by E. E. Holmes
“How young, do you think?”
“I don’t know. Four? Five? Some of my earliest memories are of drawing.”
“What did you draw when you were so young?” Finn asked.
“Faces.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Just faces?”
“Yup. Sad faces. Happy faces. Angry faces. Laughing faces. Crying faces. Pages and pages of them.”
“That’s . . . a bit odd.”
I shrugged. “I was a bit odd.”
“Was?”
I punched him on the arm.
“Do you ever wonder why you drew faces all the time? I mean, rather than birds or puppies or rainbows?”
“I didn’t live in a world of birds or puppies or rainbows. I lived in a world of faces,” I said. Finn was still looking very confused, so I sighed and gave up on the jawline, setting my pencil down. “When you’re a little kid, people don’t tell you things. They just placate you. They tell you what you want to hear, or they tell you a lie, or they tell you it’s none of your business—but you almost never get the whole truth.”
“I don’t recall that I ever felt that way as a child,” Finn said.
“Really? You must have had more functional adults in your life than I did.”
“What number would qualify as more than you?” Finn asked.
“Well . . . any functional adults, actually,” I said.
“Oh, come now, is that fair?” Finn asked.
I just shook my head. “There are some levels of dysfunction that can’t be explained unless you’ve lived them. Just take my word for it.”
“All right, I will,” Finn said. “Anyway, I do apologize. I interrupted you. You were talking about how children are always being lied to.”
“That’s right,” I said. “And adults probably think that kids don’t realize that, but they totally do—or at least, I did. I knew that no one was telling me the whole story, and I resented it. So, I tried to get the whole story from their faces.”
“From their faces?” Finn repeated, frowning.
“Yeah. That’s where the real information is. I became an interpreter of faces. Instead of listening to grown ups’ words, I started noticing things they did with their faces that gave away their feelings—tilting their heads, arching their eyebrows, pursing their lips, that kind of stuff. Then I started drawing them, I guess to see if I could understand them better that way.”
“You mean to say that you started drawing because you thought your drawings would provide you with more truth than living people?” Finn asked.
“Ah, yes,” I said, pointing to his face. “Your expression, which I am unusually adept at interpreting, reveals that this realization makes you feel terribly sorry for me.”
“Of course it does. Forgive me, but it sounds like a rather cheerless way in which to grow up.”
I laughed, trying unsuccessfully to keep the bitterness out of my tone. “Yes, well, I’ve got the Durupinen and their Prophecy-driven witch hunt to thank for that. Still, in a way, I suppose I owe them a bit of gratitude; if it weren’t for them, I might never have discovered this talent of mine.”
“Of course, you would have,” Finn said. “You are much too full of natural talent for this to have escaped your notice. It would have bubbled its way to the surface regardless.”
I shrugged. “Maybe. It was useful, though. It was an anchor for me, in the mercilessly rough sea that was my life. How’s that for a metaphor, Mr. Poet?”
“Very appropriate. I’m impressed,” Finn said, smirking. “Now explain what you mean. How was drawing an anchor for you?”
“You’re asking an awful lot of questions about this,” I pointed out.
He shrugged. “I’m just trying to understand you better. I can stop asking, if you’d prefer.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” I said with a sigh, and paused for a moment, trying to regather all the threads of my thoughts so that I could weave them into something coherent. “I didn’t have control over very much. I had no control over where or when we moved, no control over saying goodbye to friends or being forced to start over again at a new school. I was a kid, so I was just along for the ride, and I had to make the best of it. But with drawing, I was always in control. I created everything from nothing. I could start over as many times as I wanted if I made a mistake. And if, in the end, I wasn’t happy with something, I could just . . .” I picked up the sketch, crumpled it into a ball, and chucked it over my shoulder.
Finn nodded thoughtfully. “It empowered you.”
“Yes. In an out-of-control world I had complete control right here,” I said, tapping the new blank page. “And I could start over any time I wanted to. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense. Thank you for sharing that with me.”
“You’re welcome. I’ve never shared that with anyone else, mostly because no one ever asked me the question, so I never thought about the answer.”
“Well then, I’m glad I asked. I think we both learned something about you.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, your jawline was all wrong. I’m starting over.”
“It’s not your fault. I’m difficult to capture. I’m extremely mysterious,” Finn said.
I laughed and looked back down at my sketchbook to see that I had revealed the image of Annabelle again. My blood began to thunder through my veins, my palms to sweat. I leapt to my feet. I instantly regretted this decision, as my head collided painfully with a corner beam of the wagon’s roof.
“Are you all right?” Finn cried. He leapt to his feet as well, instinctively assuming a defensive stance.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” I grumbled, rubbing ferociously at the throbbing spot on the top of my head. Then I saw what he was doing and laughed. “What are you going to do? Beat the shit out of this piece of wood for daring to hold the roof up?” I asked, pointing to the offending beam.
“I . . . well, no,” Finn said, dropping his hands and slumping a bit. “I just heard the sound; I didn’t know what had happened.”
“Right. Well, I’ll leave you two to duke it out. I know I said I was going to blow it off, but I think I’m going to go hang out with Flavia and her friends,” I said.
“Can I come along?” Finn asked, as I shoved my feet into an extra pair of fuzzy socks and my boots.
“You don’t need to,” I said, shrugging. “I know Traveler Caomhnóir aren’t the most impressive we’ve ever seen, but there will still be several of them there.”
“No, I mean . . .” Finn looked oddly sheepish. “I mean, I’d like to come. I want to come.”
“You do?” I asked in surprise.
Finn chuckled. “Look, if you don’t want me to . . .”
“No! No, it’s not that, it’s just . . . I’m just surprised, that’s all. You don’t really do social gatherings,” I said.
Finn shrugged. “I’ve never really had much opportunity.”
“That’s true. I need to get you out more,” I said, smiling. “You poor thing, you’ve never been socialized properly.”
“You make me sound like a curmudgeonly pet,” Finn said.
I laughed. “A guard dog, maybe. I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” I said quickly as he drew his eyebrows together. “You started the pet analogy, not me. It’s not your fault that your childhood playdates consisted of intense martial arts training instead of going to the park like normal kids. But come on. Let’s go see for ourselves what kind of mischief these whippersnappers get up to in their natural habitat.”
§
It wouldn’t have been difficult to find Flavia and her friends even if we didn’t already know the way to the Scribes’ wagon; their loud and raucous laughter echoed through the cold night air, mingled with snatches of lively fiddle music and the wafting aroma of roasting meat.
“Hey! She actually came!” Fennix yelled over a volley of shouted greetings.
“And she brought the arm candy,” Jeta crowed.
Finn’s face slackened and he stared at
me. “That’s Jeta. She thinks you’re cute.”
“She thinks I’m . . .” Finn began, looking mystified.
“Cute,” I repeated. “Attractive. Foxy. Just go with it, okay?”
He dragged his feet as I yanked him into the clearing after me. “I had to bring him,” I said. “I could hardly count on those two fools to keep us safe, could I?”
They all roared with laughter, reaching out and grabbing us and pulling us over to sit by the fire. Someone was ruffling my hair, and someone else was thrusting a mug of something steaming into my hands. It had a heady aroma. I took a tentative sip.
“Mulled blackberry wine with spices,” Flavia told me, sitting down beside me. She smiled warmly. “I’m glad you came.”
“Thanks for inviting us,” I said.
Flavia handed another cup to Finn, who accepted it, but was pulled out of his seat at once by Fennix, who started introducing him to everyone except Laini, who was sitting on the wagon steps. She acknowledged our arrival with a brief look of disgust and went back to picking out tunes on her fiddle.
“It’s not much of a party,” Flavia said apologetically.
“No, it’s great. It’s a nice reprieve from sitting quietly in the middle of the woods staring at trees,” I said, and then laughed, shaking my head. “Seriously, I’m not trying to be culturally insensitive, but I don’t know how you do it. I’ve been here for two days and I already want to rip my hair out.”
Flavia smiled. “I might have, if it wasn’t for my work. But like I told you, I’m planning my exit strategy.”
“Well, if you ever need a place to stay when you break out, let me know. It looks like Hannah and I are staying in England for the foreseeable future.”
Flavia’s eyes widened. “Really? You aren’t going back to the States?”
I shook my head grimly. “I guess Fairhaven rumors don’t spread as quickly as Traveler rumors. Hannah was elected to a Council seat a couple of days ago.”
Flavia gasped. “I . . . that’s . . . wow.”
I chuckled. “I know. That’s been pretty much everyone’s reaction.”
“It’s rather astounding that, after everything that happened, that your clans found the courage to overcome what I’m sure was a heavy burden of prejudice. I must say, I’m surprised . . . but impressed.”
“So am I. I just hope Hannah can find some peace now. She carries a lot of guilt about the Prophecy, even though she knows deep down that it wasn’t her fault. I know she sees this as a way of moving on and proving herself to the rest of the Northern Clans.”
I looked over at Finn, who was now examining a long, curved knife that Mairik was showing him. He looked up, caught my eye, and grinned just as Laini struck up a lively tune on her fiddle. It was a favorite, apparently, because the others cheered and began to clap and cheer along. I had never heard music like it before. It had such a stirring depth to it, as though it were somehow in a minor and a major key at the same time. It was as though the song spoke of pain or suffering, but celebrated the resilience in the face of it at the same time. It made my chest ache for reasons I couldn’t verbalize.
Jeta was trying to tug Finn to his feet and join a wild, reeling sort of jig they had all started. I burst out laughing at the unmitigated horror in his face as he pulled his arm away, like she had suggested he fling himself into the fire instead. The wine was making me feel warm and sleepy.
The song came to an end. Fennix scooped a clay jug up off of the ground and splashed its contents into the fire, which caused the flames to leap and roar. Mina let out a scream of delight.
“And now we Rift!” Fennix shouted, and the others hooted and hollered and whooped with excitement.
“And now we what?” I asked Flavia, who was looking wary.
“Aw, Fennix, not tonight,” Flavia called over the tumult.
“What do you mean?” Fennix cried. “Tonight is the perfect night! Look at the moon!”
The moon hung, a heavy glowing orb, right over our heads. The light, even for a full moon, was unnaturally bright. My hands, clasped around the warm curve of my mug, looked oddly luminescent, as though the moonlight had seeped beneath my skin and lit them from within.
“They aren’t Travelers,” Laini said, laying her fiddle down and glaring at Fennix. “They don’t possess the Sight. They can’t Rift.”
“Oh, come on, not only Travelers can Rift. Other clans have done it,” Mairik said, his voice overly loud and a bit slurred.
“I bet the Walker can Rift,” Mina cried eagerly. “Come on, she’s been through the Aether! I bet she’ll Rift further than any of us!”
As the others talked over each other, arguing, I turned back to Flavia.
“What is Rifting?” I repeated. “What are they talking about?”
Flavia bit her lip. “It’s . . . well, it’s hard to describe, but basically it’s using a Casting and some herbs to induce a heightened connection to the spirit world. It’s meant to clarify communication and deepen understanding.”
“What do you mean, herbs?” I asked.
Flavia shrugged. “It’s a mixture of herbs and plants that you burn in a small bowl, and inhale the fumes, and—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I said, and I started to laugh. “You mean you’re all just going to get high right now?”
Mairik stared at me, looking confused. “Get what?”
“You’re . . . you’re going to do some drugs. Trip,” I clarified.
“No, not trip, Rift,” Mina said, as though I had simply misheard the word. “The herbs help open the inner eyes. Lift the veil, you know?”
I couldn’t seem to wipe the smirk off my face. “Yeah, I’m familiar with the concept.” I turned to look at Finn, expecting him to share in my joke, but his face was very serious, even thoughtful.
“Oh, come on, Finn, you don’t actually want to get high right now, do you?” I asked incredulously. “Doesn’t impairing your lucidity violate every tenet of your Caomhnóir upbringing? I was a little surprised you even had any wine, not that I’m judging.”
Honestly, I was a little surprised I had any wine. I wasn’t usually a drinker, but I cut myself some slack and made an exception. The woods were boring as hell and bloody freezing, and the wine was like drinking a blanket.
“No, I don’t want to do it, but perhaps you might. I’ve heard of Rifting,” Finn said slowly. “I’ve never done it, but I’ve learned about it. Those who have done it swear that their connections to the spirit world become clearer. Easier to understand.”
Under cover of Flavia further explaining the precise history of Rifting, Finn jerked his head toward the bag at my feet. The corner of my sketchbook was poking out of it.
I gasped quietly as I caught on to his meaning. The images I had been drawing, the visions of Annabelle’s death: was there a possibility that Rifting might help me make sense of them?
While Fennix described a recent Rifting experience, I leaned in close to Flavia. “Flavia, I’m going to ask you a question, but I want you to promise you won’t . . . read into it, or anything.”
Flavia frowned. “All right. I promise.”
“Does Rifting . . . is there any evidence that it might help clarify . . . prophetic communications?”
Flavia’s eyes widened, and I could see the questions forming in their warm brown depths. But, true to her word, she did not ask me anything. “Rifting has been known to clarify all kinds of spirit communications. It was used many times in attempts to gain more clarity on prophecies and other spirit communications that were seen as warnings or repeated messages.”
Finn, who had been watching me closely, came over to stand beside me. “What do you reckon?” he asked.
“Are there any . . . side effects?” I asked Flavia.
Flavia shrugged. “A bit of dry throat from the fumes, sometimes. Maybe a headache, if you Rift for too long.”
I looked up at Finn. He shook his head slightly. “It’s up to you.”
“But what do you think?�
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“I think it’s up to you,” he repeated.
Ugh. Why would he choose this moment to stop being overprotective the moment I needed someone to tell me what to do?
“It doesn’t matter what you decide, Northern Girl. Only Travelers have the Sight, and without it, Rifting will be nothing more than a bad dream followed by a hangover,” Laini said scornfully.
“What’s the Sight?” I asked.
Laini scoffed. It was Flavia who answered. “It’s the connection to our Spirit Guides.”
“What Spirit Guides?” I asked. I looked around the clearing as if expecting a Greek chorus of sassy gay spirits to reveal themselves, criticizing my wardrobe in unison. There were no spirits to be seen, sassy or otherwise.
“The Traveler Durupinen believe that there are certain spirits waiting in the Aether that we are connected to. Usually relatives, but not always. They watch over us, and send us signs to guide us along our path.”
“We’ve all got them,” Jeta added. “Don’t you want to know what yours are trying to tell you?”
“I don’t need to Rift to hear what my Spirit Guide is saying,” I told her. “Getting him to shut up is usually the problem.”
“Huh?” Jeta asked, frowning.
“She’s got a sworn Spirit Guide, a guide in the world of the living,” Flavia explained. “He was here with her the last time she was in the camp. Milo, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said, nodding. “And trust me, there’s never any problem understanding exactly what he has to say. He makes damn sure of that.”
“But there’s more to be learned, Northern Girl,” Mina chimed in, her eyes wide and eager. “They’re singing songs for us on the other side of the Gateway. Come dance to them.”
“I’m not really the dancing kind,” I said. “I’m more the ‘stand awkwardly against the wall and nod your head’ kind.”
“Maybe she’s too scared to dance,” Laini suggested from her perch. “Maybe the Northern Girl doesn’t have the courage to listen to the calls from the other side. Maybe,” and she leaned forward, letting her leg swing down out of the tree like the pendulum arm of a great clock, “she’s afraid of what the world of the Aether might whisper to her.”