Beneath Which Sky

by Madeline Walz

  “Hm. Okay, let’s see. You’re majoring in business, and your fact...” Her eyes widen as she reads it, causing another round of curious looks from the entire class, this time including me. “Oh, my, really? You have a photographic memory?”

  I stare at Arkeda in surprise. Is there no end to his secrets? He glances at me and shakes his head a little as if he’s answering my unspoken question. How does he do that?

  “Would you mind showing us?” Professor Bronscher asks.

  Arkeda looks a little uncomfortable. “I’d rather not,” he says.

  “Very well.” She sets the stack of notecards aside.

  ***

  Once introductions are over, we review the summer reading list. Professor Bronscher and Arkeda do most of the talking, since the rest of us don’t remember much of anything. Finally, with fifteen minutes left in class, Professor Bronscher pulls up a Word document on the projector screen. “Book Review Project,” it reads. Great. A project already.

  “We’re going to see how much you remember from what you read over the summer,” she says. “We just went over all three, so I expect you to remember a lot more than the beginning of class.

  “You will get into groups of four, and I will assign you a book–either Dracula, Don Quixote, or The Force of Tears: My Childhood Loss. You will review the book in front of the class. Include the theme, the main points, and character biographies. Presentations begin in two weeks. You should have plenty of time. Now, get yourselves into groups of four.”

  I look at Arkeda. “Sure,” he says. As usual, he already knows what I’m going to say, although I suppose this time it was obvious. Mark and the German kid, Petyr, join us. Somehow, we’re the only guys in this class, so it makes sense to me that we stick together.

  Professor Bronscher has started assigning books. “Gentlemen,” she says, coming to us. “You will do The Force of Tears. Start collecting the information on the assignment sheet. Reread the story if you need to, but,” she adds, glancing at Arkeda, “I doubt that will be necessary.”

  Professor Bronscher smiles and returns to the front of the room. “The assignment sheet is on the class page online,” she says to the class. “Do you know how to access the class page?” We all nod. “Good. Then that’s everything. You’re dismissed.”

  I turn to Arkeda. There’s a strange look on his face as if he’s in pain and trying to hide it.

  “So, Arkeda, I’m assuming you remember everything about The Force of Tears?” I ask.

  “Yes, I do,” Arkeda says. He smiles, but it seems forced. “But I’m not going to be the book for you. You all have to help.”

  “I figured you would say that,” Mark says with a groan. “We should get started today. Want to go get a study room at the university library?”

  “Maybe later,” Petyr says. “I have another class.”

  “So do I,” I say.

  “How about after your classes?” Arkeda suggests, his voice tense. What’s going on with him? “I’ll probably be at the campus gym, so we could meet there.”

  “That works for me,” Mark says. “We can catch a bus to the library from there.”

  “Das gibt’s ja nicht!” Petyr exclaims. “It’s only, like, two blocks away from there!”

  “Well, if it’s that close I guess I can stand walking,” he says, looking a little embarrassed.

  “Yes, you can,” I laugh. “Does noon work for everyone?”

  “Yes,” Arkeda says.

  “Sure,” Petyr says.

  “Yep,” Mark says.

  “Good,” I say. “I’ll see you guys later. Unfortunately, I have to get to math class.”

  Arkeda

  We’re doing The Force of Tears. I was hoping for one of the others. I read it, of course, like we were supposed to, but it took the longest time to read even though it’s so much shorter than the other two. It’s an autobiography about the death of the author’s parents, and it hit way too close to home. The first time I tried to read it, I cried so hard Susan heard me and came in to find out what was wrong. I didn’t tell her, and she didn’t push it. I don’t think I could have gotten through that day without her. That’s probably why I’m fine with them adopting me. They’re the first foster family to accept that I won’t share my past.

  James stops me on our way out of the classroom. “Hey, you okay?” he asks. He looks concerned. Was I that obvious?

  “I’m fine,” I say. “That book, though. I was hoping for one of the other ones.”

  A look of understanding flashes across his face. This book means something to him, he thinks, but he doesn’t ask about it. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Sure.” I shouldn’t have told him so much. He’s already too curious. As I walk away, I mutter in Otran, “Why? Why this one?”

  Noon

  James

  I arrive at the campus gym at the same time as Petyr. We exchange nods and walk inside. I immediately spot Mark. He’s the only person, besides Petyr and me, who is not dressed for exercise, and he looks extremely uncomfortable.

  “Hey, Mark,” I say. “Do you know where Arkeda is? I’ve never been here before.”

  “Neither have I,” Mark says. He looks around and points to a crowd on the other side of the room. “Maybe he’s over there?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Petyr says, and walks across the room. Mark and I rush to catch up.

  The crowd is gathered around a boy and a girl fighting. It’s definitely some form of martial arts, but I don’t know what kind. It looks like karate with a lot more movement.

  Petyr makes a surprised sound. “Arkeda knows taido!” he says.

  “He knows what?” I ask.

  “Taido. It’s a kind of martial arts.”

  “Oh.”

  “Wow,” Petyr says, “he must be a black belt. He’s good!”

  I look at the fighters again. Sure enough, the boy is Arkeda. He’s flipping and kicking as if gravity doesn’t matter. Mark, Petyr, and I watch in amazement until, finally, the panting girl submits. “Wow,” she gasps. “I haven’t fought that hard since the test to earn my black belt. How long have you been doing this?”

  “A long time,” Arkeda says, helping her up. “You were pretty good too.”

  “Thanks.” She gathers up her things and walks away.

  “That was awesome!” I say.

  Arkeda walks over to us, breathing heavily, footsteps silent despite the hard floor. “Thanks,” he says. “Let’s go to the library.”

  Two weeks later

  Arkeda

  “Finally,” I say to myself in Otran. The book review is over. Normally I’m fine with projects like this, even like them, but I couldn’t really enjoy this one when memories of Otreau kept washing over me. Master Jabari’s martial arts studio–what would I give to have just one more lesson? My parents–my father letting me use the intercom after the airfield closed for the day, my mother’s laughter when I was three years old and tried to reach a book in a stack on the table, bringing the entire pile down on me. Their faces as the pod carried me away. I remember Dominique Marton, the woman who found me when I arrived, and how sad and scared I was that day. Dominique was the first human I ever saw, the first person who took me in after I left Otreau. I still email her sometimes to let her know how I’m doing, but I haven’t seen her in person since I entered the foster care system.

  Part II

  November 2049

  Arkeda

  After being at GPU for the past few months, it’s strange to be back in Waukesha, even if it’s only for a few days. Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and I’ve invited Dominique to join us. The last time I saw her, I was nine, still learning how this world works after a year of learning English. I’m nervous about seeing her again, but it’s time to reconnect.

  I’ve been checking my email every five minutes since sending the invitation this morning. I click Send and Receive again and watch the progress bar anxiously.

 
Susan comes in and rubs my shoulders. “Anything yet?”

  The Send and Receive box disappears. I scroll through the new emails. There it is–a reply from Dominique! I open it.

  To: Arkeda Mothran

  From: Dominique Marton

  Hi, Arkeda,

  It’s so good to hear from you again! I hope college is going well. I’d love to join you for Thanksgiving.

  See you tomorrow,

  Dominique

  Susan reads it over my shoulder. “Okay. Tell her lunch is at one, but that she’s welcome to come earlier.”

  I type a reply and hit send. Nothing to do now but wait.

  Susan smiles at me and walks out of the room. A moment later, she comes back with a small box. Howard follows her in.

  “We were going to wait until your birthday to give you this, but we decided to give it to you now,” Susan says, and hands me the box. I open it. Inside is a bronze ring on a chain, set with a violet stone.

  “What kind of stone is this?” I ask, lifting it out of the box.

  “It’s called charoite,” Howard says. “That ring has been in my family for so long that no one knows where it came from anymore. Now it’s yours.”

  “Thank you,” I say. Susan and Howard smile at me and go to prepare for tomorrow. If I ever had any doubts that Susan and Howard had truly accepted me into their family, those doubts are gone now. This ring is a family heirloom.

  I examine the face of the stone. There’s a design set into it in bronze. It looks familiar.

  Then I remember and almost drop the ring in shock. It’s impossible, but the design on the ring is the Hawkransíya River that ran past my hometown, Katósa, mirrored over itself! How could an Otran river end up on an Earthen ring? I puzzle over it for a few minutes but get nowhere, so I decide to try not to worry about it.

  I sit back in my chair and think about the last few months. James, Petyr, Mark, and I have become pretty good friends. Mark is in the dorm room next to James and me, and Petyr is across the hall, so we’ve spent a lot of time together.

  I’ve started sparring with Petyr at the gym a few times a week. It turns out he’s a black belt in taido. I think he’s gotten better in the weeks that we’ve practiced together. He’s even come close to winning a few times.

  Mark joined a local improv comedy group that plays at a coffee shop near the dorms. He was on his high school’s improv comedy team before this, and he’s pretty good.

  “We don’t perform,” Mark told us on his first day when I called it a performance. “We play. Hitchhiker, Scene Replay, Blind Line–they’re all games. A performance is scripted. This isn’t.”

  James has finished his Italian and Portuguese CDs and has started on Russian. Sometimes he practices his German with Petyr, which can get a bit annoying because I have no idea what they’re saying to each other.

  I suppose I shouldn’t complain. I’ve accidentally said a few things in Otran within earshot of James, and every time, his curiosity is obvious. He wants to know my language, I’m sure of it. As good as it would be to talk to someone in Otran, there’s no way I’d ever teach him. It would raise too many questions I don’t want to answer.

  Thanksgiving Day

  Dominique

  I pull up to the curb and check the invitation again. Yes, this is the right house. I’ve kept in touch with Arkeda through email, but he was only nine when I saw him last. He had passed his English proficiency test and was being put into the foster care system. I would have happily let him stay with me longer, but my pension was too small and I couldn’t afford it. The year he stayed with me while he was in ESL classes was very hard on my budget.

  I park in the driveway and get out of the car–the same car I’d been driving that day ten years ago when I found Arkeda on the side of the road. I remember how sad he’d seemed and wonder if he’s opened up to anyone yet. I’ve been wondering for ten years where he’d come from.

  I make it up the steps with a little difficulty, ring the doorbell, and wait. After a moment, the door is opened by a tall boy, about eighteen, with dark hair and intense blue-green eyes. I remember those eyes.

  “Arkeda?” I ask, just to be sure.

  “Dominique! It’s so good to see you! Come in!” he says.

  It is him. It’s a little fainter, but he still has that unplaceable accent I remember from all those years ago.

  I go inside and look around. It’s a nice house, very open. I’ve wanted a house like this for years but could never afford it.

  I follow Arkeda into the living room, where a man and a woman are sitting on the couch, talking and watching the annual Thanksgiving dog show. They look up when Arkeda and I come in.

  “This is Dominique,” Arkeda says. “Dominique, this is Susan and Howard Williams. You remember that I told you they adopted me back in August?”

  “Yes, I do,” I say.

  “It’s so good to finally meet you,” Susan says, standing and holding out her hand. I shake it and return the greeting, then repeat the process with Howard.

  “Lunch is almost ready,” Susan says. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  Arkeda

  I look at Dominique, sitting across the table from me. It’s strange to see her again but in a good way. I remember my first year after arriving. The first few weeks were difficult because I had only learned a little English so far. Dominique and I had mostly communicated with single words, short phrases, and hand gestures as my vocabulary grew. I would point to something and say the word in Otran–mapézi, lekvráti, calútsiz, and she would tell me the word in English–table, bed, shoes.

  I remember coming back to Dominique’s house after my first day of ESL, where I had learned the English alphabet. I had run straight to the little bedroom Dominique had prepared for me, eager to see what my name would look like in English. It had taken a while to figure out what letters to use, especially with my last name. In Otran, the “th” sound in “Mothran” is one letter. In English, it’s two letters.

  I had been sorry to leave Dominique, but once I passed the English proficiency test I was put into foster care because Dominique couldn’t afford to take care of me any longer.

  “Arkeda,” Susan says. I realize Dominique had asked me a question, but I hadn’t heard it.

  “Sorry, what did you say?” I ask.

  “I asked you how college has been so far,” Dominique says. “Are you enjoying it?”

  “Yes, I am. I’ve made a few friends.” I tell them about James, Mark, and Petyr: James’s love of languages, Mark’s improv comedy, Petyr’s taido.

  “Taido,” Dominique says. “Does that explain all the noise I would hear from your room?”

  “Yes. I was practicing. It...” I stop. I was going to say, it helped me forget for a while. When I was living with Dominique, I would practice, trying to get used to the difference in the atmosphere. My parents had told me that, here, I would float. It isn’t zero gravity, but rather as if I’m standing several feet above the floor. I have to focus to stay close enough to the ground that people won’t notice.

  I’d practiced that before, at home, but martial arts was harder to do without being able to touch the ground. After mastering that, just walking close to the ground seemed so much easier.

  “It sounds like you’ve been enjoying college a lot,” Dominique says, breaking me out of another reverie. Having her here is bringing back so many memories. “Where did you go, earlier, when I asked how you were enjoying college? You were clearly remembering something.”

  “I was thinking about when I got back to your house after my first ESL class,” I said.

  “Ah, yes, I remember that.” Dominique leaned back in her chair. “As soon as you got in the door, you ran off to your room and I didn’t see you again until dinnertime. What were you so excited about?”

  “I had just learned the English alphabet. I wanted to see what my name would look like.”

  “Is your native alphabet that different from English?” Dominique asks.

&n
bsp; I’ve said too much. How am I supposed to answer without raising more questions?

  I must have waited too long, because Susan answers for me. “Howard and I have occasionally gotten a glimpse of his journal when he was writing in it. From what we saw, it’s completely different from English.”

  “Could you show us what your name would look like in your native language?” Dominique asks.

  I don’t respond. Susan must have seen my reluctance again, because she says gently, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but what harm could it do? It’s just letters.”

  She’s right. For once, I think I can share a little bit.

  “Sure, why not?” I grab a sticky note and a pen from the counter and write my name in Otran.

  They all lean in to see what I’ve written.

  “It’s so...” Howard pauses, searching for the right word. “Different. Which sets of lines are the letters?”

  More questions. I knew it. Oh, well. I might as well keep going.

  “Here,” I say, and point out each letter. “They’re called alepha, rotha, kalpha, elaph, daleth, alepha. Then molpha, orítha, thalphaz, rotha, alepha, netha.”

  “Wait,” Howard says. “Did I miss something, or did you only name six letters in your last name? I’m assuming the second one was your last name?”

  “Yes, it was,” I say. Hopefully, this will be the last question. “And no, you didn’t miss anything. This alphabet has 59 letters. Any sound that, in English, is spelled with two letters is one letter in my language.” I can see more questions coming, but I’m done sharing. “You made pumpkin pie, right?” I say to Susan.

  She seems a bit surprised by the sudden change of subject. “Yes, I did,” she says, and goes to get the pie out of the fridge.

  I sit back in my chair, unsettled for a different reason. I’ve never shared so much with anyone. Sure, I’ve considered it once in a while, but I’ve always decided not to. It brings up too many other questions that I don’t want to answer.