Then, just as Arek throws his opponent to the ground again, he looks straight at me—almost as though he knows I’m here. His sweaty fist rises to the sky to call everyone to stop. There is no use hiding now, so I descend the old chiseled rock stairs that lead into the meadow.
“I’m sorry I’m bothering you,” I say as I walk close.
“No, it’s all right,” Briston answers with a smile, breathing heavy.
Every one of them wears the same gi pants. Just under their left hip on the black material is a gold lion on his hind legs and it mesmerizes me. Until suddenly time shifts, and a new vision rises within me.
In the field of yellow flowers, sweat rolls down my face as thick as after a swim, but my thighs burn in lunge stance. A knife with a green lion emblem is clasped tightly in my palm. I’m determined. My developed body, muscular and trained, patiently waits.
Kenichi walks in a circle, treading lightly but confidently through the high grass around me. Mak, in warrior pose, stands across from me, our eyes never leaving each other’s. Kenichi speaks in Japanese about how to be centered within our spirit.
“You mustn’t fight with anger. Passion is good because it keeps you moving, it keeps you strong. But every time you get angry, you lose power.” While Kenichi speaks, I keep my eyes on Mak who is staring me down like an enemy.
“Tatakai!” Kenichi yells.
Our arms and hands swiftly battle. In ten moves, Mak falls to the ground, my arm around his chest and my leg catching the back of his legs till he lands hard with a groan. In seconds he is back on his feet.
“Again,” Kenichi calls out.
In six moves this time, he falls again.
The vision ends at the sound of Arek’s voice, “Willow?”
“I’ve been here before,” I say. “The lion.” I point to Arek’s emblem.
“We were here often,” Mak says with a smile.
“Did I win our fights often?”
“Yes.” Mak gives a sheepish grin.
“I was obviously trained to fight.”
“It isn’t like the fairytales,” Mak explains. “All Velieri receive the best training there is. Many of the green beret, Navy Seals, you name it, are hidden.” He looks at the other men as if sharing an inside joke. “If you can choose a soldier who has been training for ten to thirty years, or one that has been training for centuries . . .” Mak shrugs his shoulders and throws his knife to the ground so it sticks upright. “So, do you remember how to fight?”
“I’m not sure. I think the moves make sense.” I pull my sweater off knowing what he’ll ask next.
“Let’s see. You might surprise yourself,” Mak says, coming close to me. “No weapons.”
Immediately it is obvious that only Mak and Kenichi think this is a great idea. Mak isn’t going to take no for an answer, and deep inside, neither am I.
Briston steps to Mak. “Not yet.”
“I’ll go easy, of course. Don’t you see the importance of this, sir?” Mak asks.
Arek shakes his head and crosses his arms. “The last thing we need her to do is remember the fighter that she was. The important thing is just to keep her away from Navin until next week.”
Mak pushes back, “She’s clearly regaining memory, why not let her enjoy herself while she is here.” So again, he stands readily. One part of me shakes from fingertips to toes, the other is eager—this is now a consistent battle inside me.
“No Mak.” Arek tries to end it all before it begins.
A swift wind suddenly blasts the field, bending branches and flowers to the right, and this is my sign, the part of me that wants to know wins out.
After a moment, I throw my sweater to the ground and stand in front of Mak. “You seem to be salivating at the chance to fight me at my weakest.”
“I’m salivating because it was always a joy to watch Remy fight.” He winks at me, like he has always done.
Arek shakes his head with frustration while Briston tries to rally himself behind the idea.
“Mak, be kind,” Briston says and raises an eyebrow.
“Have you ever known me to be anything else?”
Instantly, my voice and Briston’s meet with a resounding, “Yes!”
Kenichi says nothing as he props my body in position, then calls us to begin. Although there is some hope in me as well as Mak, there is no instinct to do anything and in seconds, the wind is knocked out of me when I hit the ground with a thud.
Instantly, Arek tries to come, but Mak is there first with his hand out to me and helps me to my feet.
“That’s enough, Mak. Clearly, she’s going to have to learn everything again,” Arek assures him.
“I don’t buy that. It was the first chance . . . once again you feel you should run to her rescue. She’s a tough woman, Arek, if you don’t stand in her way.”
Every one of us hold our breath and wait for what Arek might say or do. His chest rises as Mak baits him, but instead of responding he remains quiet and turns to me. “Do you want to do this?”
I do. I really do. Yet it is possible that my voice won’t work so a nod is enough.
“Come on Willow,” Mak pleads.
“Just a second,” I say quickly and hurry to Arek. “Any suggestions?”
“Yes, practice and time.” His eyes bore into me.
“So, it’s going to hurt?” Being afraid of pain is not new. This is the very reason we are all cautious in life, but an unfamiliar urge to continue despite it is beginning to emerge.
“Yes. But the better stance you get with your feet, and the more strength you have so that you can move with the hits, the less it will cause you pain.”
Soon, we fight again. It is more like play for Mak and complete fumbling for me. Five moves and my back hits the ground hard when he takes my feet out from under me. Then again, five moves. Then again, five. A deep frustration begins to grow and now there is no stopping until something changes. Again, five moves. Again, five.
Then suddenly it takes him six. Instead of allowing his foot to come around and sweep mine, I move differently. What happens after that? Now it replays in my mind.
“Again,” I say quickly stepping to him. Yet this time, my hand blocks a bicep and steps differently. “Ten!” I yell from the ground with joy. “Again!”
The strategy is progressing and this time he must work. My back doesn’t hit the ground until thirty.
Mak comes to my side, smiling.
“Horrible?” I ask out of breath.
“No,” Mak says as he pulls me to my feet. “You did well. You don’t have the strength you used to, but that’s because Remy worked on this nearly every day.”
“To be fair Mak,” Arek’s resonant voice carries, “you aren’t a fighter.”
Something in Mak’s eyes change and he stands up straight. He and Arek stare at each other for long enough to make everyone shift uncomfortably. “Then why don’t you show her if I don’t have what it takes?”
Maybe it is Arek’s discomfort that makes me suddenly curious. “Yeah,” I say.
He looks at me with irritation. “I didn’t want to do this to begin with.”
“But you saw how she got better. Make sure she knows what she’s truly up against,” Mak goads.
Arek walks away.
“Please?” I call out. He stops. “My imagination is worse; I promise you that.”
For the first time since this all began, Kenichi’s accent sweeps silence over the men. “Peace means far more than the opposite of war.” Everyone looks at him, yet he stands confidently disconnected as though what he says is enough.
In seconds, Arek stands in front of me. “Ready?”
With Mak, there had been a stance that seemed to work against him and so I assume it again.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“How does anyone answer this question when a mountain stands in front of them?” I make the others laugh. Yet I had watched Beckah destroy the men she fought despite her size. How? “Ready,” I agree.
There is nothing to see, it happens so fast. None of it hurts, but before my hand can reach out, he catches me and twists me into a pretzel. It is hard to tell if it is one move or seventeen. He leans down over my trapped body with a raised eyebrow. “Every member of the Velieri force is like me and there are many of us.”
“All the more reason to teach me to fight,” I whisper from the ground.
After a few moments of silence, he helps me to my feet. “Not today. Let’s head back. Your father and I have work to do.”
Kenichi pats my back as he walks with me to the house. “It will come.”
“Where did you hear that quote? ‘Peace means far more than the opposite of war.’ It sounds familiar,” I ask as he hands me a flower that he picks up from the brick path.
“Mr. Rogers.” He smiles with a sly wink. “Let’s go drink.”
After several days at Kenichi’s, I have dreams of a life I don’t remember instead of Japha—the man who used to steal my nights. They don’t come in order, but when they do it’s as though the memories are mine again . . . no longer someone else’s.
Briston stands in a massive room that appears to be a court, yet larger. An audience extends to “standing room only” in the nearly five thousand square foot space. It is shaped like a pentagon where the two adjacent walls make a point and within that hangs a large statue of the letter V.
On one of these walls, opposite the audience, are box rooms extending out two feet, like those in an opera house. Forty women and men, including Japha, fill twenty box rooms. Three men and two women in white robes sit in a row of thick, dark wood tables just below these boxes.
Stone statues line the opposite side, five sculptures of angels hang from insets, and heavy purple material drapes tall windows in every corner of the room. Behind the audience is a massive bookcase, yet it isn’t filled with books—just old parchment scrolls.
Briston stands, facing the boxes and white robed men and women, with a baby in his arms.
One of the five in white robes stands. “We dedicate her to God and to the court. Under the laws of our ancestors, we shall protect her with all our power and see that she fulfills her path.”
“Thank you,” Briston says. “I have your word?”
“You have our word that it will be written and when the time comes, people will know of the revelation. But until then, Remona has our protection,” an old man assures Briston.
Whether it is the fact that my feet are strangled by the crumpled blanket at the end of the bed or the dream, either way, sweat stings my eyes. The humid air presses against me like a wet blanket making it difficult to breathe.
The Prophets in my dream are in charge, but somehow the men and women in the boxes behind them are also—that I know. Japha appears calm and quiet, a different man than the one who has been a part of my life.
It takes more than an hour to fall back asleep, but only a moment to dream.
Briston climbs on to a three-foot-high stone wall to walk the narrow surface. His eyes roam the large and empty land. Just ahead of him, the Swiss Alps reach into the clouds to hide. As he stares at them, he seems so lost in thought that the blonde-haired child sneaks behind him without notice. I am no older than eight as I tiptoe on the rock wall until he is only an arm’s length away. At first, I am watching the scene take place through the eyes of a watcher, until Remy’s sight becomes mine—as does her excitement and laughter that escapes from my throat.
With a tiny hand, I reach out, but a large roar fills the air as Briston grabs me in his arms. Together we laugh.
“What are you doing here?” he asks in a heavy Swiss accent.
“I want to be with you.” I, too, have this same accent.
“Then, come on. We have things to do.”
This is the first time I walk the streets of the villages with my father. In only moments, he has given many in need money, food, and his attention. For the first time I truly understand why Briston Landolin is a loved and revered man. His hand embraces many shoulders, and his lips smile to any, no matter their position. Each person clearly understands this is not normal behavior for an Electi.
“You see, Remy, it doesn’t matter what anyone says, if you can help one person, then you can eventually help them all.”
We walk hand in hand as my eyes follow a playful sparrow feeding off the community. It flies back and forth from one side to the next until it glides between two buildings off the path and lands on the cover of a black, fancy carriage. A woman in a black cloak, hood pulled over her eyes, turns just enough to reveal herself. The happiness consumes me when I see my mother, Lyneva. She is one of the most beautiful women in the world. It doesn’t matter that a nanny has taken her place for the eight years since my birth except for a few moments every morning. My eagerness wells within me and I shoot forward.
“Remy, stop!” Briston calls from behind.
My mother’s small petite shoes tap the steps as she climbs into the carriage; she looks left and right, keeping a surveillance of everyone and everything. No one has seen her there, deep in the recesses.
“Momma!” I call out, but my voice is too small. The servant closes the door to the carriage as she sits down.
There is a man next to her in the shadows. When she sits back, it illuminates his face. The salt and pepper hair, the deep-set eyes, and the arthritic hands—just a bit younger. Japha grins at whatever my mother says.
“Momma?” I call out.
My voice carries with a small breeze and she turns. It is as though she has seen the dead.
“Go!” she motions to the driver.
My father kneels at my side. “Remy, you can’t run away from me here.” He is out of breath after the chase.
“Momma,” I point.
“What?” he asks. Never has my father’s face expressed so much bitterness as he looks up and finds the black carriage.
It speeds away.
He takes a couple of steps forward and stares for many moments after it is gone. He takes me in his arms and whispers in my ear, “Don’t ever run from me like that.”
When I wake from this night of constant dreams, the first place I want to go is the meadow. There’s no other place they will be.
Sweat rains down their brows and cheeks, as every muscle constricts until the tension shows by the map of veins in their biceps and hands. There is dew on the grass in the early morning as Kenichi, Mak, Briston, and Arek take long steps with slow arms.
I watch for a moment, hidden behind the thicket of trees just off the winding path. With the memories of my father, everything has changed overnight. The man I see today is not from yesterday.
Once again, just as the day before, Arek’s eyes turn in my direction. I descend the stone steps and walk directly to Briston, who is nearest.
“You should have a scar here.” I touch the skin between his thumb and forefinger. Briston smiles. “The very first time you taught me to use a knife, I sliced you here.”
Briston chuckles, “Yes.”
“And you took me to court when I was just a baby.” I finally look around at all the men who clearly understand what has happened. “Japha was in one of those box insets in court. Whatever those are? Men and women in white robes said they would protect me all my life . . . I’m assuming they are either the Prophets or the Powers?”
Even my dad’s voice no longer sounds like a stranger. I still can’t grasp what it feels like to live nearly a thousand years, but the comfort of his voice is now mine and doesn’t just belong to Remy.
“Well, at least I know you and Mak.”
He looks at me with a grin. “At least.”
“Ask me anything. I know my life with you. My mother’s name was Lyneva.”
He quickly hands his knives to one of the servants and then turns back to me.
“How much do you remember?”
“My childhood. Almost everything with you.”
I can see in his eyes that his mind is reeling with concern and fear, mixe
d with joy to have his daughter back.
Arek is obviously concerned. “How much do you remember of her? Lyneva?”
“Nothing . . . just her name. I know you don’t want me to remember.” I cast a glance at Arek, standing not very far away. He watches with a serious expression, still sweaty from the morning’s practice. “But it’s not stopping . . . clearly.”
“Welcome back.” Briston pulls me into him as he’s done all my life, or at least the old life. He kisses my temple and gives a reserved laugh. After a moment he lets go. “It’s been too long.”
The meadow is so silent that not even the morning caws of birds are singing now. Every servant watches from a distance but look at one another out of the corner of their eyes.
“Kenichi,” Arek keeps his voice a low rumble. “Tell them what you were told yesterday.”
“Give them a moment,” Mak instructs.
“We don’t have time, Mak,” Arek barks.
Kenichi nods. It is difficult to make out what he says under his broken English. “I spoke with Master Niya yesterday. He admits that the Prophets and Powers believe that our only option is the Cellar. Fires have had to be put out all over. The reaction is,” he takes a breath, “bigger than they expected since they let her walk free.”
“They’ve warned us to say nothing to her. Plus, we all know the only chance we have at finding out what really happened is to get the Powers to truly believe that she is not Remy—yet. They can’t take Willow,” Arek says.
“They’re going to take her anyway.” Mak shakes his head as he dries off his skin with a towel.
Arek clenches his jaw.
Mak addresses him, “They know there is no stopping her memory. They’ve placed, once again, another rule that can’t be followed. I don’t believe they will care whether she gets her memory back or not. You’re trying to stop something that isn’t to be controlled. The Prophets will send her to the Cellar. It’s only a matter of time.”
Out of the Shadows: Book One of the Velieri Uprising Page 13