Holofernes Geyser: A Fictional Narrative

I'm at the gate that surrounds the Holofernes Geyser, staring through the chain link at the winding, iridescent pools in the dawn light, trying to remind myself that magic isn't real.

Magic isn't real—the jewel-colored fountain that bursts from the earth every sixteen hours is caused by geological forces. It has no healing powers; it cannot save you when you pray to it. There's no reason for me to wrap my hands around this chain link, breathing deep, psyching myself up to climb over and drop.

That's what I'm still telling myself as my hands tighten, as I hoist myself over, over, up.

*

My father died in the Science Wars. Skin burned beyond recognition by a Faithful flamethrower. He wasn't a soldier; he was working quietly in his lab, making

Most Faithful were monotheists. The days of local tribesmen worshipping the spring were over thousands of years ago. But remnants of the Faithful were out there: something always survives. No sense leaving anything sacred for them to rally around. And some of us could feel that the geyser was sacred. Something in there nudged us to awe in ways we couldn't explain.

All of us knew you couldn't trust a feeling like that. All of us had lost people. A feeling like that brought flamethrowers. A feeling like that would get you killed.

*

The pools around the Holofernes Geyser stretch out for miles: endless sulfurous streams colored in surreal pastels. Pea-green, salmon-pink, indigo, gold: a maze of water, steaming, shining, stinking in the rocky ground.

The geyser, when dormant, looks like any other pool. It's dormant now, round and blue like a blueberry. Weeds and shrubs grow haphazardly on its shores. It's surely my imagination that tells me something waits below the surface, watching me, biding its time.

Magic isn't real. But I tiptoe up to the geyser. I drop to my knees.

"My brother," I whisper. I want to say something more: Save him. Find him. But in the moment, kneeling and foolish and feeling the steam on my face, I cannot do it.

"My brother," I repeat instead. "Alex. Alex. Alex."

*

It's not that he's ill. We have actual medicine for