by Allie Jean
“What are you—” Chantal said, but Nick held up his hand and mumbled something. She was entranced by his sudden change. The words were foreign to her, but the cadence gave her a small sense of peace. Once he was done, he shoved the door open with ease.
“What was that?” She didn’t want to take another step without some kind of reassurances. She was sick of all the inquiry and intrigue. Why wouldn’t he just tell her what she wanted to know? Nick paused just beyond the door.
“There is more to this world than just what we can see or touch, Chantal. You of all people should know that by now. The answers you seek are inside. The priest can tell you all you want to know.”
Stunned, Chantal followed him silently through the metal casing. Just beyond the entrance, she could make out a large, rectangular room cast in dim lighting. There were a few people moving about in a bouncing rhythm, their action similar to a mother calming a fussy child. Soothing female voices in hushed song filled the room, adding to the feeling of calm and tranquility. Once she got closer, she could see that the women were in black robes, wearing the distinct white habits that signified them as brides of Christ.
Nuns? Priest? Why can’t he just answer her questions? She thought as she continued scanning the room.
As they moved deeper into the room, the rest of scene came into view. Several cribs rested against the stone walls in rows like a makeshift nursery. Each simple crib held one blanket per child, and each baby wore bland nighties made of thin cotton. The sight reminded Chantal of her upbringing in the countless foster homes she’d been placed in. She never had anything extravagant, either, but at least she’d had her mom to hold her at night when she was little.
“What is this?” Chantal leaned over to Nick, but just as he was about to answer her, a loud scream tore from across the room.
A little girl, no more than eight-years-old, was in the fetal position on a small bed, screaming in terror. A nun rushed to her side and tried to console her, but she seemed scared. She cried harder, and her sharp trills woke up some of the sleeping babies.
Several nuns rushed to the babies, picking them out of their cribs and comforting them as best they could. The poor girl, abandoned, pulled herself into the smallest ball she could manage. The bloodcurdling sound stirred something deep inside Chantal, reminding her of those nights when she’d awoken trembling and anxious. She felt the sharp pain of fear envelop her as she watched.
“What’s happening? Talk to me. I’m tired of trying to guess what the hell is going on.” She turned to Nick, wanting answers.
“They are plagued with nightmares,” he said, barely heard above the noise. “Each of these girls is like you. They dream as you do.”
No. She did not dream like this. Yes, she had nightmares that left her feeling scared and helpless, terrified even. But they had never resulted into the outright hysterics these poor children were suffering.
“This is horrible . . .”
She felt her eyes water as each little baby was lifted into a pair of gentle arms, leaving their beds abandoned. She couldn’t help but be disturbed by the scene. Those cribs should offer them comfort, not be a source of their fear.
“This is what we fight for,” Nick said.
“This?” she said, gesturing wide.
“Yes, this. Do you know what you are? What you mean, not just to each and every warrior, but to human kind?”
She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“No, I don’t have a damn clue because you won’t tell me anything!”
A door squeaked as it opened on the opposite end of the room. A priest walked over to one of the nuns, his expression a mix of exhaustion and concern. The nun gestured toward the girl, still crying on her bed.
The priest’s face softened as he saw her sitting there trembling, and made his way over to her, then whispered something into her ear. She lifted her head, her tear-soaked face reflecting her desperation. She nodded in response, and then followed him toward a far corner of the room, where two chairs sat side-by-side.
“What is he doing with her?” Chantal whispered to Nick.
“He is hearing her confession.”
“Does that help?”
“Yes.” His answer came quick and without inflection. “Speaking her sins out loud is somewhat cathartic.”
“Her sins? How could she have any? She’s just a child.”
He glared at her with a fierce expression.
“And the things in your dreams, do they leave you feeling the taint of evil and sin when you wake up?”
Chantal was stunned. If she was being honest, she’d never dwelled on her dreams in the past. She hadn’t tried to understand the wayward, sometimes violent images, chalking them up as the overactive imagination of a traumatized girl.
“I don’t remember much about them when I wake up,” Chantal said, feeling horrible all of a sudden. “The details are always a little hazy, but I feel uneasy when I wake up.” She glanced toward the screaming babies, and then back to the priest and girl huddled in the corner. What these girls must go through every night to leave them in such a state . . . it was incomprehensible. Why did they seem so upset by their dreams? What made her visions less vivid than the others?
“Is there a bathroom here?” Chantal whispered, feeling sick all of a sudden. Nick pointed across the room.
She passed a pair of tired nuns, their arms filled with fussy babies, their faces portraying their concern and exhaustion. Each selfless woman gave her a drowsy smile as she passed, but she couldn’t return it.
A shrill cry pulled her attention away, and she turned to see yet another infant girl, waking from a dead sleep to a gut-wrenching scream. Her tiny mouth gaped open, her eyes widened as tears poured from her eyes.
Chantal looked around her, panic clawing at her throat. No one came to comfort her because everyone else already had more than they could handle. Making a quick decision, she went and scooped the baby up into her arms, then rocked her, humming a song her mother used to sing to her when she awakened from one of her nightmares. Not that horrible rendition from her dreams. The one she sang had to do with hope and love, of endless peace and harmony.
As she sang, the baby’s cries ebbed. Chantal smiled when the baby’s huge brown eyes stared up at her. She stroked the soft skin of the girl’s cheek, comforting her, letting her know that she wasn’t alone.
None of them were anymore.
Her eyes started to close, the tension leaving her tiny features. Chantal felt the stiffness leave her small body as she drifted off into a peaceful sleep. Chantal placed a soft kiss on her forehead, wishing she could keep the demons away from her dreams. “It’s you,” she heard a small voice say in awe, and she looked over to see the little girl staring up at her with puffy eyes.
“My name is Chantal,” she whispered, keeping her voice low.
“I know,” the little girl said, smiling for the first time. She was beautiful, her grin lighting up her entire face. “I know who you are. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“For me?” Chantal asked, confused.
“Yes. You are the one who will save me from the bad one,” she said. Her tone held such assurance that it made Chantal’s breath catch in her throat.
“I don’t know who the bad one is, sweetie.”
The little girl wrapped her arms around Chantal’s waist, squeezing her in a fierce hug.
“You will,” she said and sighed, resting her cheek against Chantal’s abdomen. “It won’t be long now. He’s coming for you, too.”
“I’m sorry. We don’t have much, but maybe this will fit you.” A soft-spoken nun handed Chantal a bundle of clothing that had been dropped off to the church in a collection for the homeless.
“They’re fine, thank you,” she said, flat and unfeeling as she mindlessly took the clothing, her thoughts occupied with the horrific cries of the innocent little girls, although they had all fallen into a peaceful sleep several moments ago.
Mathias watched her as she turned toward
the bathroom, her face devoid of expression or emotion. He knew she’d been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours, and asking for more trust wasn’t fair.
But, she had to trust him and his warrior kin. It was his duty to protect her whether she wanted it or not. He could only hope she could continue showing the strength and courage he’d witnessed. Her life would never be the same after tonight. They both knew it.
“She seems strong,” he heard a deep voice mutter, and he turned to see the priest staring toward where Chantal had disappeared.
“She is. More than she gives herself credit for.”
“Her presence seems to have calmed the children. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them rest so well,” the priest said and he looked at the sleeping babies. Mathias glanced at the cribs briefly, his attention riveted on the bathroom door, just in case.
“Have you told her?” the priest wondered, turning a questioning gaze to him. Mathias shook his head in response, not meeting the priest’s inquisitive eye. The older looking man laughed humorlessly. “Why is it that none of you can bring yourself to tell these females who they are?”
“Not sure. I guess we’ve seen enough of the darkness this world is surrounded by, declaring a woman doomed to lead a life hunted by evil is something none of us are thrilled to do.”
“So you think it is better coming from a man of God? Makes the blow easier to take?” The priest’s words laced with obvious disapproval. Mathias leveled him with a wry glare.
“Hey, you signed up for this life. We didn’t.”
The priest laughed. “That I did, that I did . . .”
With a soft click, the door to the small bathroom opened. Chantal walked out, her face flushed and smelling of fresh soap. Her dark hair hung in damp strands around her shoulders. She had dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans that clung to her tiny hips. She wore a plain black tank top and held a gray hooded sweatshirt over her shoulder. In a soft-spoken exchange with a nun, she took an offered pair of clean socks and dusty Converse.
Mathias studied her. She seemed so small and exhausted, though held her head high, ready to take on the world. In the years he’d stood guard over her, he’d watched her transform from a quiet, apprehensive girl into a woman who knew how to handle herself if she had to. Chantal had been plagued at night by an unseen enemy, left with baffling memories of her past that did nothing but confuse her further. Her confidence and independence grew out of sheer tenacity as she dealt with her housemother. When lesser women would become introverted, clamming up into a shell of self-preservation, Chantal excelled.
He hated that she would come to realize everything she thought she knew was a lie.
“You care for her,” the priest observed.
Mathias didn’t answer, afraid of the truth. He knew he did care for her more than he should, but admitting it out loud would be a confirmation making him accountable, no longer giving him the option of denial.
“Warrior . . .” the priest probed, making Mathias feel very uncomfortable.
“I’m not your parishioner, old man,” Mathias snarled through gritted teeth. “Do not try to hear my confession.”
His features hardened when Chantal crossed the room, her newly acquired shoes secured onto her feet. As she walked down the center of the room, her vivid eyes searched along the sleeping babies tucked away back into their cribs.
She wrung her hands together in a nervous gesture, approaching the little bed that held the tiny girl named Lydia. The small one watched Chantal with a beatific smile, holding a chubby hand out to her.
“I didn’t want to sleep without you,” Lydia told her as if they’d been friends her whole life. Yet, there the woman sat upon the little girl’s bed with the child’s head in her lap, stroking her hair while she drifted off to sleep.
“It seems so unfair . . .” The words were out of Mathias’s mouth before he could stop them.
“That you care for her, or that she is to suffer what’s to come?” The priest’s question made him aware of his error, both in statement and in action. Shaking his head, he turned to the priest with a half-formed grin.
“Let’s go, old one. It’s time to tell her.”
::§::
Chantal hummed a soft melody while combing through Lydia’s hair. The girl seemed so innocent, so sweet considering all she’d seen, and Chantal wished she could understand why they both dreamed like they did.
If she could take their pain she would. In a heartbeat, she’d bear that burden, but she still didn’t know the cause of it all. She had set her mind to finding out, however. While she cleaned the grime of the alley away in the small shower, she had time to clear her head and think. Chantal would get the answers promised her by Nick from the priest. No more protecting until she understood what he was protecting her from.
“Chantal . . .”
Nick was approaching, resolution on his features. Trailing behind him was the priest who’d taken Lydia’s confession. He smiled at her, kindness in his warm face.
“Hello, there,” the priest said, pulling up a chair beside the bed and taking a seat. “My name is Father Ralph. Mathias has told me a lot about you.”
“That’s funny. He hasn’t told me anything.”
Mathias tensed.
“I’m sure you’re confused, my dear. Many things have happened that can’t quite be explained.”
Chantal shifted, averting her eyes from the priest and readjusting Lydia’s head on her lap. She felt bad for jumping on him the way she did. Her naiveté wasn’t his fault.
How could Nick have let her walk into this room without giving her the slightest hint of what she’d see? What if she hadn’t been able to handle it? She felt blindsided with nothing but secrets and deception between them. It ended tonight.
“Tell me.”
She made the demand simple and direct. She watched him give her a tentative smile, but did not return it. Answers would happen now. Kindness came later, she thought.
“You are not quite human, Chantal,” the priest said, his tone serious. Gone was the kindness from before, and even though she felt like her heart was about to stop, she appreciated him getting to the point.
“Explain, please.”
“You are like Mathias, my dear. Your father is one of the Fallen Contrites.”
She stared at the man for several moments, his brusque statement not computing in her mind. She was . . . what?
“That’s impossible. I don’t have gray skin . . .” she said, blinking several times. “My father’s an architect . . . he used to design buildings in the city.”
“No. That is not the truth.”
“What do you mean, ‘That’s not the truth?’ I remember him leaving for the city every week. I remember exactly what he looked like . . .”
But as she said the words, her childhood memories seemed more distant to her than before, more cloudy, like they were shadowed by a hazy fog. She couldn’t clearly remember what he looked like. She couldn’t make out the specifics of her brief life with him, just the stark memory of raised voices in the dead of night remaining sharp and distinct.
“This is crazy,” Chantal said, waving her hands back and forth. Her movements jostled the little girl on her lap, but she quickly went back to sleep. She turned a heated glare in Nick’s direction. “You couldn’t have told me about any of this? Did you think it’d be cool to leave me vulnerable all this time?”
“It wasn’t my place,” Mathias said.
“It’s his place?” she whispered, pointing toward the patient Father Ralph.
“This is not the first time he’s had to do this,” Mathias explained. She took a deep breath, bracing herself to hear the rest. “You waited until now? Why now?” Before he could answer, she turned toward the priest without allowing him to say anything else in his defense. “Just tell me . . . all of it.”
Father Ralph pulled his chair a little closer to her bedside, adopting that compassionate look she’d seen countless times from social workers. She hated
that expression, couldn’t stand how it made her feel vulnerable and pitied at the same time. She bit her tongue, though, wanting to hear what he had to say.
“You are the daughter of a Contrite warrior, just like Mathias. I know your memories of your past are confusing, and there is someone coming who can explain in detail why that is, but for now, you have to trust that what I am telling you is the truth.
“No, you do not have gray skin, like Mathias does. The females born of the Fallen are different from their male counterparts. While the men are gifted with the power to walk in the Shade and camouflage by changing their skin tone, the women have the Grace of Heaven. You may gain the strength to fight, but those dreams you experience are your greatest power. As an Oracle or Dreamer, you have a powerful gift. Your dreams can reveal not only the past, but the future as well.”
“Nightmares are my gift?” she said, incredulous. She glanced down to the sleeping girl resting peacefully on her lap. “Somehow, I think we got the short end of the stick. If my dreams reveal the future, our future sucks!”
“Both of you, the women and their brethren, fight evil on both sides of the coin. While the men fight the darkness on a physical level, you Oracles are the biggest key to their success. The dreams you have are filled with evil because that is what surrounds you.”
“Lydia said that the bad one is after us,” Chantal said. “What did she mean by that?”
“For a while now, Lydia has been having a recurrent vision of an evil man who takes her away.” Father Ralph looked at the little girl, unable to hide his concern and fear. “I haven’t had the heart to tell her . . .”
“Tell her what?” Chantal’s heart felt like a heavy rock. She gazed at the priest, silently begging him to continue while at the same time dreading what he would say. Her own nightmares . . . visions . . . whatever . . . were replaying in her mind.
It was Nick who answered. “When the Fallen learned of the gift the Oracles possessed, they began to hunt them down. At first, they destroyed every female child born of a Contrite or a Fallen warrior. Now, they’ve begun to capture, punish, and capitalize on their gifts, using it for their own gain.”