Out of the Shadows: Book One of the Velieri Uprising

by Tessa Van Wade

  “We don’t know.” He thinks for a moment. “It happens to some. So we have teams of the CTA in all hospitals to identify those who return. Who knows the reason. If you ask my grandmother, she’ll tell you that God had more to do. Others say old superstitions of one’s great power. We’ll never know some things.”

  “I dreamed of my arrest.”

  “What?” he says quickly.

  “Leigh came in with his men when we were sleeping. Why? Why didn’t he just arrest me at a normal hour?”

  “He knew he had to do it when we weren’t prepared.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m second in command of the Velieri Protection under my father. I could have prevented it had I known what they were going to do.”

  “You’re second in command?”

  He nods. “Leigh’s duty and loyalty to the Powers and Prophets has always been far greater than his love for his son. He didn’t tell me anything that they had concluded about you, and that last morning . . . was the last time you and I were together before the execution.”

  Not too far away some books on a shelf catch my eye. In only moments one of them is in my hand. I read aloud the header etched on every page: “The Chosen Prophets.” I look at him, “You’ve told me nothing about them.”

  Arek turns to the first page. “The original prophets were chosen for their discernment. Each one was an inspired teacher, believing in miracles and the Divine. They believed that seeking money, power, and greed pushed you further from happiness. However, just like everything else, men become corrupted by selfish desires. What once began as a quest for safety for the Velieri people turned to a means of wealth, and complete Power.”

  “Yet you remain loyal to them? And abide by what they say?”

  “I believe there are still Prophets and Powers that are good and seek truth and peace. However, those few can’t lead the whole. If you say anything against the few, you’re dead. Do you understand?”

  “So Navin is right to rebel from the Prophets?”

  “No. Navin’s true goal is decimating an entire group of people. That’s what he wants. He’s used the guise of freedom for an agenda. We have to play the game, Willow. Until we find the checkmate.”

  “And the Powers?”

  “The Powers represent the Velieri territories and are supposed to trust that what the Prophets say are revelations from God. But they are secretly divided, just as the Velieri people are.”

  “So why don’t they want Navin and Japha killed?”

  “Bribery, power, control . . . Navin has made alliances and deals with many in power. Besides it’s sad to say what some will believe about a group of people just because of one misguided man. The Ephemes are not bad people and they don’t all deserve to die. Yet you tell people lies enough, they might believe them.”

  Again, my fingertips push the papers until they are a mess across the table. Several very old papers written in another language come to the surface.

  “What is this language?”

  “It’s an ancient language that the old Velieri use to hide conversations when they are being persecuted. It seems a bit medieval to use, but in some cases, we’ve had no choice.”

  “I understood it in my dream.”

  “You did?” He looks at me with a sideways glance. “Leit yi advalecia ei?”

  At first it sounds like gibberish, but closing my eyes helps. “Say it again?”

  “Leit yi advalecia ei?”

  “Yes.”

  Arek raises the back of his hand in front of his mouth and I try to read his eyes, but as usual, it is nearly impossible. The tug of war is real even for him. Is he happy that I can understand? There’s no way to tell.

  “Sped fitmon,” I finally say when he hasn’t said anything.

  Then his expression changes from reminiscing to worry to, it seems, resolve.

  Standing, he nods. “Our choice now is just to be one step ahead of Navin. The Prophets and Powers have given us a week, so we wait.”

  “And when I remember?”

  “There’s no stopping it now.”

  Hours later, when Arek and I have dressed and are belted in the belly of the plane, an airport comes into view outside my window. Flat green land borders trees and homes with the quiet runway sitting directly center of it all, and it makes me take a curious second look. One wing drops, then the other sways as the pilot descends to the familiar land.

  San Francisco has been my refuge all my life. I was aware of the irony that a city that never sleeps gives me comfort and I used to have zero desire to travel. Yet the deeper we delve into this world, the less homesick I feel, and it occurs to me that quite possibly, somewhere deep within, these people and these places are becoming less than strangers.

  Scouring the view for some sign to know where we are, it occurs to me that it isn’t needed. I pull out my iPhone and quickly type in Kagoshima airport in Japan. Instantly, that’s when everything becomes clear, as the view out my window pops up on my screen.

  I know this place well.

  Across the jet, Briston paces back and forth with his phone to his ear. Everyone else stands with their bags ready for the doors to open. Yet he has fire in his eyes while battling someone on the phone, until he turns and notices my stare. My expression makes an impression, so he immediately hangs up. With his head cocked to the side, he walks to me.

  For a moment we say nothing.

  Finally, his blue eyes dig into mine as he nods with understanding. “Arek told me. There’s no expectation, Willow. I’m simply here to keep you safe until we know what to do next. You are my daughter, but I don’t need you to act like one.”

  “Thank you,” I answer quietly.

  In short minutes we exit the large jet onto the open runway. Several small planes are lined up to leave, but for the most part it is a quiet day for this airport.

  Two well-dressed men of clear Japanese descent wait patiently off the runway with three cars lined up behind them. Briston and Arek hurry over, leaving us all to follow behind. They embrace these men and exchange a happy conversation for several moments as Sassi stops me far enough away that everything they say is out of ear shot. Kilon and Sassi stand on each side of me, studying the surroundings with their hands on their guns.

  “Sassi?” I say quietly. She looks at me to let me know she is listening, but then continues to keep her eyes aware. “What are you to me?”

  “Your personal security. Since you were a young teenager.”

  “My bodyguards? Why did I need that?”

  Sassi says nothing.

  Just then Briston raises his hand to call us forward and soon I am nestled between Arek and my father in one of the vehicles that drives smoothly around the curves of Kagoshima countryside. Mesmerized by such a beautiful but unexpectedly familiar place, I tune out everyone in the car for the twenty minutes it takes to follow a winding road up the hillside. To our right are rows of farmland, edges caressed by the ocean; we are wrapped in the foliage of a forest to our left.

  Small roads lead us through weeping trees where moss grows on nearly everything and hangs from branches extended over wildflowers.

  “Kagoshima is beautiful,” I whisper.

  Arek rubs his forehead with surprise. “Did we tell you about this place?”

  I look at him, “No.”

  He nods. “You always thought it was beautiful.”

  Soon the jungle reveals several homes tucked deep within the dense forest by allowing just the highest tips of the traditional Japanese curved roofs to peek out. The cars are climbing a steep grade, rocking back and forth over roots and rough terrain. Then just as we turn a sharp curve, a long driveway leading to a large ornate red and black house appears. Several people in black uniforms who look like chefs found in a kitchen are standing with their hands straight down and slightly crossed. When we come to a stop, before anyone can exit, these people hurry to gather everything and everyone from the vehicles.

  As my feet touch the gravel, there ar
e so many sounds to take in. Several species of birds call to one another, frogs release deep guttural croaks, and a high-pitched sound calls that I can’t quite figure out at first until I see a small monkey swing from branch to branch. Compared to where we have just been, this place is much warmer so each of us begins stripping off our outer layers.

  A woman with bright red lipstick, her hair perfectly straight and shiny black, elegantly dressed with yellow shoes, steps out of a sliding door of the large home, but doesn’t come farther. She simply watches with unhappy eyes.

  Everyone is there: Arek, Kilon, Beckah, Geo, Peter, Briston, and the two men they have yet to introduce me to. They speak quietly near the back of the cars while I wait patiently trying to avoid the woman’s eyes. Soon she comes down the stairs toward me, her lipstick accentuating her straight mouth.

  “I didn’t believe it until now.” Her ivory skin is perfect as she speaks with a Japanese accent. “But here you are . . . at my house.” As she finishes the sentence, her words trail off in a tone that suggests she does not want me there.

  “Aita.” I hear a deep voice from behind me with the same accent. Unable to get a good look at him before, it is now possible to see just how old this Japanese man is, his bald head shiny. “Aren’t you going to say hello to our guests?”

  It is obvious that he has stepped to my side to give me assistance; then I feel Arek’s shoulder against mine on the other side.

  She lifts her chin and cocks her head with attitude. “You’ve got quite the protection—it seems nothing has changed. Kenichi and Arek still treating you like you can’t take care of yourself.”

  “Aita, go inside. Tell everyone they have arrived,” the old man says with irritation.

  She walks away, but never stops glaring.

  “Where have you brought me?” I whisper to Arek.

  He smiles.

  “I apologize to you, Remy,” says the Japanese man named Kenichi.

  “She goes by Willow—” Arek informs Kenichi, but I stop him quickly with my hand.

  “It’s okay, Arek. I guess I should really try and get used to it. Remy will be fine.” We shake hands.

  “Oh, I see. You don’t remember anything?” His accent is so thick it is hard to follow.

  “No, sir. I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  The old man looks at Arek and Briston. “Clever. Very clever. How can the Prophets and Powers fight that?”

  “This is Kenichi Oto,” Briston informs me. “He and I have been friends for . . .” The two older men look at each other.

  “A very long time,” Kenichi says as they chuckle.

  Briston continues, “We thought it would be safest to have you here.”

  Not one place has been unreachable for Navin. I want to trust them, but it is difficult. Kenichi grabs Briston’s shoulder, “Let’s drink.”

  Everyone begins to make their way to the house, but Arek stays behind.

  “Navin would never know to come here,” he begins as though he already knows my thoughts. “And Kenichi’s safeguards are also quite extensive.”

  “Is there protection from that woman with the red lipstick?” I grin.

  Arek shrugs, “That’s Aita. Let’s just say that you two didn’t see eye-to-eye on much.”

  “I’m beginning to feel that Remy had more enemies than friends.”

  “Enemies are just louder.” The banter is so easy that when he reaches out and his fingertips draw a path on my shoulder, it takes a moment for him to withdraw.

  Together we make our way into Kenichi’s home. It could be a museum. Glass cases line the walls, with antique weapons and armor displayed securely inside. The foyer alone is the size of a large room and it leads into an even larger space where the tiles on the floor are laid in a perfect circle. Thirteen-foot windows stand on the other side, filling the traditionally decorated room with warm light from the setting sun. Plants line the walls, but there is no furniture.

  Standing confidently in the middle of the circle is the younger, taller, and handsome Japanese man that was with Kenichi at the airport. There is an edge of confidence about him that meets me before his physical body can. His black hair sweeps up and over like a wave and his dark eyes watch me closely. Everyone else pays no mind to us, but something in my head whispers a name repeatedly.

  “Mak?” I ask.

  He smiles with pleasant surprise. “A servant told me that you don’t remember?”

  “Is that right?” I ask him. A few more steps toward him brings me so close that the smell of his perfection sweeps memories through me like a sweet spring wind.

  “Yes. Makoto. You used to call me Mak.”

  Unexpectedly to everyone and even me, I throw my arms around him. There is such relief. The comfortable essence when you know someone is far greater to you when it has suddenly been stripped away. He squeezes me and kisses my cheek. “What do you remember?”

  I look around the room and things become clearer. A vision of two young children running through and passing us—a golden-haired girl and a dark-haired boy—laughing as he chases her. “We ran around here . . . just children. You wouldn’t stop chasing me.”

  There is no denying the happiness on everyone’s faces, but the one lost expression is Arek’s. Our eyes meet. He breathes in, gives me a forced grin, then exits the room swiftly.

  Mak speaks and brings my attention back to him. “You recognize this room?”

  The tall windows let the low sun spray my face and the tap of the tiles make a hollow sound as I walk. To answer his question, I point to the half manicured, half jungle garden out back where a chubby, happy Buddha sits as a water feature, and I smile. “Not much has changed.”

  “My father, king of ‘keep things the same.’” Mak stands by me, our shoulders touching, which is completely acceptable and possibly preferred.

  On the side of Mak’s face is a small scar. I’m compelled to trace my fingers lightly along it. “The boys that summer.”

  “No one was going to get away with treating you that way,” he says. I wrap my arm within his with ease.

  The others around the room occupy themselves with other things as though careful not to impinge on our connection. My first and only friend stands beside me, yet why just him? Every one of them hopes to be someone I will remember.

  “So where does Remy’s army stand with you?” he asks, clearly hearing my unvoiced thoughts.

  “What do you mean?” Yet, I know what he means and he knows this so he eyes me suspiciously. “I understand that they’re here to help.” My whisper brings his head closer to mine. “But they want me to remember. I can feel it.” For the first time, as though his presence gives me freedom, the bottoms of my eyes become small pools of emotion. He notices that I am desperate to keep it hidden and he stands with his back to them to cover me. Our facade of watching the garden continues.

  His hand slides around mine that holds his arm. “They know it will take time. I promise.” He wraps his fingers in mine with his palm resting on the top of my hand. For a moment he looks at me, unable to hide his smile, then he pulls my hand to his and kisses it. “I missed you.”

  In a sudden vision as younger versions of us, Mak leans over to kiss me. My heart races suddenly. I am supposed to be married to Arek? And just like that, my relief is gone.

  A small bit of light somehow comes through the deep red curtains to wake me early the first morning. From this quiet room in the right wing, there is a view of a pathway leading through the Japanese gardens set evenly dispersed between thick jungle. Engaging in a deep stretch as I pull on a clean shirt that Sassi has given me, several figures follow the path just beyond the home. Arek’s frame is unmistakable, Kenichi’s bald head is covered in a knit cap, and Briston walks easily between them.

  A strange feeling of jealousy runs over me as though at one time my mornings had been filled with walks by their side, yet today they hurry off without me. I stack my hair on top of my head in a bun and quickly set off. When I was just a child, these c
old floors felt exhilarating in the early morning hours and now I must put on socks. The shadows point the same direction down the hall, and I follow them. The smell of smoke wafts in and before even catching a glance out one of the hall windows, my memory reminds me of the servants cooking on the outdoor hibachi grill, already preparing for the day.

  The misty air soaks my skin while walking along the brick path covered in cherry blossom trees that will bloom soon for spring.

  From every angle the amazing view takes my breath away. Oversize sand boxes line the trail with intricate designs drawn in them. Flowers brush my arms as they drop from the perfectly manicured trees. Some things are familiar, especially the path I take to follow the men. With every step, I can see that this trail has been walked many times.

  Small homes speckle the surrounding rainforest as I am able to guess that the color of the next roof will be green. Three large hedges stand in my way, but once I pass them, the green roof peeks above the tree line. One thing is sure, it feels like a dream, but most likely it has in some way been my reality.

  Just beyond a juniper tree with snake-like branches, I reach an overhang. Thirty feet below is a clearing where yellow wildflowers monopolize the area. Briston, Arek, Kenichi, and Mak, stand side by side facing the mountains with knives in their hands. From the waist up they wear nothing while they stand in isometric lunge and their arms move slowly in perfect synchronization. They bring their knives up in front of their faces and then straighten out their arms, pointing the blade and stretching their muscles as far as they can. Their faces show complete concentration as they move together in powerful lines of old manners of Tai Chi. The ability to keep their muscles under constant tension is a true form of art that makes me hold my breath. After several minutes from somewhere under the overhang, four more men appear and come to stand as counterpart to each one.

  They point weapons directly at each other, but no one moves a muscle for some time. I jump slightly when Kenichi yells in Japanese, “Tatakai!” Instantly, the men attack. Arek and Mak are quick and strong, their arms addressing each strike with ease. It only takes moments for them to find the upper hand on their attackers and when they win, they stop, touch hands with their partner, and begin again. And although it takes them longer, Briston and Kenichi are better than most men. Repeatedly they fight until covered in sweat.