This is the first installment of the Renna’s Crossing novel serialization. See all installments here.
Job swung the cab door shut, and turned to look at the house.
Just two minutes behind schedule. Or twelve years behind, as they had discovered only two weeks ago. They had still arrived in time, optimistically speaking, although time was tricky to measure under these circumstances. How does one avoid a disaster that’s both already happened and threatening to happen in the alarmingly near future?
Blame could not be put on the Rectory, whose members had kept a tireless watch for more than a decade. While Mab had failed to prevent the tragedy, she had also given her life to protect her apprentice, who now stood there in front of the house, three minutes late. And regardless of how this whole terrifying mess continued to swirl in orbit around her, Renna was as faultless now as she had been at age four.
And so, Job knew calamity would neither be invoked nor averted by their delay of three minutes and thirty seconds. They were ready ( … almost). Twelve years had allowed them to say farewell to most awkward aspects of their adolescence. Gone was the youthful chubbiness from their cheeks, and the timidity from their powder-blue eyes. They had grown tall, slimmed down, and found a striking fashion sense in a suave pressed shirt and vest combo. Their towheaded curls had been tamed into a shorter fauxhawk style. Their poise and movements were like a cat who was proud, but not self-aware enough to be considered vain. Yes, the maturity of their early twenties suited Job quite well.
They couldn’t see much of the property beyond the verdantly gregarious hedges that pressed forward to greet them. Tiger lilies and azaleas bowed their colorful heads, but pushed in so close there was barely room to move down the path that lead to the house. Job made their way through and found themselves under an arched trellis creeping with hearty vines, fresh from the night rain. The leaves framed a sign hung on the pinnacle of the arch; the red paint was faded and peeling, and the gold trim was thoroughly tarnished. But the carved letters remained legible, proudly bearing the name of the house that lay beyond: INGLENOOK.
After the trellis, the lawn and garden were truly allowed to let loose their inhibitions. Grass grew freely and mingled with all manner of weed and wildflower. The property’s most matriarchal trees had seen a great many of their seedlings sprout up unmolested by lawncare, now as skinny, awkward saplings early in their “treenage” years.
It was difficult to differentiate sitting junk from lawn art, but perhaps the line was intentionally blurred. An extended family of flea-market-fare garden gnomes had been quite industrious with the territory, co-opting cardboard boxes, planters, fruit crates and the better half of a recliner to create an impressive faerie paramilitary compound. On the other side of the walkway, the overturned hull of a rowboat was the roof of a nursery for the year’s youngest and most fragile outdoor plants. In the expansive backyard, Job could make out a massive tree whose branches were hung with rope ladders, tire swings, hammocks and more ornamental fare, in a strange parody of a Christmas tree that had sprung up in a junkyard.
These and countless more attractions of the outside property were still dwarfed by the presence of the house itself. If given a minute to stare at it (something difficult to avoid for first-time callers), one could see that it was actually a patchwork of two or more different houses, connected by seam and mortar, joint and jib, plank and prayer. The front porch framed not just one but three front doors, without much indication as to where each actually led. From the walkway, Job could also see a door on the second floor that led straight out onto the sloping roof (though, for obvious safety reasons, a bright yellow sign had been tacked to the outdoor side: “CAUTION, DO NOT OPEN!”). Even higher up, another door gave access to half a widow’s walk, as though the construction was halted when her husband made it back from sea after all.
Despite the building’s thoroughly baffling design, it all somehow came together to create a presence of harmony and goodwill, much like the thoroughly baffling family that lived within it. Every inch of the place served a purpose and received wear and tear and repair throughout many long years. Anyone who had grown up knowing the presence of a good home would recognize it in Inglenook.
Job was up the front steps and now found themselves facing the ordeal of the three doors. They could hear sounds coming from behind all three, and not one of them sounded particularly peaceful or inviting. Which would give them the best chance of response: the dulcet sounds of a poorly-tuned cello playing Chopin with the tempo of a speed metal enthusiast? The din of water, dishes and children screaming about the floor being made of “soap-lava”? Or maybe just risk the door that sounded like it was guarded by Cerberus, whose heads were in the midst of a heated argument?
Thankfully, the choice was made for Job before they had the courage to touch a knob. The door on the left opened and out burst the creatures responsible for all the canine consternation; two dogs and an eight-year-old boy wearing naught but boxer shorts and swimming goggles rushed one after another off the porch and deep into the lawn’s tall grass, continuing their loud and lively discourse.
Following them outside was a man in his early forties, looking like he was enjoying the end of a long Sunday morning (despite it currently being nine a.m. on a Tuesday). He wore a stained college sweatshirt, painter’s jeans and an easy smile surrounded by stubble. He offered up his non-coffee cup hand to Job.
“Hey, glad you could make it. Sorry ‘bout the derby-gate welcome, Alec remembered where he buried something in the backyard, and he just had to go and show the dogs.” The two of them looked out at the swaying grasses far off in the backyard, indicating the locations of the wild creatures.
“No problem. You’re Mr. Austine?” Job asked him.
“Please, that’s what the telemarketers call me. It’s Kyle. And you’re Job, right? Like the guy in one of the Bible stories I read a long time ago.”
Job granted him a weak smile. “That’s the one …”
Kyle didn’t seem to be fazed by any social restraint on Job’s part. “Well, come on in, don’t mind our mess, we can talk in the new kitchen.”
Job had to mind the mess a little bit, else it would have tripped them up in seconds. The mudroom contained plenty of mud from the dozens of shoes piled haphazardly on the floor, some of which had made bold steps into the narrow entrance hall just beyond. A staircase led upwards off to their left; the railing was painted to look as if a long-bodied dragon curled around it, rising into the ceiling and floor above.
Another child stared down at Job from the point where the ceiling and stairs met; as Job followed Kyle into another room on their journey to the kitchen, they saw the kid crawl down the stairs headfirst to get a better view. Job couldn’t help but wonder if the caretakers of children and pets in this house made any distinction between the two groups.
From up ahead, Kyle remarked, “That one’s Narin, came from Cambodia last year. Once he takes a liking to you he’ll be quite friendly. And don’t worry, they don’t all act like animals; they just share a lot of space with ‘em.”
He laughed and Job managed a weak “ha.”
Job and Kyle entered the new kitchen, although the “new” part might have been a bit premature, as it seemed to still be in the middle of renovation. Two more children sat at the large central table, most of which was covered by potted plants, books, candles and piles of papers. Another man was busy at the stove; Kyle offered Job a seat on the sawhorse currently acting as a place at the table and then went over to address the cook.
The kids had stopped working on their homework to acknowledge Job. The older girl was just over the cusp of adolescence, and the boy was just before it. To Job’s relief, neither of them seemed inclined to act like animals (in front of a stranger, at least). The girl gave Job a shy smile and the boy stared for a few seconds before returning to his math problems.
The cook approached Job with a plate of breakfast food. He looked around the same age as Kyle, but dressed smartly in business casual beneath the apron. He nodded at Job and put the plate down at their now-designated seat with a sharp tap. “Welcome. Sorry I can’t stay for this, but I’ve got deadlines all day. If you really need me, Kyle, just pull me out of the upstairs office.”
He was almost out of the room when Kyle called to him, “At least leave your name with our guest.”
The man wheeled around. “Ah, right. Troy, pleasure.” With the inertia of the same spin, he was headed out the door again.
“Chef Troy, you’ve still got your apron on,” Kyle called to him through a mouthful of bacon.
“Oh—what, well … forget it, doesn’t hinder my writing,” Troy responded from somewhere on the stairwell.
Kyle handed Job a fork and addressed the kids. “Where’s Renna? Where’s everyone else? Also, introduce yourselves to our guest; this is Mis- … uh. This is Job.”
Job winced a bit, but was surprised when the girl suddenly leaned forward and cut in on Kyle.
“Hold up, Kyledad, did you even ask for Job’s pronouns?”
Kyle blinked and as he considered the matter. “Oh. Yeah, you’re darn right. I’m sorry about that.” He gave a flustered nod to Job. “So, what pronouns do you go by?” He continued, thanks to a light elbow jab from the girl.
Job gave her an appreciative glance as they answered. “It’s alright, thanks for asking. I use they/them/theirs.”
They all nodded in acknowledgement; Job heard the boy say “just like Sami then,” under his breath. The girl introduced herself as Alis (she/her/hers) and the boy as Solomon (he/him/his). Furthermore, Solomon identified himself as a “homer,” a term that eluded Job.
In response to Kyle’s initial question, Alis said, “I think Renna’s still asleep? She was up late finishing all the homework due for today. Derek, Sami and Boot are in the Old Kitchen being godless heathens again, that’s all I know. Oh, also, I’m not a homer.”
Job’s confusion may have shown on their face at that point, and Solomon piped up. “It means that she doesn’t live here; it’s not her home. And like I said, I’m a homer. I get to live here with the dads and everyone else, which is pretty cool. But I guess having another home is cool too, you know?”
Job nodded. “Um … yeah, that is cool, I guess.” They didn’t quite know what to say beyond that, so they shoved some eggs into their mouth.
Kyle had replenished his coffee and finished a long sip. “And what are our godless heathens doing in there?”
No one had time to give an answer, as a nearby door burst open and three more kids piled into the room. Their clothes were all soaked, and their hair was matted with suds. The youngest one of the trio leapt forward, a small wiry boy nearly vibrating with energy, and declared in a window-rattling volume,
“FLOOR. IS. SOAP-LAVA!!”
“Thank you, we’re right here Derek!” Alis yelled to him, her hands still over her ears. Derek hooted and turned a cartwheel out of the room. The other two kids remained: one a tall, mousy youth coming up fast on their adolescence, the other a short, sturdy girl with an eyepatch and gap-toothed grin. Both of them had taken notice of the outsider, but Job couldn’t evaluate their expressions yet.
Kyle remained unperturbed by the situation. “Floor is soap-lava, huh? How much lava are we talking about in there?”
Alis sighed and got up, as if on cue. “Come on, Sami, Boot, you know what Troydad’s gonna do if he sees the Old Kitchen’s become a mess …”
The two soaked kids retreated through the doorway, with Alis hot on their heels. After a moment in the other room, she could be heard exclaiming words befitting of any godless heathen.
Kyle sighed. “Sounds like all hands on deck. Sorry Solomon, but do you think I can get you to go lend a hand for a bit? I also have some grown-up stuff to talk about with Job here.”
Solomon groaned and slapped down his pencil. “Fiiiine, I was getting bored of this homework anyway.”
“That’s the volunteer spirit I like to see!” Kyle said to the boy’s back as Solomon trudged out of the room.
Once the kitchen was finally devoid of children, it felt the proper time to address the matter for which Job had come in the first place. They didn’t know quite where to begin, so Kyle started the conversation.
“Sorry ‘bout all that. It’s the way of life around here; each day’s a new show. Most folks on the outside aren’t really used to it, I guess.”
“Not at all. I spent my teenage years in a kind of boarding school within a rectory, so I’ve known my fair share of chaos. And caused it.” Job chuckled genuinely for the first time since they had arrived.
Kyle raised his coffee cup a bit. “Here’s to a healthy childhood, then. Anyhoo, sorry Renna’s not up yet, she knows this is the day you were coming. She’s probably a bit nervous.”
Job nodded. “I completely understand. I hope I’ll be able to alleviate some of her fears when we get the chance to talk.”
“Not sure I’d use the word ‘fear’ to describe that girl. Her recovery’s been a long, hard road, of course, but she’s come out pretty amazing. All fight and no flight, I’d call it.”
Hearing that gave Job a bit of hope for the upcoming meeting. Even so, Job couldn’t keep their practiced smile from being weighed down by a feeling they repressed … something like guilt?
“That’s excellent to hear. There’s … there’s a lot to fear in this world. It’s not worth fearing the smaller things.”
There was a moment of silence and Kyle cocked his head a bit, sitting in a pause that Job did not fill with an explanation. Together they let it pass and Kyle raised up his coffee cup. “Yeah! Hear hear, I’ll drink to that. If I still had coffee left.”
Their conversation was interrupted again, this time by another adult. A tall, stringy man scuttled into the room, looking as if he hadn’t slept in days. He didn’t register the two humans at the table as he crossed to the refrigerator and reflexively grabbed the condiments that fell out of the overstuffed compartments.
Kyle turned to him. “Ray, are you conscious or are you sleepwalking again?”
Ray turned around, ketchup and relish still in his hands. “Ah. Uh. Sorry, ‘nother all-nighter. Found an amazing online tutorial that might let me finish the suspension system for my monowheel design. Also been in contact with my old team over at MIT, their funding came through and they’ve set up this amazing new lab, once my contract work’s done at the end of the month I’m really thinking about packing up all the parts I’ve got and heading down—”
“Ray,” Kyle interjected with practiced accuracy, “You’re doing that ketchup-toast thing again.”
“Oh.” Ray looked down to see himself spreading the red condiment over a burnt piece of pumpernickel. He sighed. “You know, it’s happened so often I think I’ve actually gotten used to the taste. Plus it’s got as much sugar as jam or peanut butter, so really there’s little difference when it comes to dietary input, I think …”
Kyle rolled his eyes so Job could see. “Okay, I’m not gonna stop you from being gross. Do you know if Renna’s awake or mobile?”
“I heard her moving about when I went by her room,” said Ray through his chewing. Job’s bile rose a bit as they saw a blob of ketchup stick to the corner of Ray’s mouth.
Kyle went over, rinsed out his cup in the sink and carefully balanced it on top of the other dishes awaiting their washing. “Good. When you go by again can you remind her we’ve got company?”
Ray murmured his assent through a full mouth and retreated from the kitchen, but Kyle verbally caught his sleeve before he could disappear. “Hold up. We have a guest, in case you didn’t see. Job, this is Ray Ruiz. And vice versa.”
Ray nodded, smiled with his cheeks and gave them a flittering wave that he pulled after him as he exited.
“And that’s the three of us,” continued Kyle. “The only new weirdos you’ll see beyond this point are the kids.”
“So the adults live here as well?” asked Job.
“Well, yes, but all three of us together run the place. As you might guess, we all have different specialties. Together we manage to make a relatively competent adult authority for all these guys. At the moment, we’ve got … lessee … Troy said we have eight homers and like nine non-homers. Give or take. Most of ‘em have some kinda special circumstances, of course. Probably wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.”
“If I may ask, is there any deeper distinction between the two groups, beyond what Alis and Solomon explained?”
“For homers, this is their full-time residence until they grow up enough and find other living situations. That might be adoption, guardianship, or even just adulthood in some cases. Non-homers come here primarily for homeschooling, but many stick around to play with everyone else. Sometimes it’s a good refuge from their own home lives.”
Job nodded. “It sounds pretty incredible. The three of you can actually manage it all?”
Kyle laughed. “‘Manage’ is a word for it. We somehow continue to exist day after day, so we must be doing something right. Anyway, Renna’s been a homer here for close to a decade, and is now one of our oldest. And like I said, when she first got here she was quite a troubled kiddo. But the years have been good to her. You’ll understand when you meet her, I guess. Shall we?”
Kyle stood up, patting his belly and rubbing at a new stain he found on his sweatshirt. Job fell into step behind Kyle as they headed back to the staircase in the front hall. Job was only a couple steps up when they sensed someone behind them; it was the young Cambodian child they knew now as Narin, who was acting far less dodgy.
His dark eyes stared up at Job. “You here for Renna?”
“Uh, yes, I guess I am,” replied Job; they were following Kyle up the stairs, and Narin was climbing along after them, still on all fours.
“She’s in the Olders room now, y’know. She got to move in ‘cuz she’s an Older. But she’s only sixteen, y’know, an’ Kayalee, that was the Older who left, y’know, she was eighteen. Kayalee was, y’know. And now Renna’s the second-oldest Older in Inglenook, after Arie, but I don’t think he really counts, y’know.”
Job did not know, but it seemed Narin was finished telling them about it, leaving Job to wonder why Arie didn’t really count. They were on the second floor now, moving through a hallway decorated with all manner of obstacles, including an oversized end table, laundry baskets full of clothes, a fish tank full of books, and a cat tree colonized by groups of tiny potted plants. Job was glad they were following Kyle’s back or they would have already gotten lost. Narin continued to pursue them.
“You look pretty cool, y’know. Your hair and your vest an’ stuff. Renna’s pretty cool too. But that’s because of how she makes weird stuff happen.”
Job’s attention was snagged. “Weird stuff? What do you mean?”
Narin smirked. “Y’know! Weeeiirrd stuff. Like really, y’know?”
The elongated version had not helped clarify anything for Job. “No, I don’t, I don’t know, sorry …”
Narin’s pleased expression faded. “Oh. Well, I mean, y’know, like the shapes in the smoke that came out when she burned the pancakes. Or what happened to the grass after she tried to mow the front lawn that one time. Oh, and when Darwin died, that was one of our dogs, y’know, she was really sad and then all those birds came and sat on the trees outside …”
The chill that had been lingering on the base of Job’s spine crawled up to the back of their neck as Narin recalled these events. They wanted to know the details of what the boy was describing, but now was probably not the best time to inquire …
“But it’s okay! Because Renna’s a good person anyways, y’know. And look, I’m cool too!”
Narin got up on two legs again and pulled up one leg of his sweatpants, revealing a prosthetic limb, connected just below the knee. He hopped up and down on his other foot as he tried to raise the false one up higher. “See, even when I run into somethin’ it doesn’t hurt at all, y’know, and I can kick a ball super hard with it! I can even kick stones!”
From up ahead, Kyle called back, “Narin, you know we’ve talked about how that’s not a great idea …”
Narin shouted forward, “Kyledad, you were the one who showed me how to kick a football like that!”
“Ah. Yeah, I guess I did …” Kyle’s voice came back sheepishly.
After what seemed like far too much walking for getting around a single floor of a house, the party arrived at a door nestled in the corner of a hallway. The door was a work of transient art, covered mostly in leftover residue from stickers and tape that had been peeled off unsuccessfully over the years. A few still remained, references to pop culture that Job had never really paid attention to at any point. The only thing on the door that made sense to them was the word ‘Olders Room’ scratched directly into the wood. It didn’t sound like anyone was awake behind it, but Kyle went up and knocked on the door without hesitation. “Renna? You alive in there? You have a visitor.”
Hear the author read this week’s installment in the video below:
MetaStellar fiction editor Geordie Morse works primarily as a personal language coach, developing curricula and working with clients remotely. His first book, Renna's Crossing, is out now. His various other projects are cataloged on his site Arnamantle.