Caught in the Ripples_An Epic Fantasy

by S McPherson

  I curl into his lap, the fold of his body so perfect it’s like he was built for me. He fell asleep a while ago, but something is keeping me up, something I am missing. I prop my elbow on his shoulder and peer at his journal, at the information we know for sure and what are just guesses. Milo has added the words ‘Rijora’ and ‘Divided sight’, also adding a little sketch of the three realms Rijjletons can see. I look from the sketch to the drawing of the gethamot and back. What are we missing?

  Milo stirs, his eyes slowly flickering open.

  I wince. ’Did I wake you?’

  He ‘Hmm’s in response, half asleep. ‘Divided,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Milo?’ I ask, not sure if he is actually awake at all.

  ‘Divided,’ and his lips smack together.

  I smile and go to rest my forehead on his but he sits up, so abruptly, he whacks me in the head with his. We groan as the notes and gadgets tumble to the ground.

  ‘What was that?’ I wail, still clutching my head.

  ‘The Rijjletons sight is divided and they go to the one they see clearest.’ Milo leans over me, gathering everything that fell.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree, massaging the bone at my temple.

  ‘The gethamot is one large compartment leading to one realm,’ he says with a swift peck on my sore temple. ‘What if it were divided?’ Grabbing the writing twig, miraculously still holding berry ink, he redraws the gethamot, but this time with nine divides. The compartments are tiny, and without even thinking about it, Milo increases the size of the gethamot to include them all.

  ‘The gethadrox,’ I gasp.

  He turns to me, his eyes alight. ‘Could be.’

  WARRIOR IN A RED DRESS

  We are huddled on the couch and I snuggle closer to Milo, sighing to the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing. I glance up at his sleeping face, so peaceful and as beautiful as I remember from when we first met. A breeze tickles my side and I wriggle to cover it, hoping beyond hope that I don’t wake him. Whilst he sleeps I can still pretend, everything is as it should be.

  I tug on my bottom lip as the feeling of helplessness starts to weigh me down. I run my fingers through my hair, sighing heavily and cover my eyes with my hand. Banished. I can practically hear the thudding feet of the Court as they march to the treehouse, eager to see me leave this world for good. Banished.

  Milo stirs beside me, his eyelids slowly parting. ‘Hello,’ he murmurs, squeezing his arm around me.

  I smile but say nothing, afraid of what conversation might follow; I’d become a fan of make-believe, but it is so much harder to pretend when the object of your daydreams is conscious.

  ‘Can’t sleep?’ he notes, unnecessarily.

  I shake my head and he rests his lips on my forehead. We sit in silence for a while and I relish the moment.

  Then he says, ‘Today’s the day.’

  ‘Banished.’ No matter how much I say the word, it doesn’t feel real. Today can’t be the last day I lie in this treehouse, or the last day I look up and see a purple sky. Today cannot be the last day I breathe the faint scent of vanilla as I rest in Milo’s arms. I gulp. But it is. My heart hammers, set to burst free. Go if you want but I’m staying right here. It says. My heart will always be right here.

  ‘This is going to be hard,’ he murmurs to the top of my head.

  Biting my lip, I nod, ‘That’s what she said.’

  He chuckles, ‘Did you know that the Coltis have been banned from Earth for years now and we still keep getting in?’ He half smiles, but sadness lingers on his lips.

  ‘Yeah.’ I force a mediocre grin, wishing my heart would stop breaking.

  ‘Maybe I’ll be one of them.’ Milo trails his fingers up and down my arm. ‘Not right away. The court will be watching me: the traitor.’

  ‘And I’m sure they’ll have people watching me: the tramp.’

  Milo looks at me, lines wrinkling his forehead. ‘Or just don’t go,’ he breathes.

  ‘What?’

  He grips my waist, pulling me to him. ‘Don’t go. I’m going to build the gethadrox, I know I will.’

  ‘And then what?’ I say, my voice catching.

  ‘And then we can leave. We can go to another realm and be together.’ He holds me so tight it almost hurts, but it’s a pain I welcome.

  ‘We… We can’t do that,’ I stammer, sitting up.

  He does the same. ‘Why not?’

  ‘So many reasons,’ I say, incredulously.

  ‘Run away with me, Sweetheart.’ His tone is even, almost rational, his blue eyes intense.

  I shake my head as he runs his fingers across my neck and trails kisses over my shoulder.

  ‘Run away with me.’

  I gulp. A part of me wants to give in. Yes, let’s build the gethadrox and leave this place, never look back—not back at Coldivor, or Islon, Jude, Nathaniel, Lexovia, or anyone. Let’s make a new life. Just us. I close my eyes, wishing I could say ‘Yes’ but knowing I won’t; I can’t.

  Milo presses his lips to mine, knowing as well as I do that we can’t run but clearly not wanting to hear sense right now. I clench my eyes shut, feeling tears squirm their way out.

  ‘Run away with me, Dezaray,’ he murmurs again.

  ‘Please, don’t ask me to run away with you,’ I breathe. ‘I’m not strong enough to say “No”.’

  Milo’s whole face contorts and I feel he might cry as he rests his forehead against mine.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he eventually whispers. ‘A moment of weakness.’

  I release a shuddery breath, not sure if I’m relieved or even more devastated.

  ‘Just thought I’d try and make one more mistake.’ He smirks but the pain in his eyes leave them cloudy.

  ‘It’s what we’re good at,’ I agree through strained vocal chords.

  My chest tightens when he grips the back of my neck and pulls me against him. I moan, a deep throaty one from the depths of my being. I try to muffle it but with no luck, and Milo holds me tighter, his strong hands supporting me.

  ‘I’ve got you,’ he murmurs as I rest my now pounding head on his chest. ‘I’ve got you.’

  I breathe in, feeling once again the blissful calm that only Milo brings. In his arms I am safer, by his side I am stronger, but soon I won’t be anywhere near him and with little chance of getting back. The faded scent of vanilla mingled with the sweet tang of old snickleberry greets my nostrils as I bury them in his shirt.

  Then the treehouse trembles and the thud of heavy feet ascending the ladder can be heard. No. No. No. We slowly pull apart, though close enough for our hands to touch. As we stand, Milo kisses my fingers and grips them so tight they turn white.

  I see the hood first, a thick black hood that looks soft, though stays rigid no matter how its wearer moves. Then I see the eyes. The men clamber up, one after the other, until eight court members stand before us.

  ‘Dezaray Ava Storm,’ the thundering voice of the tallest booms. I’m stunned by the mention of my middle name, further by the fact that it was my mother’s name.

  He stands with both hands clamped in front of him, his face stern. ‘From this moment forward, you are banished from the realm.’

  I flinch at the ferocity of his stare, at the edge in his tone. So this is what it’s like to be the most hated person in the world. I take a step towards them, knowing I have no right or reason to argue, but Milo grips my hand, stopping me.

  ‘I’ll fix this,’ he insists. I turn away, unable to reply. ‘Dezaray?’ He tugs on my fingers.

  Somehow my gaze lifts to his and my heart stammers, my bottom lip quivering like a beating moth’s wings. Miraculously, I manage to twist my mouth into a sort of smile, but I don’t return his sentiment. This isn’t a fairy-tale, and just maybe everything won’t work out. No matter what happens here, no matter what wrongs he manages to make right, I won’t be around to see them.

  My feet barely touch the ground as he pulls me towards him, so fast and fierce that my lips wedge between my teeth a
s his own clamp over mine.

  ‘Dezaray Ava Storm,’ the man repeats brusquely. I turn willingly, wanting nothing more than to put this moment behind me.

  I walk away, releasing Milo’s hand one finger at a time. If souls could bleed, mine would be gushing all over the floor. We make our way down the ladder and I feel Milo’s eyes follow me until I step off the last rung.

  The walk to the portal is a sombre one. No one sings folksy rhymes or even speaks, and every member of the court is clad in robes as black as death, having abandoned their shimmering emerald cloaks for this period of mourning.

  I shiver, aching from the inside. I caused this. Cradling myself, I search for Oxor, knowing I won’t find him. I inhale deeply, swallowing the overwhelming pain threatening to cripple me. I don’t feel like myself and wonder if I’ll ever truly feel right again. It seems that more than the Coltis died recently—so has a part of me.

  Feranvil isn’t the same either, not Jude, not Nathaniel, not the usual infectious atmosphere of the Bar and Grill. Everything and everyone is tense, like arrows drawn back, all set to launch at any minute, and we’re all aiming at the same target: R.U.O.E.

  Lately, I’ve spent a lot of time tapping away on Feranvil First, leg propped up on a coffee shop chair as I gulp down a hot chocolate. I search for anything, anything related to that car dealer Lexovia discovered, to Drake, to anyone named Danny or Daniel Schawsmith—anything. I know I’m not the only one. I often see the Makers huddled together discussing something or the other, and more and more meetings are being held in the hall. We are all preparing, but for what is the question.

  I lean back in my seat, ruffling out my matted hair. The instant I allow my mind to stray from thoughts of R.U.O.E. it promptly returns to Milo and I clear my throat, glancing about as if people may know or even care what I’m thinking. Taking a hefty gulp of my drink, trying to swallow the memories.

  It’s been three weeks, six days, nine hours and fifteen minutes since I last saw him, but I don’t give it much thought—or at least I try not to, burying myself in work and the protection of Feranvil.

  My eyes glaze over as I stare at the images of Fixer Upper spread across my screen. I’ve looked at them a thousand times now, but they won’t tell me anything new, nothing down here will. R.U.O.E. aren’t operating down here.

  With new resolve, I close my laptop, slide it into its case and slip out of the coffee shop.

  Nathaniel chatters away about one thing or another as we make our way through Islon’s streets but I’m barely listening. I repeat the directions to Fixer Upper over and over again in my mind, hoping my disguise of a floppy hat and thick-rimmed sunglasses will do the trick. Though I don’t know who I expect to recognise me, it isn’t like Drake will be waltzing around the shop.

  Nathaniel’s gaze burns through my thoughts and glancing at him, I realise he’s waiting for an answer.

  ‘What?’ I ask sheepishly.

  ‘Where do the others think we’re going?’

  ‘I told them I had to check on Charlotte, which I will.’

  ‘Right after we spy on a top-secret government organisation.’

  I’m about to reply when someone walking down the opposite street catches my eye. But it couldn’t be who I think it is…could it?

  ‘Dezaray?’ Nathaniel asks.

  I race across the road, barely acknowledging the horns and angry calls of drivers.

  ‘Dezaray!’ Nathaniel hollers but I’m already on the other side of the street, chasing down the man who can’t be. But he is.

  ‘Oxor?’ his name leaves my lips once I’m within earshot but the man doesn’t turn, ‘Oxor.’

  I’m close enough to grab him and I do, spinning the man to face me. He looks like Oxor, though slimmer and slightly shorter and his hair is blonde. Oxor wasn’t blonde. But despite all these obvious differences, I cling to him.

  ‘Oxor, it’s me,’ I pant, ‘Dezaray. You’re alive.’

  ‘Get off me,’ the man drawls. He doesn’t sound like Oxor either but still I grip his shoulders.

  ‘Dezaray, what are you doing?’ Nathaniel gasps coming up behind me.

  ‘Is she yours?’ grumbles the man, pulling away from me.

  I grab his hand. ‘Wait,’ and as he snatches his hand away, his skin stretches, quickly snapping back into place but not quick enough.

  ‘You’re…’ but I can’t find the word.

  The man glowers at me. ‘Get lost,’ and in a blur, he’s gone.

  ‘What the heck?’ Nathaniel gawks into the distance but the man who isn’t Oxor is long gone.

  ‘Oxor was a Spee’ad,’ I look at my hands, still feeling the strange elasticity of the man’s skin, ‘and so is that man.’

  ‘That man you thought was Oxor?’

  I nod. ‘But he wasn’t. Oxor’s dead. That man was his counterpart. And when Oxor died, his counterpart inherited his ability.’

  Nathaniel furrows his brow.

  ‘The C.P. Myth is true.’

  Silence seems to stretch on for ages and I yelp at the sound of my trilling phone. Slowly, I scoop it out of my pocket, eyeing it with curiosity. No one ever calls me. I’m not even sure why I still carry the thing.

  I put it to my ear, the feeling unfamiliar after all this time. ‘Hello?’

  I don’t recognise the voice but I recognise the words: ‘We finally have a buyer for Storm Manor.’ There’s a knot in my stomach that I can’t explain. This is what I wanted. This is why I put the house on sale in the first place. It’s not my home anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time.

  ‘Thank you,’ I stammer into the phone before disconnecting.

  ‘Who was it?’ Nathaniel asks, still staring off as if he expects to see Oxor’s counterpart.

  ‘The estate agent,’ I mumble, still dazed. ‘He says I can go and collect anything I would like from the house. Everything else will be left for the new owners or donated to charity.’

  ‘So they’ve sold it?’

  Absently, I nod, thinking back to the manor like the remnants of a dream, parts of it a nightmare. There isn’t really much I want from that place, except… My mind wanders to thoughts of my mother. She always looked so beautiful, even when cleaning or helping Nathaniel in the garden. I remember watching her one day as she prepared canapés in the kitchen, and all I kept thinking was I’d love to be like her: her hair clipped back in a loose bun, tendrils tumbling around her face and a coral dress twirled about her knees as she moved. I sigh. I will go back to the manor for one thing.

  The manor towers over me as I climb Cuckilbury mountain. My hand hovers over my phone. I told Nathaniel I wanted to do this on my own but he said he’d wait for me, just in case I change my mind.

  ‘I’m just a call away,’ he told me.

  Now, as the back gate of the manor bangs against its frame and the wind whistles through my hair, I hesitate. Glancing over my shoulder, I vaguely make out Nathaniel perched on a wall near the neighbourhood pub. I look from him to the manor and back, my finger still lingering over the call button.

  No. Pushing back my shoulders, I take a deep breath and shove the phone into my pocket. Returning to the manor after all this time is the least of my worries these days.

  ‘Come on, Dezaray,’ I tell myself, ‘pull yourself together.’

  I march through the back gate with new determination and down the overgrown footpath, noticing my mums prized roses now black and scattered. I peer through the kitchen door and realise that the crack made by my head so long ago has been fixed, and let myself in. Everything seems so strange. How long has it been? The room smells of coffee: a sales tactic of the estate agent.

  It hasn’t smelt of freshly roasted anything since my parents died. I wrap my arms around myself and continue through the house, reaching the entrance hall and its grand staircase. I glide my hand along the old banister until at last I reach the familiar landing, stepping across its beige rug to my parents’ room.

  The sheets that smothered every item of furnitur
e the last time I was here have been removed, everything polished and sparkling for display. The portrait of my previously happy family still hangs on the wall. I stare at it, caught in a mesh of emotions, glaring at the deceptively dulcet eyes of Drake, pining for the embrace of my parents.

  Hurriedly, I stalk over to the wardrobe, fling back the doors and pull out my mother’s collection of dresses; lavender, red, cream, blue, long, short, summer, winter. They’re all stunning, and as I draw them out, I remember her wearing each one. I hover over a dark crimson dress with delicate straps that cross at the back. I pinch its fabric in my fingers. Mum wore this the night before they left.

  Almost robotically, I slip out of my jeans and t-shirt and slide into the dress; perfect fit. I study my reflection in the floor-length mirror, surprised by how much I look like her, admiring how the fabric sways at my knees.

  ‘Hello?’ a voice calls from downstairs, and I recognise it as the estate agent. I quickly pull on my boots, shoving what I can into my rucksack.

  ‘Coming,’ I call as I leave the room for the last time. I don’t look back, but jog down the stairs to sort out the paperwork and put Storm Manor behind me for good.

  As I saunter down the hill towards Nathaniel, I can’t shirk the feeling I’m being watched. Slowing, I cautiously look about. Something isn’t right. Then movement catches the corner of my eye and I notice figures in uniform, crouching behind some shrubs: R.U.O.E.

  Without thinking, I charge after the nearest one, no clue what I’ll do once I reach him—but I don’t. I come to a screeching halt a few feet away as the man stands and leers at me. It isn’t just a member of R.U.O.E., it’s Drake. He gestures to the others around him and they take off, what appears to be surveillance equipment cradled in their hands.

  ‘Hello, sis.’

  ‘Drake!’ Yells one of his new-found brothers as they race down the hill. ‘Stick to the plan.’

  Reluctance sours Drakes features: his jaw tightening, his lips pressed to a thin line. And then he’s off, dashing away from me and after the others. I barrel after him. I lost him once. I won’t lose him again. This time I’ll catch him. This time I’ll kill him.