by Jeff Giles
“This name,” said Regent, “is not of my choosing.”
X opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out the lord had plunged down his hand. The name entered X’s blood.
The name was Leo Wrigley.
It meant nothing to X.
But then Leo’s story hit X’s veins, and X howled like an animal at the shock of it.
He tried to push Regent away, flailing for his arms, his neck, anything. Regent stared down, his eyes full of pity. He tightened his grip on X’s face until the bones threatened to snap—and pinned him to the ground.
Suddenly, X was on a rocky beach somewhere, his brain black with pain and rage. He began stumbling along the water’s edge. The winds blew cold at his back. The tide, foaming and gray, swarmed over his boots.
He’d planned to collect this last soul as quickly as he could, so he could rush back to Zoe. But that was impossible now that he knew the man’s story. He plodded forward almost against his will, his heart full of lead. Beneath him, the ground was strewn with enormous logs that had been bleached by the sun. They looked like bones.
The Trembling grew stronger as he walked, pulling him forward like a chain. Still, the pain was nothing compared to X’s anger.
Who had chosen Leo Wrigley? Had the name been passed down from the Higher Power, or was it a ploy of Dervish’s? The Lowlands had no need for the puny man that X had been sent for—X was certain of that. The man had sinned, yes, but was he really unrepentant? X didn’t believe it. And if the Lowlands wanted this soul why hadn’t they sent a hunter decades ago? No, the one the lords truly wanted to punish was X. He had defied them. He had stood up. He had told them he was better than they were, that he was pure and noble—that he was worthy of love! And now they would strike him down. They would strip him of everything.
X stomped over the rocks. Above him, the clouds were dense and dark. It was as if his own fury had put them there.
When he had walked a half mile down the beach, a hard rain began to fall and made the ocean boil. There were only a few people within sight—old men who waved strange metal instruments over the sand, then stooped every so often to dig up a can or a coin. They rushed for the boardwalks between the cliffs now. X kept walking, indifferent to the storm. The rain was cold, and slipped down his face.
He could not take this soul. He knew that. The lords knew it, too. They knew that he’d give up every hope of freedom first.
Still, he wanted to lay eyes on the man he was about to sacrifice himself for. He continued down the beach. It would not be long before he was back in the Lowlands. His cell was a stony mouth waiting to swallow him forever.
Near the end of the beach, X felt the pain in his body flare, and looked up to see his prey coming toward him in the rain. The man was tall and wiry. He wore glasses and a red wool hat, which bobbed up and down as he walked. It was the only fleck of color in sight.
The rain crashed down in sheets now. The shore was deserted except for the bounty hunter and the soul he had come for.
Between them, there was a cliff that had been hollowed out by the tide. It rose up and over the beach like a giant, curling wave. The man ducked beneath it to get out of the rain, and took a seat on a fallen tree trunk. X stopped a hundred feet away, his boots sinking into the spongy sand. Should he turn back or continue? Every possibility, every thought, every emotion rushed at him at once.
The man saw X standing in the downpour. He cocked his head: What are you doing out there? He waved for him to come under the cliff. He gestured to the tree trunk he sat on: Plenty of room right here. Even in his torment, X found the innocence of the invitation touching. The man had no idea that X had been commissioned to kill him.
X stepped into the shelter, and sat without speaking. Above them, rainwater struck the top of the stony wave, then dripped off its outermost edge, like a beaded curtain. X looked at the ocean, at the bed of stones at his feet, at the smooth, curling wall of rock behind him—at everything but the man sitting beside him.
“Gonna be a while,” said the man.
X wanted to turn, wanted to speak, but found he could do neither. The man barreled ahead, unfazed.
“How freakin’ awesome is this rock?” he said, pointing up at the cliff behind them. “Sandstone. Coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”
X finally turned to him.
The man looked as harmless as a leaf.
X searched for something to say, but there was so much violence in his brain that it crowded out all thought.
The man smiled expectantly.
“Is this your first time in Canada?” he said.
X furrowed his brow.
“Is this Canada?” he said.
The man laughed, and X realized, with relief, that he thought he was kidding. The man was in his forties. He had a mop of brown hair and surprising green eyes that X recognized somehow. Beneath his jacket, he wore dingy clothes. His boots, coat, and glasses had all been repaired with the same shiny black tape. His clothes smelled like fish. He saw X notice the odor.
“I’ve been doing some ice fishing,” the man said. “It’s awful hard to make any kind of living up here.”
X felt an intense wave of loneliness pouring off his bounty. Ordinarily, he didn’t pretend to know what went on in people’s hearts, but loneliness was one of the few emotions he felt qualified to judge.
The man removed a glove and offered his hand to X.
“I’m Leo Wrigley,” he said. “What’s your name?”
X looked down at the man’s hand, which was pink and splotchy from the cold. He couldn’t make himself take it. Was it because of what the man had done? Was it because X was ashamed that he was meant to murder him? He wasn’t sure, but it was as if his arms were bound to his sides.
The man’s smile faltered. He withdrew his hand and gave X a long, hurt look.
Only now did X realize why he had recognized the man’s eyes: they looked like Jonah’s eyes.
X stood. He had to get away. The pain was too much.
“Your name is not Leo Wrigley any more than mine is,” he told the man. “It may be what you call yourself now, but it is not your true name.”
X ducked through the curtain of rainwater that fell from the cliff, and walked toward the noisy sea. He thought of Zoe. He would go to her now and see her one last time before he descended back to the only home he had ever deserved. He didn’t know how he would tell her—or if he would tell her—that her father was still alive.
sixteen
Zoe woke up giddy, as if someone had injected her with light. It was Sunday morning. Her body ached from caving. Still, it was the right kind of ache—an athlete’s ache. At nine o’clock, her mother peeked her head in and asked if she wanted to go into town with her. Zoe could hardly turn her head toward the door.
“Only if you have a stretcher,” she said.
“Terrific,” said her mother, leaning down to stroke her hair. “Now I have two kids who can’t leave the house.”
“Stop, stop, stop,” said Zoe. “That hurts.”
“Your hair hurts?” said her mother. “Is that even possible?”
“Apparently,” said Zoe.
When her mom left, Zoe inched her way to the edge of the bed, her muscles resisting even this tiny journey. Once upright, she staggered out of her bedroom and lurched across the hall to Jonah’s room, where she shouted, “Move, bug, move!” and collapsed onto his bed a fraction of a second after he had scrambled out of it.
Jonah listened to her groan for five minutes, then clambered back onto the ladybug, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “You are in no condition to be in charge.” He went down to the kitchen and made a tremendous amount of noise while constructing some sort of breakfast for her. Zoe heard so many machines ping and grind and whirl (the microwave, the blender, the Vitamix, the dehydrator, the cake mixer?) that she shuddered to think what lay in store for her. Still, it was the first time in days that Jonah had seemed … like Jonah. It was because she’d gone
caving. She would have done a dance if her body had been up to it. Jonah’s laptop was open on the floor. He’d made her I WILL COME BACK photo his desktop background.
At 9:30, Jonah pushed the door open with his bare foot and entered bearing a breakfast tray, which he laid beside Zoe with great ceremony. Zoe forced herself upright. Gazing down at the tray, she was surprised to find that Jonah had spent 30 minutes on a bowl of cereal, a glass of chocolate soy milk, and a bottle of Advil.
“What was with all that noise, bug?” she said.
Jonah looked confused.
“I was just playing,” he said brightly. “Did you think I was making you Eggs Benedict? I’m eight!”
Zoe eventually limped downstairs to the couch. She’d spent so many hours there lately that the cushions were molded in the shape of her body. She tried to do some calculus homework, but even the textbook seemed to know her mind was elsewhere: “Solve for X,” it told her. Zoe napped. She reread the article about Stan obsessively (where had X found a purple cowboy shirt?). And she ate lunch, thanks to Jonah who made her a peanut butter and banana sandwich on gluten-free bread in just under 35 minutes. By afternoon, she was bored, so she guilted Val into visiting by playing up her aches and pains and Snapchatting her five selfies, in which she made increasingly miserable faces.
Val came over in her pajamas: red flannel bottoms and a pink T-shirt that said, I Wanna Be a Housewife. As always, she brought a great jolt of energy into the house. She scratched Spock’s and Uhura’s bellies. She painted Jonah’s toenails green. She raved to Zoe about her girlfriend, Gloria, in such minute detail that it seemed insane, then touching, and then insane again. Spending time with Val was so effortless that Zoe found herself almost teary with gratitude. It was like being lifted by a tide.
Just as it got dark, they heard a truck in the drive. Zoe’s legs were so stiff that they buckled as she went to the window.
“It’s Dallas,” she said.
“Ooh,” said Val. “This should be interesting.”
“You will be nice,” said Zoe.
“I doubt it,” said Val.
Jonah scampered to the door. Dallas’s wrist was still bandaged from his fall, and he was carrying a shopping bag, but Jonah wanted a piggyback ride into the living room—and got one. Zoe always felt a pang when she saw how much her brother loved having guys in the house. It was like the sonar ping on a submarine. Zoe knew that not even the sum total of X, Rufus, and Dallas could fill the empty place where their dad used to be.
Dallas’s goofy smile faltered when he saw Val. He knew she only tolerated him for Zoe’s benefit.
He set his bag on the floor shyly. There was a present peeking out of it, wrapped in fancy blue-and-gold paper. The corners were so crisp and perfect that Zoe figured one of Dallas’s parents had done it for him. He remained standing because Jonah was still hanging off his back, like a cape.
Zoe watched as Dallas’s neck got pink, then red.
“Jonah, get off him, okay?” she said. “He needs to do stuff like breathe.”
Her brother did as he was told, but the moment Dallas took a seat Jonah plopped down on his lap.
There was silence for a while. Val was not just reveling in the awkwardness now, but actually bathing in it. She pointed to the package at Dallas’s feet.
“I can’t stand the suspense,” she said. “What’d you get me?”
Dallas sagged, embarrassed. He looked at Zoe.
“It’s just something to commemorate you killing it at Silver Teardrop,” he said. “You can open it later. It’s probably stupid.”
“Thank you, Dallas,” said Zoe. “I was pretty hard-core, right?”
“You were full-on, dawg,” he said.
“Open it now,” said Val. “I’d like to see what it is.”
“Me, too,” said Jonah, who was rocking back and forth on Dallas’s lap.
“I’m gonna wait, bug,” said Zoe. She turned to Val and whispered, “Stop being a dick.”
It was too late, anyway. Jonah was off and running.
“Open it! Open it!” he said. “Please and thank you! Please and thank you!”
Dallas drew the present reluctantly from the bag.
“Actually, Jonah sort of inspired it, so it’s kinda for him, too,” he said.
He handed the box to Jonah, who tore into the wrapping paper.
The noise brought Zoe’s mom to the room. She’d just returned from town and stood leaning against the doorway. The whole situation was out-of-control awkward now. Zoe’s heart went out to Dallas, who was reddening again.
Jonah pulled the lid off the box. Inside, there was what looked like an antique quilt. It was covered with hexagons in a dozen colors. Even from across the room, Zoe could see how beautiful it was, though she couldn’t figure out what it had to do with caving. Jonah frowned into the box. He was trying to decipher it, too.
“Wow, that’s a gorgeous quilt,” said Zoe’s mom, just to break the silence.
“It is,” said Val. “I’m not even kidding.”
“Thank you so much, Dallas,” said Zoe. “I love it. But—”
She was about to say that she didn’t exactly understand it, but she feared it would hurt Dallas’s feelings. Fortunately, Jonah turned out to be smarter than she was.
“It’s a blanket for Dad,” he said. “So he won’t be cold.”
Thirty seconds later, Zoe’s phone buzzed, and she looked down and saw that Val had texted her from the other end of the couch: The dude is IN LOVE with you. YOU’RE the one being a dick, you dick! Tell him NO HOPE! Tell him X!
TOLD him already, Zoe texted back.
Tell him again! HURT him if you have to—better now than later!
Zoe put her phone down before it became obvious to everybody that she and Val were texting each other. Within a few minutes, she had kicked everyone out of the room as politely as she could. She asked Dallas to hang out a second so they could talk.
Once everyone had drifted away—Val had hugged Dallas good-bye, and not even ironically—Zoe sat up on the couch and fished around for words. The sun was dropping behind the mountains. The room was more shadow than light. Dallas stared at her glumly, knowing that he’d done something wrong, but not knowing what it was.
“I need to know the name of The Girl Who’s Gonna Say Yes,” said Zoe. “And I need to know when you’re gonna ask her out.”
“Why?” said Dallas nervously.
“Because I need to know it’s not me,” said Zoe.
“It’s not you,” said Dallas. “Stop it.”
“I hope not, dawg, because I swear to god I will not say yes,” said Zoe. “I am The Girl Who’s Never Gonna Say Yes. I mean, I think you’re awesome. You’ve totally grown on me—as a friend. However…”
Dallas was in misery. He would not look at her.
“Stop, stop, stop,” he said. “I don’t want the Friend Speech. It’s Mingyu, okay? I’m going to ask out Mingyu.”
Zoe was shocked.
“Mingyu from Spanish?” she said. “Mingyu the Satanist?”
“She’s not an actual Satanist,” said Dallas. “She’s just … complicated. And complicated’s good, right?” He looked up at Zoe. “I finally figured that out.”
Zoe beamed.
“Happy to help,” she said.
That night, after her friends had all gone, Zoe finally departed the couch, her muscles still aching. She was trudging around the kitchen like a wounded Civil War soldier when her mom offered to drop her off at the hot springs for a soak. They tried to coax Jonah into coming along for the ride. He refused and threatened to lock himself in his room if they asked again.
Jonah watched from the window as Zoe and her mom left. He’d never been alone in the house before.
The hot springs were so still and dark that the mountains seemed to have gobbled them up. After her mom dropped her off, Zoe let herself in, singing loudly and switching on every light she could find, including the strings of white Christmas lights that had yet to be
taken down from the windows. The empty locker room spooked her slightly, thanks to a hundred high school horror movies. She changed quickly—her bathing suit was a black retro one-piece with a halter top that she’d spent too much money on and literally never worn—and then grabbed a towel and darted back into the hall. She had forgotten flip-flops. She tiptoed down the cold concrete corridor, avoiding the puddles that covered the floor like a chain of lakes.
Outdoors, the air was frigid. Zoe had forgotten how the cold took your breath away—how it electrified your skin even as you walked to the pool. Within seconds, her shoulders were shaking and her hands were in fists.
The water was shiny and dark. She stepped into it and crouched down low so it could spill over her shoulders. Her muscles relaxed, but her brain just wouldn’t. She didn’t like the way the mountains loomed over her in the dark. She felt stupid for having come alone.
Zoe turned onto her back, and paddled to the center of the pool. Her dad had taught her the names of all the constellations, but she’d forgotten most of them. So she gazed up, and—trying to distract herself—invented new ones. She named one cluster of stars the Candy of Banger and another, X’s Arms. After that, she closed her eyes and floated around peacefully, her legs and arms flung wide like the spokes of a wheel.
Then she began to feel that maybe she wasn’t alone.
She heard a hum that did not sound like the wind. She became weirdly conscious of the rustling of the trees. She thought about how she was miles from anywhere, how she was surrounded by black mountains, how she’d left her phone in the locker, how she didn’t even have a car. She kept her eyes closed, but couldn’t shake off the nervousness. It felt like someone dragging their fingernails up the side of her body.
When she finally opened her eyes, she was so surprised by what she saw that her heart began hammering. The water that she floated on—the water that held her up and splashed in tiny waves over her legs and arms—had turned orange and red.
It had begun to glow.
She pivoted toward the stream that fed the pool. It looked like a river of fire—and someone was rising out of it.