Eye of the Ocean Book 3 Ji'jin Station

Eye of the Ocean – Book 3: Ji’Jin Station
Breaking off a fresh pine-needle cluster, he absently wove a tiny basket,
getting sticky fingers along with his souvenir. Shoving the needle basket into a
pocket, he walked to the road, waved just for form in case the Zimmer had seen
him earlier, then headed back to his hotel, taking the drier roadway. The snow
had a tired look that matched his mood. Things were rotting; the temperature
was above freezing, even at ground level.
He canceled his booking for the rest of the week then found he had missed the
last bus out by ten minutes. Aircraft weren't allowed through the mountain
preserves. Upset the birds.
“Wintertime, there's not much call for public transit out this way,” the clerk
said, peering at the bus schedule. Evening in, morning out. “You could have a car
sent up from Ogsinli...” She looked hopeful for a moment. “Even a driver if you
don't have a license.” The novelty of his being there had worn off; he supposed
leaving in style would restore some luster. When he said to forget it, she wrote
the bus times on the back of an envelope, mouthing the hope that his stay had
been pleasant, but her heart wasn't in it.
He got a drink and carried it to the window. From the bar in the hotel, probably
from most of the buildings in town, the sweep of the narrowing valley below them
led to only one view, the mountain and the glacial lake that fed on the summer
melt. Part of the valley had the sod and brush stripped; from here it looked as
though they'd skinned the earth. A few tents and a stake-line of military trucks
provided the color.
He noticed her first by how she lifted her glass of beer. Framed by the window
and the bright sky outside, he couldn't make out details, but the movement drew
him as being familiar.
As though just wandering to see the view from different vantage points, he
circled until he was close enough to be heard without having to shout. “Not much
going on here in the winter.”
Her back was to the light, still robbing him of getting a really good look at her.
Small enough, slight enough. Maybe fuller in the face, a bit more weight on the
bones, though it was difficult to see with the heavy cable sweater she was
wearing and how she hunched forward, elbows on the table. Three opened books
were spread out before her and a pad full of cross hatched marks and columns of
numbers, most of them scribbled over. A palm-scriber was under her glass of
beer, acting as a coaster. It wasn't turned on. “Hmm?” she said around chewing
on a pencil. She didn't look up.
Bolda knocked against an empty chair to get her attention. “Winter. Here.
Boring.”
The chair knocked against the table and her beer slopped over. The scriber
wasn't a very good coaster. She looked at it for at least thirty seconds, her face
blank, before she looked up. She didn't have to look up very far.
Laurel Hickey www.2morrow.bc.ca