Librarian elaborates after a pause, seeing El increasingly more puzzled. “Information shared only by Computer network.”
“Oh. Computer. Right.” El nods and frowns right after.
Shoot, that’s just brilliant.
Yes, she’s seen computers before. She’s seen other people operating in it. But operating it herself? A challenge. She might’ve visited the University’s computer lab once or twice, typed and clicked on a few things, but this e-mail thing seems intimidating.
What did she expect, really? Huge capital letters spelling “EL, CALL ME, XOXO” and his phone number right below?
El squints to see the Librarian’s name on her squarely badge and asks, more pleading than anything. “Will you help me… Ásta?”
El suddenly feels like she’s twelve again, echoing terms she can’t quite grasp the concept yet. Website? E-mail? Browser? On-line? But Ásta’s quite patient with her, as she starts the machine and dials the connection for her. She’s really kind.
Also… Twelve again because something warm and slightly delusional is trying to take over her mind. Her heart flutters at the thought of finally contacting him after all those years. Yet, an avalanche of questions pushes against it.
Does he still think about me at all? Sure, he may, it’s in the title of the book. But does he really? How much did he change? Is he okay? Is he a completely different person today?
Somber thoughts start circling around, taunting the girl inside the woman.
Maybe…he doesn’t want me to contact him. Maybe he doesn’t want his past haunting him.
What if he moved on from me? What if he has a girlfriend now? Or worse, a wife. Kids.
Did he build this kind of life without me? Is he better off without me?
Well, maybe now but not back then.
The one time she visited him in the Void.
The day after the Berlin wall fell. El remembers. When she felt safe enough to test it.
No, the intention wasn’t a test. It was more like a desperate crawl back to him. She just needed to see him. Even if it was inside the confinement of her mind. El had turned on the radio sitting on her bedside table at the hotel room she was staying in for some static white noise. Sat on the bed. Lamp near the radio as the only light source. Wrapped cloth around her head at eye level.
One breath in, one breath out.
That cavernous pitch-black appeared, surrounding her. She roamed around a bit, water splashing beneath her feet. Braced herself for what she was about to see.
Be careful. Remember: he can sense you in the Void.
It had always been easy to find Mike there before, he consistently seemed near. But at that moment it appeared that El had to walk for miles in the blackness to find him. With each step, the longing in her chest grew wider and more impatient.
The lonesome girl finally saw it. The blanket fort from the basement, a copy separated from its original environment. Sitting in front of it, an eighteen year old lonesome boy had legs crossed, head down low and face covered by his hands. His elbows rested on his knees. He was alone. A few whimpers made his shoulders go up and down. Contained sobs.
El’s heart sank lower than the Pacific Ocean’s floor. She slowly stepped closer, water ringing paddles under her feet. It had broken her to see and hear him cry, even if she couldn’t see his expression yet. After a while, he moved his hands from his visage, running one of them through thick waves of dark hair. Older, but in his eyes, that same sad glint she saw years before when he had to face their separation. Red, lightly swollen eyes. Red nose. The telekinetic girl had controlled herself not to touch him, not to hold him in the tightest embrace she could give.
She had meant for her sacrifice to keep everyone safe. To keep him safe. But safe at what cost? That image in front of her proved that the cost was their sorrow, their emotional torture. Both of them weren’t living. They were simply existing.
At least she knew he was alive. Him, on the other hand, had no clue where she went. Or maybe thought that she was, in fact, dead. A wave of guilt and self loathe for doing this to him hit her as she could only stand from a secure distance watching him break. Her finger curled, nail scratching palm.
Years passed and her Void searching fell out of practice. She simply couldn’t reach him again. Not him or anyone else back at Hawkins.
Her thoughts try to focus on the present again as Ásta gently calls her attention.
“Do you have an e-mail address? Or do you wish to use the Library’s e-mail?”
El turns to her, stuttering a bit in her words as her brain’s recalculating day and time. “N…no. I don’t have an e-mail.”
They’re in one of the two light gray cubicles with computer cabinets. The equally greyish white machine hums, its screen in front of El demanding a login. Àsta is behind her, slightly hunched over, giving instructions and pointing a few times to the screen.
El calculates, facing a dilemma. If she uses the Library’s e-mail address, it would leave a trace forever on their public inbox, for every staff and student to see. Living like this, no trace, different ID, different name, hiding and precautious, has become mechanical to her. It’s become instinct. If she asks for Ásta to help her create an e-mail account, it could request personal information.
She thinks. We’re not stupid. Hopper’s rule, now a distant remembrance, reverberates in her mind.
“Ásta, I don’t wanna take up too much of your time”, El tries her kindest voice and smile, answering the Librarian. “I‘ll try to create an account myself. I appreciate your help.”
Ásta mirrors her smile. “No problem. If you experience any difficulties or want to ask any questions, you can reach me. I’ll be at the circulation desk.”
“Thank you. Oh-
As she turns to walk away, El remembers something and lightly touches her shoulder, raising the book grasped by her other hand. “I’m borrowing this one. What’s the due date again? I forgot.”
“Three days. Have you brought your library card?”
“Yep.”
Three days are not enough to treasure his work, though she’d finish it in one. El is willing to pull an all-nighter reading it as soon as she gets home.
Some clicks made by the pressure of her finger on the mouse and some clacks on the keyboard are heard as the woman sitting in front of the screen takes the first attempt in years to contact Mike and maybe, just maybe, reach him with brand new technological help.