The Remembered

by Michael J Sanford

  "I'm being serious," Wyatt said.

  "So am I," she said quickly. She was a disheveled mess, but her smile shone vibrantly through the dirt and hidden pain that her eyes couldn't fully obscure.

  Wyatt could see that Ms. Abagail was once again acting as his guardian, putting on a strong front and forced smile in an effort to protect him. It was far too late for that, Wyatt knew. He also knew that nothing and no one could protect him. Or any of them.

  The lamp flickered, causing the deep shadows of the room to dance. Wyatt eyed the corners. He hadn't seen his parents' apparitions since giving the Bad Man his amulet and power. And though he longed to see the inky mist of his mother's form—whatever she was—he knew she wasn't to come. The absence raked at his heart with fiery claws, even more so now that he had lost the only real piece of his family that existed.

  "Do you think she'll dream of me?" Wyatt asked.

  Ms. Abagail didn't respond, but Wyatt hadn't been looking for an answer. Wherever Lucy was, he had to trust that she was fighting, not just for her life, but to find him again.

  "Ms. Abagail?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I know it's silly, but will you sing that song you and Maia sang for Lucy? Maybe it'll help me find her again."

  "Sure," Ms. Abagail said.

  Wyatt crawled into bed and burrowed under the blankets. Ms. Abagail leaned over him and adjusted the covers with a warm smile. He knew it was silly to be tucked in at fifteen years old, but despite the bitter fatigue that seized him, Wyatt feared he would never find rest otherwise.

  Ms. Abagail sat at his side and began singing, just as beautifully as she had done in the prison pit.

  The song lashed at his eyelids and tugged them down almost immediately. Wyatt no longer possessed any magical power, and even when he had, it was nothing like Lucy's, but as he drifted off to sleep, he kept her in his mind. If she was dreaming one of her magical dreams, Wyatt would find her. Somehow, somewhere, he would find her.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  WYATT WOKE, AND though he felt—and hoped—he'd risen in a new place, he saw he had not. Late-afternoon sun poured in through the small window of the guest room, pinning him in amber light, though imparting little warmth. Ms. Abagail was curled up under a fur blanket on the floor at the foot of the bed, snoring softly.

  Careful not to wake her, Wyatt slid out of bed and took a few moments to stretch out his limbs and shake some warmth into his muscles. How long had he slept? He squinted against the glare of the sun, wondering if it was even the same day he had fallen asleep. Nearly every part of him felt...funny. He looked at Ms. Abagail and smiled, remembering her soft lullaby. They had both needed the rest, he knew, but part of him couldn't help but think of the time he had wasted in doing so. Every moment apart from Lucy increased the chances of her...no, he thought, shaking his head. Don't think like that. I'll find her.

  There were two sets of clean clothing folded on the bureau, and Wyatt quickly changed out of the soiled rags he had fallen asleep in. He slid into his boots and tiptoed to the door. He gave a last look at Ms. Abagail and slipped out as quietly as possible.

  The sitting room was empty, save for a pile of food on the table. It made him salivate, and he hastily grabbed a biscuit. He chomped into it with vehemence, trying not to dwell on the memory of his first meal at the table. The room had been cleaned since Lucy's blowup, but Wyatt could still see it in his mind's eye. He took another bite, grabbed two more biscuits, stuffed them into his pockets, and headed for the main door of the suite.

  Wyatt stood in the middle of the stone hallway, chewing on a biscuit, looking back and forth along the corridor. He hadn't really thought through what he was going to do, but part of the plan involved finding the boy who was certainly more than just a boy. Henrick. Wyatt should have seen the strangeness of the boy's nature far sooner. To come and go as he did, and with knowledge that seemed impossible to be known. Wyatt wondered if Henrick was even real. Or was he a Druid? Or some other sort of magical manifestation of...he didn't know. And though he did agree with Ms. Abagail that Henrick looked similar to the photo of her father, he knew that couldn't be who the boy was. Sure, their names were similar as well, but it made little sense. Even in a world tied up in the power of memories.

  Wyatt licked off his fingers and walked down the hallway, hoping his intuition would guide him.

  At the end of the corridor, he happened upon a young woman sweeping the winding stairs that led in both directions. She glanced up as he came to stop right in front of her and smiled.

  "Where's Henrick?" he asked without introduction.

  The woman frowned. "Well, good morning to you as well. I know a few by that name. Which Henrick do you seek?"

  "Young boy, maybe a teenager, but small, messy blond hair, lots of freckles."

  The woman thought for a moment but shook her head. "Sorry, I don't know any children by that name."

  "If his last name was Miller, would that help?"

  The woman shook her head. "Sorry."

  "Didn't think so." Wyatt wanted answers from the boy—or whatever he was—but didn't think he had time to wander around the entire city looking for him. He still had no idea of how large Sanctuary truly was, buried in a mountain as it was. "Well, how about my friends? Athena and Maia." Wyatt thought there was a chance that they might know where Henrick had gone, and if not, he thought he ought to see Athena and try to explain everything.

  "Oh, the girl and spriteling are in the Observatory with the Council." The woman smiled, seemingly pleased to give Wyatt an answer he desired.

  Wyatt was less pleased. What were they doing with the Council? It was bad enough that Athena had taken over his quest to defeat the Regents when she had called the elves to her side and left the Pines, but to be speaking with the local authority...what was there to discuss, anyway? Benjamin had seemed content to believe the problem with the Regents solved, even though Wyatt knew it was not so simple.

  "Are you all right, sir?" the woman asked.

  Wyatt snapped his eyes to hers, realized he had been scowling and grinding his teeth, and fought to relax his expression. "I'm fine. Thanks for the help," he said as he took the stairs, headed downward.

  "You're going the wrong way," the woman called after him.

  "No, I'm not," he said without turning around or slowing his descent.

  Still groggy from sleeping so long, Wyatt wandered aimlessly, hoping to feel some supernatural pull in the direction he needed to go in order to save his sister. But he felt nothing but a deep ache, and eventually found himself in a small library or study. A large, arching window made up the wall behind a lacquered desk. Wyatt crossed the empty room and pressed his face to the glass.

  He was still facing the empty valley of snow and mud. If he squinted, he thought he could see darker patches that marked the prison pits, though he knew the distance was too great to actually see such detail. And the one he had last seen Lucy in was even farther away, if what Maia had told him was true. But how far? A few miles? A hundred?

  "What if she's still there?" Wyatt asked, his breath fogging the glass and stealing his view.

  It was the fear he had yet to give voice to. He hadn't even dared think it, but seeing the barren valley again brought it up from the dark depths of his mind. As far as Wyatt could tell, Lucy hadn't actually traveled with them to the memory of Greenwood—it had been the Bad Man masquerading as her. Had Lucy opened the doorway to her memory but stayed behind? Was she still injured and sick in a hole in the ground in the middle of a frozen wasteland? Wyatt shuddered and sat on a wooden bench flanking a short bookshelf.

  He leaned forward and rested his face in his palms. When had everything become so complicated? All he had wanted to do was escape.

  "I should never have brought anyone here," he said to his hands.

  "Do you think that would have changed things?" asked a voice from the corner of the small room.

  Wyatt nearly fell off the bench at the start. He had thought he was alo
ne, but then again, he was finding it hard to truly focus on anything beyond his own thoughts.

  He looked over to see Henrick sitting on the floor, wedged between two bookshelves, an open tome on his lap. Wyatt just stared dumbly at the boy.

  Henrick was running a finger along the open page before him and didn't look up. "Not that I'm saying you don't have a choice," the strange boy continued. "We all have choice. But sometimes every choice can bring you to the same moment. You could call it destiny, but it's truly just a measure of perspective."

  Wyatt continued to stare, not knowing what to say, and not having understood a word of what was just said.

  Henrick looked up. "It's all right here," he said, gesturing at the page. "Not that I understand much more than you do, I don't think. Just thought it would help."

  "Are you Ms. Abagail's dad?" Wyatt blurted.

  "Not sure I even know who that is. But I would like to have children someday. Wouldn't you?"

  "How is that important?" Wyatt asked. "Who are you?"

  "Henrick."

  "What are you?"

  Henrick wrinkled his brow. "Human, same as you, I think."

  Wyatt shook his head and stood. "How do you travel like you do? No one can hop around the Realms as quickly as you do."

  Henrick shrugged, shut the book, and stood. "Mother always said I was light on my feet."

  Wyatt didn't even balk at the ridiculous answer. His mind had raced on without him. "Why are you helping me? Why have you been following me since Ouranos?"

  "I like being helpful. It's just how I am."

  "Fine, whatever," Wyatt said, waving off the mystery with a swipe of his hand at the boy. "I guess it doesn't really matter. What does matter, though, is that you take me back to Lucy. Help me rescue her."

  "Can't do that," Henrick said.

  "But you found us in her memory at Greenwood and took us back to Sanctuary through an elevator! I don't care how you do it, I just need you to do it again."

  Henrick looked up at Wyatt, seeming to think over the words, but then shook his head again. "No can do. Sorry, Master."

  Henrick started walking toward the door as if he hadn't a care in the world.

  "Where are you going?" Wyatt demanded.

  "I'm hungry," Henrick said plainly.

  "You can't just run off again. I need your help. Why stop now? Why save all of us except Lucy? What am I supposed to do?!" Wyatt was yelling now and could feel tears lance his cheeks like molten iron.

  Henrick stopped, turned, and handed Wyatt the book he had been reading. "Mother always said reading can take one to other places. Perhaps you could do the same."

  Wyatt took the leather-bound book and reined in his emotions long enough to ask, "Is that how you do it? Magic books or something?"

  "Magic?" Henrick said, turning once again to leave the study. "Magic's not real."

  Before Wyatt could respond or move, Henrick slammed the sturdy door shut with enough force to send books tumbling from the nearest shelves. Wyatt jumped at the impact, but the shock was quickly replaced by anger. He hurled the book Henrick had given him at the door and kicked several more from the shelf at his side.

  "What do I need to do?!" he yelled at the ceiling. "How do I find her?!"

  He looked to the desk for something else to throw, kick, or destroy. His hands were shaking, begging for an outlet to the rage sending shivers up and down his spine. He found a letter opener and spun around to hurl it at the door, but stopped.

  A mosaic of bright colors amid the weathered parchment scattered on the floor caught his eye. Even without fully uncovering it, Wyatt recognized the battered comic book immediately. He let the letter opener fall from his hand as he went to his knees and picked it up.

  "It can't be," he said out of habit.

  But it was.

  The Mystical Adventures of Grenleck the Wizard.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  WYATT FLIPPED THROUGH the dog-eared comic book, dumbfounded. How many times had he read it? A hundred? A thousand? There was no way to know, but Wyatt hadn't even thought about it since...since he named the bog imp by the moniker of the comic's hero—Grenleck. Somehow, the vibrant fiction of the comic paled in comparison to the richness of the Realms, and it had left his mind shortly thereafter. But how could it have? There was nothing more important from his childhood than the story laid out in colored panels, among dialogue bubbles and bold zips, hisses, and bangs.

  "Wyatt, why the hell haven't you cleaned this room?"

  The voice shook the comic from Wyatt's hands and he bolted upright to find himself looking into the reproachful eyes of his grandmother. Grandma? he wanted to ask, but his lips wouldn't obey his mind. Instead they said, "I'll clean it when I'm done. Grenleck is just about to slay the—"

  "Dammit, Wyatt," his grandmother shouted, gesturing about at the horrid disarray of his bedroom.

  How did I get here? And how is she...

  "I'll do it when I'm done," Wyatt shouted back.

  What? No, I didn't mean that, Grandma. I don't know why I said that.

  "Fine," his grandmother said. "Clean or don't. But you're not getting a lick of food until this room is clean enough to eat your dinner off of."

  Wyatt tried to stand up from the frameless mattress he was sitting on. He tried to run to her, to say he was sorry, and to hug her as fiercely as he could muster. But his body wouldn't move. His mind raced, but Wyatt couldn't get it to affect his limbs or lips.

  "I'd rather starve than eat more burned crap," he shouted as his grandmother slammed his door shut, causing a framed photo to jump off his half-buried dresser.

  Wyatt moved at that, sliding across the carpet to scoop up the item. The glass had broken, but the photo within remained intact. It showed a smiling Wyatt, holding an equally joyous Lucy, both surrounded by clearly proud parents.

  Mom... Dad... Lucy...

  It's a memory, he realized. It's my memory.

  Wyatt touched each figure in the photo with his finger and sat back on his heels, studying the portrait. "I'm going to find you," he whispered. "Whoever you are you, I'll find you, and we'll be a family."

  I've already forgotten them, Wyatt realized.

  Longing pulled at his chest, reaching deep inside and twisting his soul into a knot. His body shuddered under sudden tears.

  How did I forget this?

  The room shuddered. His body didn't seem to take notice, but his mind did, painfully aware of what a tremor usually meant. Though even if he had the control to stop the transition, he wouldn't have. If he was reliving a memory like this...then it could only mean one thing. Lucy was alive. Alive and dreaming. He forced his mind to relax, hoping to allow his lost sister to guide him back to her. Just as a younger version of Wyatt had promised a photo, so too, did he promise once more to the world. I'll find you, Lucy. We'll be a family.

  His childhood bedroom shook one more time and then fell silent. Nothing looked or felt differently than before. The room was still a disaster. And Wyatt was still a powerless onlooker to his forgotten memory.

  He stood and stretched, yawning loudly and looking toward the single window in the room. Morning light streamed in despite quickly thickening storm clouds. Wyatt approached the open window, breathed in the promise of rain, and shut the window, snapping off the chill breeze.

  Wyatt stared a moment longer at the barren city street beyond the glass portal and picked a shirt off his mattress. He gave it a sniff, found it only marginally malodorous, and pulled it over his head.

  It's a new day, but I'm still in the same place, his mind worked out. It seemed familiar, as he knew it should, but every subsequent action was shrouded in shadow until the moment it occurred, leaving Wyatt to wonder how he had forgotten it.

  His stomach groaned and gurgled, and his bladder called for attention as well. Wyatt moved for the door, swung it open, and called out into the empty hallway, "I'm up, Grandma. Eggs and toast. Scrambled. And bacon. Not burned."

  Wherever his grandmother
was, she didn't respond, and Wyatt felt a flare of anger pass over him at not smelling his breakfast already being prepared. He shuffled to the next door in the hallway—a bathroom—and relieved the pressure in his bladder.

  Leaving the bathroom, he called out for his grandmother again, this time more impatiently.

  This can't be who I was, Wyatt thought. This can't be real. I sound like a monster.

  But the churning in his stomach told him it was accurate, every passing moment a blossoming seed in his mind, flowering into recognition. His stomach folded over onto itself again, but it was his physical stomach this time, calling for food.

  Wyatt crossed into the kitchen and found it empty. Dishes were piled up in the sink, and the floor hadn't been swept.

  "I'm hungry!" he growled, projecting his voice off the smoke-stained wallpaper, sending it echoing through the small house.

  He groaned and stomped toward the living room, bitterness rising like the tide.

  A fragment of a memory flickered in his mind before his eyes found it. It made him dizzy, but his body persisted, taking him on a journey he now knew he didn't want to be a part of.

  No, he shouted to no one, for there was no one to hear his cries. Lucy, I don't want to be here anymore. Where are you? Lucy?

  "Grandma," Wyatt said as he entered the dimly lit living room. "Did you oversleep again?"

  Wyatt tried to turn. When that didn't work, he tried to thrash against his own body. Against his own memory. The shadows in his mind were evaporating with hisses, like water thrown on a hot griddle.

  Lucy! he bellowed into the void. Take me away from here! Don't make me remember this!

  But it was too late. The memory surfaced like a wave amid a violent storm, cresting at an impossible height, only to crash down atop him.

  "Grandma?" Wyatt said, his voice betraying a sick realization.

  Wyatt's grandmother was slouched in her favorite armchair, wearing the same clothing she had donned the night before. The TV was on, casting flickering images off her glasses as they perched precariously on the tip of her nose.