The Rise of the Fourteen

by Catherine Carter

  She cranes her neck, straining for a closer look. Is it a blur of branches or a tree maybe? Or … a face! She yelps in fright, catching a glimpse of two golden eyes. Her shriek echoes through the building, stopping everyone in their tracks. There is a loud thud as a bible is dropped by a startled priest.

  All gathered stare at Nuptia, concern obvious in their eyes. Aware of her flaming cheeks, Nuptia breaks into a run, barely stopping to wrench open the heavy door on her way out. It swings shut behind her, and she vanishes, her presence only marked by the pitter-patter of feet on soft dirt fading into the night.

  ***

  “Demetri you idiot!”

  “Sorem, keep your voice down.” The two figures huddle closer together, shielded by only the back wall of the church.

  “We were supposed to try and contact her, not scare the life out of her.”

  “You wouldn’t have done much better!”

  “Well, we’ll never know, will we?” She smacks her forehead in a gesture of frustration.

  “Let’s just get back to the house. We don't know what those kids get up to when we’re not there.” Sorem grudgingly takes his hand, and they disappear into the shadows. The cool night air settles behind them, and all is quiet once more.

  24

  a necklace, one of the many repercussions of staying out late

  “I still don’t understand. Why do I have to leave without you?”

  “It’s for your own good.” The boy shrugs nonchalantly and leaves the room.

  ***

  Faber wanders the streets, drinking in the sweet nightlife of a Beijing marketplace. The smells of stalls lined with the odd trinkets, spices, meats, and other less savory foods permeate the air. He knows he shouldn't be out this late, especially not on his own. Isn’t this why I’m being sent away? So I can’t do things like this? He keeps walking, ignoring his thoughts.

  Just ahead, a brightly lit banner above a vendor advertises delicious fried fish skewers. On a whim, he approaches the stall.

  “How much for a skewer?” he asks, ducking his head. Despite recently turning thirteen, he still has the social confidence of a petrified hamster. Puberty isn’t everything.

  His question is greeted with the broad smile of an elderly local woman, her face made grubby by the cooking oil. “The skewer is on the house. You seem like a special boy.” Her withered hands pass him a piping hot spit. He bows slightly and rushes away, his face reddening just a shade. He finds a little alcove and chews thoughtfully on one of the fish, trying to forget how it was probably cooked.

  He wasn’t surprised by what the woman said. He’s heard it many times before. You look special. There’s something different about you, a little twist. Despite having lived in China for a good chunk of his life, his American roots always seemed to catch up with him. I pass as one of them. I keep my head down with my dark hair, but people know my face isn’t completely Chinese. They can’t figure out what it is, but the difference is always there.

  Faber weaves his way through the alleyways, making his way back towards his parents' high-rise apartment. Faber refuses to look down at his watch, guilt-tripping him with its green display. He slips through the glass revolving doors soundlessly, making his way towards the elevators like a ghost. The doors slide shut, and he begins the ascent, to live high above the real world. The shining chrome paneling is blinding compared to the soft dim lights of the marketplace. Reality does sting sharply.

  The elevator makes a little ding as he reaches his floor. He exits quietly, grateful to see an empty hallway. The entranceway of his apartment is a different matter.

  “Mom,” he says with a strained smile as if attempting to swallow dirt, “Dad, shouldn't you be sleeping?"

  “I’m not the one taking a … what is it? twelve-hour bus ride tomorrow,” his dad retorts.

  “Thirteen, actually,” his mom says flatly.

  “Whatever,” his dad states, his firm gaze ensuring the closure of the matter. “Fact is, this stunt you just pulled doesn’t change anything. You leave for Nanxun in the morning, period, no questions asked.”

  “But—why?” Faber puts on his best puppy face, playing for the shiny eyes.

  “Well, really your mother wanted—”

  “We both want what is best for you, Faber. All this pollution makes me, us, worried about your health.”

  “Do you even remember the last time I was sick?” He huffs, proud of his newfound defiance. He clams up only moments later, stifled by a stern look from his mother. “I'm going, I'm going,” he says, his hands above his head in a placating gesture. He hurriedly crosses the foyer to his room, eager to hide, like a wounded creature. His father gazes after him, deep pity in his eyes.

  “We must do this for him,” his mother insists.

  “Yes,” his father breathes, “for him,” barely believing the words even as he says them.

  Faber trudges towards the glass-arched bus stop, his mother’s firm hand on his shoulder. Father couldn’t even bring himself to come. He knows this is strange, so why doesn’t he speak up? He tries focusing on the little things—the rhythm of his duffle bag smacking against his thigh, the crisp smell of his mother’s new perfume, and the sky, still a dull gray. But, all the same, his thoughts are weighed with the cinder blocks of excitement, confusion, and regret to be leaving. Like it or not, Beijing was home, and he would miss it. More than he would care to admit.

  Faber takes an unsteady seat on a cool metal bench. Pointedly trying to ignore his mother, he pokes his fingers through the uniform holes dotting the seat, pressing down until red rings appear on the tips of his fingers.

  “Stop that,” she says sharply. He crosses his arms, barely acknowledging her comment. “I am doing this for you, remember that.” Faber grunts non-committedly and continues staring at the sky. Her discomfort is palpable. “I have something for you.” Faber swivels his head to look at her, a blank look on his face. “It’s something your grandmother gave me.”

  So, it smells like old lady? Faber might not be the nicest of boys, but he knows when to hold his tongue. He nods again. His mother reaches into her purse and pulls out a small jade pendant on a thin golden chain. It’s a smooth rectangle with various characters etched into the stone. A necklace? You’ve got to be joking.

  “This is just a little thing. It will keep you safe until you reach your aunt’s house.”

  What hokum. “Yes, Mother,” he says, lips pursed. He accepts the pendant from her and places it around his neck. Surprisingly, it feels warm against his skin. He strokes it once before tucking it under his shirt, away from prying eyes.

  As more and more people flood into the station, Faber knows it’s nearly time to leave. Only moments later, a gray-blue bus pulls up, and the mad rush for seats begins. He moves to join the crowd, but he is stopped by a hand.

  “Now, Faber, listen. Make sure you know when to get off. You can’t get all the way to Nanxun on this bus. You get off first at—”

  “Mom, I’ll be fine, alright?” He fixes her with his fluid gray eyes, perhaps for the first time this morning.

  She cracks a thin smile and nods. “Then go! Or you won’t get a seat!” He quickly disappears into the crowd, lost amongst the sea of backs. I’m glad he’s gone. There was something lurking here. I felt it. He will be safer in the country. She turns to walk to the nearest cab stop. As she leaves, she doesn’t notice the wilted potted plants or the two figures that remain crouched behind them.

  I left with the sunrise and now the sky darkens. An exhausted Faber is slumped against a bus window near the front of the vehicle. This is the fourth bus he’s been on today, and he is completely wiped out. The roads stopped being paved several hours ago and have since been gravel and dirt.

  A lone approaching wooden sign marks the last stop of the day. The bus lurches over a bump and careens to a halt, all but missing the signage. The tinny speaker just overhead begins a message in Mandarin as the doors screech open. Faber slings his bag over his shoulder and makes
his way out.

  As he leaves, a commotion erupts nearby, and Faber cranes his neck for a better view. A heavyset man with a thick beard stands yelling at a cowering young woman. Despite Faber's best efforts, Chinese has never come easy to him, and he cannot make out what is being said. The man yells some more and starts pulling the woman about by her hair. A ring of watchers stands around them, but no one moves forward as she begins to scream. Faber pushes through the horde, shoving at the mass of bodies.

  “Hey! Leave her alone!” he says (as menacingly as possible), putting himself between the woman and the giant. He immediately regrets his choice as one of the man's meaty fists comes sailing towards his face. He holds his hands up, bracing for the coming impact.

  The man, however, draws back, cursing and howling. What must have once been a large golden band on his finger is now a glob of molten metal, blistering his calloused skin. Faber bolts away from the scene, not caring enough to figure out what has just happened. His talisman grows warm beneath his shirt, but he ignores it, focusing only on sprinting down the earthen road. So, he doesn’t notice as an etching of an arrow appears on the side of the jade tablet bouncing against his chest.

  25

  if you’re going to wake up all your friends, do it for a girl

  It’s been over a week since the blue-eyed girl arrived, maybe even two. She hasn’t even left her room. The screams have continued as regularly scheduled programming. Arden and Luna have it easy, sleeping at the top of the sanctuary; they can’t hear a thing. The other girls have figured out how to soundproof their walls (Callida went snooping in the library probably). Ámpelos and Nuntios crank up their music and fall asleep to sounds of guitar riffs.

  Me? I put up with it, covering my head with my pillow and rolling over. Sometimes I’ve even gone over to her room with some water or something. Either the door is locked or she throws things at me till I leave. Even when she’s throwing a vase at my head, she’s beautiful. The electric blue of her eyes has not faded in the least. But I still don’t know why ….

  ***

  There is a harsh crack as the wooden drill sword smacks against his ribs.

  “Terrance, pay attention will you?” Anima snaps. “I wanted this extra practice so that I might actually beat Nuntios in the ring. I still have the bruises he gave me! But you just refuse to focus!” She huffs loudly and stalks off, leaving the sword on the floor. Terrance picks it up, slides it into the rack along with his, and makes his way to the stairs. A good lie down would be nice. He massages his sore torso thoughtfully. And perhaps some ice. He continues up the stairs, eager to be back in his room.

  Terrance is still awake, despite it being the dead of night. He has been sitting up on his bed for some time, his bruises still tender. He checks the ancient clock built into the headboard. He groans in frustration. So much for getting up early for training. He pulls himself to a standing position. I’ll get some water, that’s what I’ll do.

  He swings open his door, not bothering to close it as he starts down the hall. Just as he passes a vase of flowers, he hears a scream from down the hall. He jumps, nearly knocking the vase over. Water can wait. He rushes to the door and pushes it open. Unsure of what to expect, he braces himself for an onslaught of projectiles.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says cautiously, outstretched hands shielding his face.

  “I’m not okay. But there’s nothing you can do about it.” He lowers his hands in disbelief. The only other words she’s said had been some variation of “get lost” or “go away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, still confused by this new openness.

  “Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault,” she replies, frustration clear in her voice. She rakes her hand across her scalp, brushing stray hair out of her eyes.

  “Why were you screaming?”

  “I had the same bad dream I have every night. End of story.”

  He looks at her with pity. What must it be like, to have the same nightmare every night? “Tell me about it.”

  “Are you mocking me?”

  “No, no, no! I just wonder what kind of dream would make someone scream at all hours of the night for weeks on end,” he says.

  She gives him a weak smile. “Thanks for caring, I suppose.” She wrings her hands nervously, wary of having such a long conversation. She shivers slightly when she realizes Terrance isn’t going to leave. He notices and walks towards her bed slowly.

  “You cold?”

  “No,” she says stiffly. She shrinks back against the headboard, tucking the sheet around her. Terrance freezes, slightly hurt. She sees the light change in his eyes. Oh god, did I insult him? She sees the slight tensing of the muscles in his jaw, the uncertainty in his eyes. She sighs heavily. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, twirling a strand of hair between her two fingers. “I’m not good with … people.”

  She immediately regrets her choice of words as Terrance begins to laugh. “Me too.”

  She smiles thinly, but secretly she’s glad. Terrance smiles back at her, happy that she still hasn't thrown anything. He sees her slight discomfort, though, and motions towards the door. “I should probably let you get some sleep.”

  “Won’t happen,” she says acidly. “I’ll just wake up again.”

  “Too scared to dream?”

  She doesn’t trust herself to speak and simply nods, avoiding eye contact. The following silence settles uncomfortably between the two. Worse than conversation, she muses. She looks up, forcing herself to look Terrance in the eye. She sees the unspoken question in his face. She sighs again. This might be the only person who will ever talk to me.

  Memories flit through her mind. All those hours of lurking in dark back alleys, stealing leftover food, and clutching a knife in my shaking hands. An involuntary shudder ripples through her body. Terrance doesn’t hesitate in coming over to her bed and pulling the sheets up to her chin.

  She sits against the headboard silently, watching the fluidity of his movements. She takes a deep breath, preparing to take the plunge. “I was eight,” she whispers. Terrance looks at her, his eyes wide in amazement. “I was eight when it all began.

  “I grew up in Bifröst, Iceland, on the outskirts of town. It’s a small rural area; we had to pump water and everything. My parents … they knew about my … gift.” She spits out the word as if it leaves a foul taste in her mouth. “No one else knew. I kept it to myself and was homeschooled. The outside world was a mysterious and terrifying place to me.” It didn’t stay that way for long.

  “That summer people began asking questions. We had ‘tourists’ come and ask for directions from time to time. They stayed too long and asked too many questions. How long had we lived there, and such. I never liked them, but my mother was always so kind.” Her eyes mist over for a moment. Terrance stands silently, unable to speak.

  “She sent me out to fetch water one day while one of the people was there. I didn't like it, but I always listened to her.” She pauses a moment but then steels herself and continues. “I was barely done pumping water when I heard the screaming. It was high at first, high enough to shatter glass. Then it was muffled, muffled as if the voice was being smothered. I took off running toward the house, barely feeling the ground beneath me.”

  Her shoulders are shaking at this point, but she pushes forward, her words beginning to blur together. “As I entered through the back door, I grabbed a knife from the kitchen. That is what saved me. When I reached the foyer, I saw my mother and father. They were gasping for air, clawing at their throats. I ran to my mother’s side. There was a strip of black cord around her neck, crushing her windpipe. I tried to cut it free, but to no avail. It only loosened slightly, allowing for a few more seconds before death.”

  She is crying as she speaks now, silent tears flowing. “My father must have been dead by then. But I don't know. His body was gone. Only traces of yellow powder were left. I returned my focus to mother, but she was gone too. Only the barest scen
t of her remained.”

  Terrance shifts his stance awkwardly, unsure if he should comfort her or not, aware that this is the longest she's talked in weeks, maybe forever for all he knows.

  “I ran from that house, a little girl in a blue dress, clutching a steak knife, running on the dirt road all the way into town. By nightfall, I was muddy and exhausted. I fell asleep curled beneath an old truck, sticky tears drying on my face.

  “The next day Andreas found me. He was kind to me, almost too kind. He rolled me out from underneath that truck, as battered and dirty as I was. He took me to a cozy townhouse. It was big and spacious. He fed me, gave me money, and treated me like I was his daughter.” She swallows hard. “But, most importantly, he trained me to kill.” Terrance's jaw clenches, and he feels his breathing speed up. To kill? He rocks back and forth on his heels.

  “I refused to use my gift, not after that magical attack on my family. Andreas trained me with knives, darts, swords, the full array. I was angry. I wanted vengeance. I trained from dawn till dusk every day to keep that fire alive. Whoever killed my parents, I wanted them dead. I would not allow them to live. Andreas was more than willing to comply. And stupid as I was, I trusted him.” Her face burns, hot with tears and regret. “For years I lived with him. I woke at dawn to train and only slept the bare minimum. Sometimes I forgot my goal. I was blinded by rage.

  “That changed when I got my first instruction. I was fourteen then. Andreas told me he had found someone linked to my parents’ disappearance. I put on my battle dress, tucking knives into my sleeves and hidden pockets, strapping daggers to my legs.

  “I could barely hear what he was saying over the sound of blood rushing in my ears. Justice was about to be done. But then he whispered the name. Auðun. I had almost forgotten the boy. He was my closest neighbor when … I lived at the house. He was a scruffy boy who always had dirt on his face, and his hair was never brushed. He always came over asking for some eggs or milk.

  Andreas repeated the name. ‘You have to kill him. Do you understand?’ Auðun. Auðun. I couldn’t bring myself to kill him. No matter how many times I lurked in the bushes by his house or outside his school, I could not draw my weapons. He walked on, his oblivious face still round and dirty. He was a memory of the house—a happy one—and I couldn’t bring myself to destroy that.