The Rise of the Fourteen

by Catherine Carter

  “That’s what you think.”

  “That was only the first.”

  “We shall talk again.”

  “Only, when you’re ready.”

  “Weakling.”

  The chill begins to spread again, and Nuntios is drowning, drowning in a vast polar ocean of mind-numbing fear.

  The sunlight is not what wakes Nuntios up. Nor is it the chirping birds. He is awakened by the smell, a permeating, putrid smell that seems to fly up his nostrils.

  “Not too much of the smelling salts, otherwise he’ll go loopy again, you idiot.”

  “Since you’re obviously the expert, Dr. Elias, I’ll let you handle this.”

  Nuntios tries to open his eyes, but they’re glued shut. Tremors pass through his body but he doesn’t wake. The whispers are fainter now, their voices being carried away on an unseen breeze. Nuntios further cocoons himself in his blankets, trying to ignore the crystalline fingers running up and down his back. Then they are gone, as quickly as they came. As heat floods back into his quaking body, he slowly opens his eyes.

  “Welcome back from the dead, bro,” Fredrick says, grinning as Nuntios sits up. Grins slowly appear on the other boys' faces. Nuntios blinks a few times and then looks around. He’s lying on a high mattress with many blankets thrown over it. A glass of water sits on an exquisite oak dresser. Beside it, a fire crackles, spitting ashes onto the hearth.

  Seeing Nuntios’s confusion, Fredrick rushes to reassure him. “It's okay, you're in your room.” Nuntios opens his mouth in a questioning “O.” If the dorm room he unpacked in yesterday had been this nice, he might not have come down to dinner. “After your … fit, Sir Eric decided to move you up here. You kept shivering, so he gave you a warmer room.”

  “Only older students get these rooms!” Lukas quips. “You get the royal treatment, and we have to wait two more years.”

  Nuntios smirks. “Pretty good score for the day then.”

  They all laugh at that. “So, what happened exactly?” The serious gray pallor returns to their faces. Finally, Elias answers.

  “You had been quiet for a while and then you started shaking, like you were having a seizure or something. You just went completely berserk and started writhing underneath the table. You kept yelling about ‘the voices,’ and you kept asking them to stop. Eventually, you just went limp. Malone didn't think you were still alive until he saw you were twitching.”

  The room had gone deathly quiet by then. The fire flickered, barely more than a heap of embers glowing faintly. "Nuntios, who are the voices?"

  Nobody answers.

  Nuntios resumes classes the next morning, despite the admonitions of the school nurse, who told him to rest for at least forty-eight hours. He refuses to return to the dining hall, however, and skips breakfast. So, by the time he slides into the chair of a hard wooden desk in Mrs. Skimmer's English classroom, hunger has begun to gnaw at his stomach. Fredrick slips into the seat beside him, smoothly masking his tardiness.

  “You alright?” he mouths to Nuntios. Nuntios simply nods, half ignoring the other boy. Mrs. Skimmer is actually not half bad (despite the fact that they're discussing Shakespeare), but Nuntios’s head is still swimming.

  After a few minutes, the voices begin to re-emerge. There are no clear words, only murmured whispers. Nuntios scrunches his eyes shut, trying to block out the sound. It slowly dissipates. But when he opens his eyes, the entire class is staring at him expectantly. Mrs. Skimmer nods encouragingly. Nuntios’s face twists in a nervous grin.

  “Nuntios,” she says, “you only have to read line sixty two.” Fredrick feigns a loud cough, distracting Mrs. Skimmer momentarily. If you hadn’t been listening you wouldn’t have heard Fredrick’s whispered words “the book.”

  “Oh, of course,” Nuntios blurts, picking up the battered copy of King Lear on his desk. When did that get there? He flips through the pages, quickly finding his part. I’m losing my mind. After he finishes the section, the teacher thanks him, and moves on to find the next “volunteer.”

  “Hey,” he whispers, instantly getting Fredrick’s attention. “Thanks.”

  Fredrick flashes him a winning smile. “Glad to be of service.”

  It is Fredrick who convinces Nuntios to return to the dining hall for lunch as they depart from the stuffy math classroom. They had been discussing geometry, a subject Nuntios had covered at his previous school and, on multiple occasions, Nuntios had saved Fredrick from embarrassment.

  “I owe you, man,” Fredrick remarks, clapping Nuntios on the shoulder. “Mr. Faust keeps threatening to fail me.”

  “It was worth it,” Nuntios replies, “if only to see the look on his face.” They throw back their heads in laughter that echoes down the hall, spiraling out into the throng. When they reach the grand doors to the dining hall, Nuntios shudders, his shoulder suddenly jerking back. The whispering had started again. His vision fuzzes up, threatening to remove him from consciousness again. Fredrick puts a heavy hand on his shoulder, grounding him in the present.

  “Come on, let’s eat,” Fredrick insists. “We’ll sit at a different table this time.” He steers Nuntios into the hall, his arm now fully around Nuntios’s shoulders. Nuntios is grateful, because, despite how much he wants to deny it, the voices still linger in the back of his mind, threatening to make him collapse at any moment.

  Fredrick forcefully plops Nuntios in a chair, worried by the shakiness of his friend’s legs.

  “I'll get you some food, alright?” Fredrick’s concern is evident, and Nuntios wonders how bad he really looks.

  “No green stuff, though.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Fredrick shoots him a glittering smile as he heads down the aisle towards the table of food. He returns, bearing heavy plates and Elis, Malone, and Lukas in tow. Nuntios chats amiably, this time eager for conversation. As they converse and laugh over soup and sandwiches, Nuntios is glad. The voices have gone—for now.

  After lunch, it’s back to lessons. Nuntios groans inwardly as he makes his way towards the history classroom. What could possibly be more boring? He sits at one of the desks near the back, doing his best to avoid attracting attention. Elias and Lukas sit in front of him and Fredrick takes the seat beside him.

  “Where’s Malone?” Nuntios asks.

  “Sitting up there with Tara,” Fredrick replies, pointing towards the front of the class. There Malone sits, chatting animatedly with a petite blonde. Nuntios’s lip curls up in a slight grin.

  “So, this Tara girl … does Malone have a thing for her?” Fredrick shrugs his shoulders, but Nuntios gives him a meaningful look.

  “Well yeah, but he won’t admit it.” Nuntios’s eyes widen. He leans over to whisper something in Fredrick’s ear. Fredrick nods, liking what he hears.

  “Free period?” Fredrick asks.

  “Free period.”

  The chartreuse mob makes its way towards the open courtyard after the final bell rings, pushing and running. The hallway is nearly empty a mere two minutes after class ends. Only a few stragglers remain, chatting among themselves. Tara and Malone linger by the lockers, discussing the merits of “the classics.”

  “Behemoth is just awful,” Tara insists. “Iron Maiden is so much better.”

  “Behemoth isn’t all bad,” Malone says. “And, Iron Maiden? Are you forgetting Led Zeppelin? Black Sabbath?” Tara purses her lips in a “not bad” gesture. Malone laughs at her ambivalence. In response, she sticks her tongue out.

  It is in this moment of distraction that the plan is initiated. Fredrick and Elias emerge from a nearby classroom, carrying a dining table set with fine silverware and wine glasses. Lukas eases Tara and Malone into chairs so that they sit across from each other. Nuntios appears with a pitcher of water and a faux rose. He fills up their glasses and gives the rose to Tara, who blushes. Last but not least, he places a tea light in the center of the table and takes a moment to flash a grin at a livid Malone.

  “I told you it would be worth it to see hi
s face,” Nuntios whispers to Elias who smiles. Soon enough, they hear a familiar reedy voice, echoing down the hallway. “We gotta run.” Nuntios, Elias, Lukas, and Fredrick bolt for the nearest door, piling into the French classroom. Malone and Tara are glued to the spot, frozen with confusion. Moments later, Malone understands.

  “What do you ruffians think you’re doing?” Sir Eric looms over the pair, his leering face purpling. “Do you think this, this fine institution can be treated as a free-for-all?” Malone stays silent, not trusting himself to speak. Tara follows suit. “Take all of this stuff back to the drama department!” They don't have to be told twice. They are soon inching down the hall, carrying the table between them.

  Meanwhile, in the French classroom, the perpetrators are howling with laughter. High fives are being given all around to grinning faces. Only Nuntios looks unwell, his face cradled in his hands, his eyes clenched shut.

  “Tomfoolery? This is whom we get?”

  “Such a pathetic boy.”

  “When will he learn?”

  “Nuntios?” Lukas watches his face in concern.

  Nuntios’s eyes fly open. “Voices Lukas. They keep talking to me!”

  “Nuntios, who are the voices?”

  ***

  That question still echoes through his mind weeks later as Nuntios trudges back to his dormitory after a long day. The first few weeks were easy. His first fit had made him wary, but he was still able to pull all of his usual mischief. He settled into life here. He was happy. The whispering begins, and Nuntios bows his head, tears leaking from his eyes.

  With each passing day, the fits had become worse and worse. Sometimes, he would just collapses in class, like a marionette with cut strings. Some days he wouldn’t bother going out of his room. And he had long since stopped apologizing for the screaming—the screaming of a person drowning in terror and confusion, trapped in a twilight wasteland with only cackling demons to keep him company. Only sometimes did he try talking back. And when he did, it would never end well.

  Nuntios walks into his room and closes the door behind him. He flops onto his bed wearily. His sleep gives him no rest; the dark circles beneath his eyes can attest to that. His eyes, once full of confidence and strut are now little pools of ink, almost in danger of being wiped away. Today was especially bad. Every class had brought on another round of “icy fever.” His friends had long ago stopped trying to comfort him; they only tried to catch him when he fell. Nuntios closes his eyes and drifts off, praying for a dreamless sleep.

  Nuntios is running through a maze, a glass maze. Figures in white race past him. He can see them gliding through the walls, passing through them like gossamer curtains. He hears the usual sharp tones of his demonic choir and runs faster, racing around corners, ramming through dead ends. The broken glass stings his skin, but there is no blood. He can hear no coherent words, only faint chatters. He sees chalky silhouettes in the periphery of his vision and runs faster, not even looking where he’s going.

  When he reaches the edge of the maze, he sees that it’s dusk. Now outside, the sky is a deep plum, as he runs across the rocky terrain. And he can smell something, just the faintest whiff of … salt? He stops dead in his tracks. He realizes that this is no plain, but a sheer cliff. A few stories down, churning inky waters crash against the jutting rocks, spraying mist in his face. He turns his back to the sea and looks out onto a different sea, a sea of white, shimmering faces.

  “What are you?” he yells, gazing upon his tormenters properly for the first time.

  “Oh, now he wants to talk.”

  “Quiet!”

  “Have you not guessed?”

  “Why do you talk to me?” Nuntios pleads.

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “Tsk tsk.”

  “Why do you take so long?”

  “What are you?” Nuntios asks again, his voice quavering. “What are you? And what do you want from me?” An ethereal woman with a hard face steps forward.

  “We guarded this fortress long before you came. We have not seen one who speaks to spirits for many centuries. But you would not talk. So, we tried to make you listen. You almost died.” Her lip curls up into a sneer.

  Nuntios’s eyes widen as the last puzzle piece clicks into place. “So you guys are like … ghosts?”

  “How dare you degrade us as such!” The stabbing chills return, and Nuntios grips his temples to keep from blacking out.

  “We are the shades of the fortress. Spirits. We can help. We could have helped you. All you had to do was listen.” The cliff vanishes beneath his feet and Nuntios is falling into blackness.

  Nuntios wakes with a start, his forehead coated with a sheen of sweat. He goes to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. As he looks in the mirror, he sees that the dark circles under his eyes have gone, and his face has more color than it has in weeks. Was it all a dream?

  Nuntios makes his way to the dresser, refreshed and ready to start the day. Did any of those nightmares really happen? Just as he is buttoning his blazer, Nuntios notices something written in the dust on the mirror above the dresser. He quickly grabs his bag and runs out the door, slamming it shut behind him. Even in the dim morning light, the words are easy to read.

  We are real.

  We will listen.

  We are known.

  3

  bad divorce settlements with syrup on top

  The sun is shining on the turquoise waters. Arden can see the birds, the birds that he knows and loves, flying around the tall palms, pooping on unsuspecting cars. He should be at home, helping his dad open up the family restaurant, but Arden isn’t. He’s headed to the airport, to a whole new world he knows nothing about.

  The trouble begins in the morning with Arden’s birthday celebration. He wakes up to some homemade chocolate chip pancakes and a huge grin on his father’s face. As they eat, they talk and joke.

  “You’re practically a man now, Arden,” his dad teases, “I guess that means I’ll have to give you more chores at the restaurant.”

  “I don't know, Dad,” Arden says, “I think I might retire soon.” His dad just reaches over and ruffles Arden’s hair.

  “Just don’t eat too much,” his dad says. “I hear old people gain weight more easily.” Arden knows his dad is only joking, but still makes a point of polishing off three helpings of pancakes before brushing his teeth and getting dressed.

  As they leave to go set up at the restaurant, there’s a knock on the door. They look at each other in confusion. None of their neighbors ever knocked, they just came in. Whoever it is must be a stranger, Arden thinks warily.

  He looks over at his dad and feels a twisting in his gut. There is a hollow resignation in his dad's face, as if he knew this day would come. Another knock sounds, this one louder and with more force. Arden goes to open the door, and suddenly his dad springs into action.

  “Arden wait, don’t—” Arden turns the handle and the door swings open. A woman in a crisp white jacket and a matching pencil skirt steps across the threshold. Upon a second inspection, Arden notices that her dark hair is pinned into a messy bun, her shirt creases in numerous unflattering places, and smears of eyeliner dot her face.

  “Oh, Arden dear, you’ve grown so much! Now, is your bag ready? We better get going,” the woman says in a rush. Her voice is high and thin, and she speaks with a strange accent.

  She could either use a coffee or has had too many already, Arden thinks. “Are you ... taking me somewhere?” Arden twists his lip in confusion. “I’d love to come along, I just—don't know who you are." Arden's dad lets out a weak laugh, but Arden can tell the emotions behind it are strained. “Dad, what's going on?”

  “Arden, meet your mother,” his father says, his eyes solemn. “She’s come to take you to live with her.”

  Arden becomes even more confused and begins spouting questions. “I have a mother? Why do I have to go with her? Why has no one told me?” His eyes burn, first with bewilderment, then with anger.
>
  “James,” Arden’s mother says, “we agreed. You knew that you would have to let him go.”

  “I was hoping you would forget, my dear.”

  “You wanted me to forget my own child? Oh, that is low, James, even for you.” The woman turns to Arden and says, “When your father and I got divorced, we agreed that you should be raised separately from your sister. Then, on your fifteenth birthday, you would start living with me and Luna.”

  “Is that really the best custody plan you could come up with?” Arden asks in disbelief. “You really should have fired your divorce lawyer.” He laughs half-heartedly at his own quip, but it dies in his chest before it properly begins.

  Arden paces in circles for a few moments. “I have a sister,” he remarks, his eyes beginning to water. “I’ve had a sister all this time? Is there anything else you’re not telling me?” His voice begins to reach a fever pitch. “Where do you guys all live? The moon? Is that why I’ve never heard you exist?” Arden charges out of the room as his last furious words die in the air, leaving the door open behind him.

  “Only England, actually,” his father mutters.

  “Our flight is in two hours so you best get a move on!” his mother calls after him. She winces after the words leave her mouth. “That wasn’t very tactful, was it?”

  Arden’s father sighs. “It’s a bit late for that.”

  Arden manages to stumble into his room and shuts the door behind him. After his outburst in the living room, he finds himself breathing heavily. The torrent of emotion in his mind is so strong that his thoughts are barely coherent. He discovers he is sitting on the floor after a few minutes and doesn't quite remember how he got there. I’m panicking, Arden thinks miserably, fantastic. To make matters worse, there is a knock on his door.