Unbroken

by E M Kaplan

The members of the Academie stared at her with unabashed curiosity—however, not with aggression or challenge. Looking from one face to the other, Mel shook her head. The two standing, like Vern, were within two to three inches of Mel’s height with the same wiry build as her. Wells sat in a wheeled chair, some kind of mechanical seat that compensated for his thin, unused legs. He was lame, but didn’t seem to be troubled by it. The same dark, inquisitive eyes, all looking at her. Two men and a woman, the three of them might have been siblings. Each ten to twenty years older than she, they could have been her aunt and uncles. Other than their attire.

  From day to day, Masks wore plain, homespun garments. Undyed tunics, leggings. Dark cloaks when they were on assignments. Their sole adornments were their Mask medallions, the heavy hammered metal circles that hung on the thick lengths of chain around their necks. Mel had worn hers for only a few weeks. But these people, members of the Academie, didn’t seem to have the same simple taste in garments. The woman, Morla, wore a brown hooded vest with intricate gold embroidery. Her fingerless gloves were a strange combination of lace and…tiny metal gears, which seemed to serve no purpose other than to decorate. If Mel had detected any kind of physical impediment in Morla’s hands or wrists, she would have thought the gloves were devices to provide assistance. But, no, they were purely ornamental, which confused Mel.

  “You’re a Mask, you say?” Morla asked.

  “Former Mask. Not one any more,” Mel clarified. She didn’t add that she was a failed Mask, that she was too emotional to be an impartial observer, as the role required. Shame made her exclude that detail.

  “We had one of your kind here decades ago,” Vern added. Which surprised Mel. She hadn’t heard of many who had left—she knew some had given up their Masks. Like her birth father, Jenks, who was a shape shifter. He’d lived apart from the settlement, but close enough by to watch her grow into adulthood. He was gone now, though. She missed his gentle teasing, his mild verbal barbs, and his twinkling blue eyes. Even disguised as a trog, his blue eyes shined through.

  Vern was saying, “Our Mask died not long after he arrived, but then, he was quite old at the time. Not sure why he left the settlement in the first place. Some kind of disagreement, I expect. Or maybe he knew he didn’t have much time left in this world. He didn’t want us to contact the Settlement after his death. In fact, I have his medallion and cloak somewhere at my house. Probably in a drawer or…” His gaze moved to Jaine.

  “The girl didn’t take it. It didn’t hold her interest for long, not after that first time she filched it. It’s in the pot under the cat,” Morla said, with a roll of her eyes.

  Interesting. So Jaine was a bit of thief as well? More facets to the street-bred girl were beginning to reveal themselves.

  They gestured for Mel to take a seat on their velvet covered couch and even went so far as to offer her refreshment—a ceramic mug of steeped camilea leaf, which she declined, somewhat flustered. Now was not the time for a cup of tea. Jaine had sunk down on the floor by the cold fireplace in the corner, wrapping her arms around her legs as if she were a child readying herself for story hour in the nursery. Mel folded her hands in her lap, steadying herself, drawing her emotions into control as if she were performing a recitation at home in the settlement.

  The woman, Morla, held up a gloved hand. “Stop. What is that thing you are doing?”

  Mel flushed and brushed her hair back from her face, nervous as if she had failed an important task—and it would have been considered a failing in the settlement, for certain. “I had just intended to tell you what happened. At least, what I observed on the river.” She was eager to relay her information and had hoped to be as impartial with her delivery of the facts as she could, though she was out of practice reigning her emotions and sensitivities in.

  Morla said, not unkindly, but with patience and curiosity, “No. I mean that vacuum of feeling. Why are you doing that? You’re drawing yourself inward. I feel it as keenly as the reverse, as if you were shouting. Don’t you feel it?” she asked the men of the group. They gave half-shrugs for the most part, and Morla made a face. “Not in touch with their sensitivities as some of us are,” she complained.

  Mel cleared her throat in understanding—these people, though Mask-like in their instincts and abilities, were not Masks in the least. And if that were the case, she would try to accommodate them.

  “Apologies,” she said. “Let me begin again.” And, relaxing herself as she’d learned to do only in the last year or so, relayed what she’d witnessed on the river—the gigantic whirlpool, the destruction of the boat, and the massive loss of life. One by one, their expressions turned somber as they listened. At last, Mel felt as if the suffering she’d seen had evoked an appropriate response. Was no one else in this city concerned for the fates of others? Where was the humanity here?

  On concluding her narrative, Mel asked them, “What could have caused this whirlpool?”

  Morla had covered her mouth with her hand. The others shook their heads, paced, and murmured to each other, to themselves. Shaking her head to clear her reverie, Morla’s open palm shot up again, garnering the attention of the others, halting their private conversations.

  She said only one word, “Elementaré.”

  Chapter 19

  “An elemental?” Vern said, his face wrinkled up with uncertainty—a face that reminded Mel very much of her own father. Same coloring, same curiosity, though not the same calculating aloofness. “Do you think so?…Yes, yes. Perhaps you may be right.”

  Leaving the now-sleeping Jaine curled on her pillow by the burned out fire in the fireplace—“Don’t worry about her. She can sleep anywhere,” Vern said. “A product of streets of Tooran. As soon as she finds a safe place, she sleeps like the dead.”—they followed Morla, who marched with great purpose through the rows of books until she came to an abrupt stop. She shook her head and continued a few more columns inward until she stooped low for a book. Multiple books, Mel saw, as the woman began to draw books off the shelf, one after another, handing them to Jeet and Wells, whose chair moved beside them without sound. After their arms were full, Mel took the rest before following them back to the salon.

  “Here,” Morla said, after rejecting several books. She smoothed the pages of a large, cloth-bound book open so that it lay flat, then turned it to face Mel. “Is this what you saw?”

  The depiction on the page made Mel catch her breath. Lines of black ink swirled in a spiral. Reaching out her fingers to touch the page, she could almost hear the sound of it—the low growl, the slurping gulp of the watery maw that took their boat down to the bottom of the river, torn apart, shredded into bits of wood. But when her fingertips hit the fibers of the paper on which it had been drawn, she sank into a series of images: marsh grasses harvested and pounded into pulp to make the paper; sea creatures expelling their dye to make the deepest black ink; the hands of the young scribe who drew the image. Nothing about the whirlpool itself.

  “Yes, that’s what I saw in the river. That’s the thing that destroyed the boat and killed the crew. Not a normal occurrence, not just a thing of nature, but a…creature. As if it had life, will, force, and a mind of its own.”

  “And it stopped the river, too, as you said,” Vern reminded her.

  “Yes, it did. The current came to a halt. Not at first, but by the time I reached the travel depot, it had stopped. That’s when they suspended all river crossing.” Mel didn’t know what that meant for the currents, for travel and commerce in the long run if the river never regained its motion. All she knew was that, somehow, she needed to get back across it with supplies, to find Ott and her friends. With or without Charl. Even if she had to fly.

  “That explains our lack of communication from Port Navio,” Wells said, with a tip of his chin at Jaine’s sleeping form. Like Masks, the rest of them didn’t seem to need as much sleep as the average person. She could go for a couple of days without feeling any true strain. “We had been expecting our usual daily missiv
es from our counterparts in Navio. But when they didn’t arrive, we’d wondered what had occurred.” Mel was further astounded by that further revelation—members of the Academie so close to the Mask settlement? But had no time to stop them with her questions, which were compounding by the minute.

  Vern had taken the book back and began to read from it, “Elementaré. The world divided into its most basic, elemental components. Roughly translated—my apologies, this is in the Old Language—into earth, fire, water, and air. That is, terrata, ignisius, aqua, and respirus. Here before creatures walked the land, and here long after the last of us meets his demise.” He skimmed the page, running his slender finger along the page, humming a little singsong noise to represent the words he skipped. “Aha. Here is where it becomes interesting.”

  He paused to make eye contact with her, which was unnecessary—he had her complete attention. Utterly and fully.

  “Who controls these elementals? And what would cause them to arise from their centuries-old slumber? Several theories exist as to their ownership though many of our scholars speculate they arise as defense, as guardians, summoned by… well, that part is hotly debated. But many of these researchers seem to agree there’s a way of controlling the elementals.” Reading in silence once again, Vern tested Mel’s patience, which was short for a Mask and one of her major downfalls, for which she was chastised at home.

  “Absolutely correct,” Jeet murmured, turning a vellum page in the book he held with gentle fingers. “Why have we not seen them before now?” Mel’s inward-looking gaze fell unfocused in the green glowing room of the library as she scrambled to find a reason, a catalyst, an impetus for the recent strange occurrences. Vern read on, oblivious to Mel’s growing agitation.

  The tapping began inside Mel’s shoe—a tiny little press of her toe on the inside of her shoe. She couldn’t control the impatience coursing through her body. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice—they didn’t seem to be as sensitive to the foibles of others as the members of the Mask settlement were. But no, Wells raised an eyebrow at her and quirked a corner of his aged mouth. Taking a breath, Mel began to calm herself. She slowed the beats of her heart, counting the moments between them. The blood within her began to slow, to retreat.

  “Stop that,” Morla said, with a snap of her fingers. “If you wish Vern to read at a more urgent pace, simply tell him so. After all, we are all wanting the same information as you. Don’t be afraid to express what others are feeling as well.”

  Mel shook her head. “Not suppressing my feelings…that’s against everything I was taught.” Drilled into her, more like. Years of disapproving looks at her fidgeting, her lonely, solitary upbringing as a child among scholarly adults had ingrained these deep-running habits within her.

  “Then unlearn it. It’s not wise to deny the self its true expression.” Morla turned toward Vern. “And you, hurry along, please. Before we die of old age.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Some of our greatest scholars have theorized that should elémentaire exist—of which we have eyewitness testimony now that they do exist.” He paused to cast a meaningful look in Mel’s direction. “They are, in theory, the guardians of the earth who serve the old gods, Falcun of the sky, Pesca of water, Dovay, and so on and so forth. We all know who the poly gods are, thanks to Kursey’s dramatic illustrations and very thorough discourse on the subject. Plus, the statues at the northern port, which you’ve seen, Mel, of course. Getting back to the matter at hand. So when the earth experiences a trauma or an offense, these guardians, composed of materials of the earth—water, fire, air, and earth itself—arise in its defense.”

  “Which brings up a fascinating counterpoint to the monotheists, the dominant belief system in our fair city,” Jeet broke in. Then he explained to Mel, “The majority of our elected government officials here in Tooran are monotheists—rather than adhere to the idea of many gods, they worship—or take pains that their constituents are aware they worship—their one true god, who has no roots in the polytheistic paradigm. Their entire belief system is going to be called into question if this river elemental makes a reappearance.” He rubbed his hands together. “The election this summer is going to be one for the history books, more than ever. I love the upheaval, the forceful ejection of the failed dignitaries, the inward thrusting of the new contenders.”

  “So distasteful, Jeet. Stay on topic, if you please,” Morla chastised. She gave an exaggerated shiver that seemed incongruous because of her build and appearance—so Mask-like to Mel—in contrast with her behavior. Mel tried to imagine her mother, if she were living, making such a dramatic gesture, but failed. Morla went on, “Forgive him. He’s a political creature. Always chasing after the trends and latest gossip. He says he’s watching history in the making, but so much of it is a waste of time. What does it mean for the world in the long run, in the overall picture of things?”

  But Mel had almost reached her breaking point. Instead of fighting it, she took Morla’s previous advice to heart and spoke up, though it felt as if she might be punished for it. “I don’t care how this will affect your local government. I realize I should, but I just want to know how to find my missing friend and get back across the river to the rest of my people.”

  Vern closed the big book with a thud. He folded his spectacles and put them in a special pouch sewn into his shirt. “Well, why didn’t you say so.”

  Chapter 20

  In the desert, days and nights did not run together because of their extreme nature. Red days blended with days, blue nights with nights—but the cycle spun without cessation.

  Just when worry was starting to leak into the fatigue of Zunee’s mind—over finding fresh water, food, and a place to make a semi-permanent camp so that her younger sisters could rest—she stumbled across a small patch of desert primrose growing out of the red sand. Not believing her eyes at first, she stopped in her tracks and tilted her head. The delicate four-petaled flowers lifted their faces upward, resolute and cheerful in the lingering heat, still seeking the sun despite the last dry blasts of air of the day. Feathery yellow centers opened to beckon the rare insect to feast on their nectar.

  She almost sank to her knees. Not a great lover of flora, nonetheless she smiled, one corner of her mouth lifting. She’d heard that in some lands, lovers brought flowers to each other as a token of affection. To her, flowers meant water, which meant food, animals, and life. Their lives, to be exact. She didn’t pick one of the blossoms, but reached a hand to stroke over the creamy, pale petals, letting the flowers lie where they had been persistent enough to grow. Then she rose and walked again with her sisters. The sun was setting, its last rays disappearing on the horizon, and they had just begun their night’s journey.

  “I dreamt I was fishing on the river,” she told Deni, who had paused to let her catch up with him. Standing with his feet apart, balanced for motion, ready to continue their journey. He was always at the ready, preparing to follow—not without complaint, she knew—any number of her foolhardy schemes. As a child, she’d once convinced him to help her harvest the prickled apples off a spiny cactem plant. While the ruby red fruits were edible if skinned, Zunee’s people traditionally harvested them using long-handled tongs. As a stupid child, she’d persuaded Deni to join her in picking the fruits barehanded, and though they ended up harvesting an impressive haul of the fruit which their aunties later boiled into sweet jams, both of them had so many prickers in their fingers that their hands had been swollen for days.

  He snorted, standing as he always did, on strong legs, feet planted apart. “What do you know about rivers and fish? We’ve never even seen a true pond. Just a puddle from rain.” It was true. Some areas of the desert were known for their heavy rainy season, but not theirs. She’d heard stories of rains that caused floods, even, in the desert. Temporary ponds that drew animals from far and wide to feast on seasonal vegetation. Whereas the water that sustained them at their family settlement had to be drawn up from a well, from deep within a cave that one o
f their ancestors had discovered.

  “I don’t know anything about fishing but what I’ve dreamed up in my mind,” she agreed. “But it was magnificent. I was standing in water up to here.” She gestured to her knee in the fading light. “The water was sparkling with the sun’s shine. But it was not hot on my skin. And the fish were so plentiful, they jumped out of the water. I threw down my fishing pole and began to catch them with my hands.” Deni laughed at her again, his eyes creasing in the corners, but she went on, undeterred. “I have never felt a wet fish, but in my dream they were smooth and cold. Their bodies were strong as they wriggled between my hands. I had so many, I began to put them back into the waves and let them swim away.”

  He was silent for a minute as they walked, stirring up the powdery dust under their feet as it lost its red color in the dusky twilight. Then he said, “That’s a nice dream. A very nice one.” When he looked at her, his eyes seemed to say more.

  Zunee cleared her throat, done with her moment of weakness. The lack of food in her belly was sapping her sanity and good judgment. She had stooped to telling Deni about her private dreams. Next, she’d be telling him about her dreams of him—except that would never happen, not in a million revolutions of the sun. Her best friend would stay her closest friend, with no awkwardness between them. Ever. She meant to be the protector of her family, not an empty-headed girl befuddled by foolish dreams.

  When had he stopped being simply a friend? Or had she always felt this way about him? Lately, her dreams, the more secret ones, featured his eyes, dark and smiling at her—in a way she’d never experienced but found herself craving. What would his hands feel like on her face? His strong, smooth fingers. Wondering what his touch would feel like made her cheeks turn hot, and she was glad her skin didn’t show the embarrassment of her thoughts. Some of her sisters were fairer and less able to hide their emotions.