by Amber Kizer
Auntie’s long-ago declarations of a similar nature echoed in a sudden flush of tears. She would like this man and his cadre of Woodsmen.
Tens licked his lips. “So, you do what?”
Timothy looked at me. “Your job is to help the soul?” To Tens he said, “And yours is to protect her form so her spirit may walk in both worlds? Ours is to guard your families, your history, your stories. We are your friends.” He rolled closer to the headstones. “As part of that, we mark the earth in special ways to denote a Fenestra, a Protector, a Woodsman. We say the sacred words to aid the souls and ward the dust our bodies return to.”
“Do your gravestones look like this?” I pointed at the windows now adorning Auntie’s and Roshana’s plots.
Timothy shook his head. “No, we are trees. Many cemeteries have them; you’d be surprised. The height, what is on the stone, the carvings—all of those mean something to us. Like signs, we can read them at a glance. Masters, those like me who’ve seen the great darkness and lived to tell about it, have their stones marked with ‘WoW’ mixed in among the symbols.”
I glanced around the hills of Riverside as the sun drew higher in the sky. Stone tree stumps of varying sizes were all around us.
“How did you hear about these graves? How did you know?” I pressed.
“Ah, we have a network. It’s shrinking, but it’s there. We get word to each other. A special friend contacted me months ago and asked us to watch your Juliet. We saw you were like her. And so on. There are more humans with gifts similar to yours”—he pointed at me—“who feel when another has died. Some who can talk to the dead also get word to us. I do not know how they know. Secrecy is part of how we’ve lived this long. Kept ourselves safe from the Dark Ones. We know each other close in the circles, but as we go farther out, we don’t even know names. We are all Timothy when we interact with outsiders.”
“So he’s not really Timothy? And you’re not really Timothy?” Tens blinked, pointing at them.
“No, coming of age for us is at twenty-one years. They have much to learn before then.” His face clouded. “But we are living under a yellow flag of caution; the Novelty is growing stronger and more desperate. Our numbers shrink. Your numbers are less than zero.”
A chill zinged down my back. Zero? I don’t count?
“Novelty?” Tens asked.
“A group of Nocti is called a Novelty.”
“Why are you coming to us now? What’s changed if you’ve been watching us since when?” I asked.
“Since February and the exposure of the Dunklebarger scandal, we have been checking on the progress of Miss Ambrose. The Novelty is active. We are afraid they are planning on a significant event. We don’t have details yet, but without help, we fear you might all be killed and many more innocents will die.”
“Who’s your friend?” Tens asked.
At the same time, I queried, “How did you lose the use of your legs? Was it Nocti?”
“I helped a young man and his girlfriend escape capture. I was injured in a car accident with the young man. This is the friend I’m talking about.”
Someone who knew Juliet at DG? “What happened to his girlfriend?”
“I was told she was killed as well, but we were near the rendezvous. I don’t know. I do not remember the accident. And I was the only survivor of my kind. The young man moved on. I hadn’t heard from him until he contacted us.”
“What is his interest in Juliet?”
“I do not know his relationship to her, but I would bet my life that it is only good. I lost family in that accident and he lost his. We are bonded by battle.”
My heart broke a little for Timothy’s obvious pain. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
He brightened slightly. “Ah, the point is to have love to lose, isn’t it? What a horrid place this would be without love.”
“What do you mean about a rendezvous?” Tens ground his teeth.
Still thinking.
“Ah, we operate a bit like the Underground Railroad, with relaying messages and transporting your kind. We break up the parts to keep each other safe.”
Tens nodded.
“Good, I am afraid the Novelty is preparing to strike. We have uncovered some of the plans and I’ve put out the call, but I do not know how many of us will come. Things are not as they used to be. I know of none other like Meridian and Juliet.”
“What do you know about the Nocti’s plans?”
“You will know all we know. Perhaps we could meet with your glassblower as well? And Juliet? We must collaborate in order to stand a chance.”
Tens glanced at me. I nodded. We need all the friends we can get.
CHAPTER 22
Juliet
Be okay, Mini. Please be okay. How will I live without you?
Mini was stable, though I didn’t stop my fervent hopes. Fara woke after a short nap and after staring at me intensely, she broke into a flurry of activity like a whisk at high speed. She’d yet to explain to me the necessity of all this commotion.
I held my mother’s words in my hands. She’d written notes in the pages of a book of sonnets. In tiny, short sentences, in cryptic code that left most information out. She probably thought no one would read a book of expired poetry. She’d left me all of my tangible history. The CD she’d tucked into it was the soundtrack to a movie called Ghost I’d never heard of. Why is this CD more important than my father’s name? His address? My grandparents?
A knock at the door of the apartment forced me to move from the couch watching Hurricane Fara make calls and lists and pull ingredients from grocery bags to lay upon the counter like row upon row of little soldiers. Fara tried to make it to the door first, but I beat her because she had chicken juice on her hands.
I glanced through the peephole and waved Fara off. Sergio stood outside clutching a bouquet of wilting daisies.
Why? For whom? I swung open the door. “Hello.” Go away.
He smiled as if I was exactly the person he most wanted to see. “Juliet.” He shifted from foot to foot as we considered each other. “Oh, these are for you.” He held out the flowers.
I don’t want them. “Thank you.” I couldn’t make my hand move to take them. He smelled of stale potato chips and old tuna salad.
“Here.” He shoved the flowers at me.
Reluctantly, I grabbed them, my fingers brushing his. The stems were sweaty and warm. I stepped back. He looks too much like Kirian.
“Hello, Sergio,” Fara said from behind me.
“Fara.” He dipped his head respectfully as if she were my mother.
“Would you like to come to dinner? We are having a party tonight,” she asked in a tone that made me whip around and stare at her.
What are you doing? What party?
Sergio leapt at the invitation. “Oh, yeah, that would be great.” His smile filled his face like a cartoon character.
“Don’t tell Juliet; it’s a surprise.” She scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to him. I tried to grab at the paper, but she was too fast for me. “Can you bring this?”
He read the note, nodding.
What does it say? Upside down and at an odd angle, it could have been written in Chinese. I peered at it, trying to read the crazy squiggles and lines Fara called handwriting. I don’t think it has anything to do with my reading problems; she simply writes horribly.
“Sure,” Sergio said.
“Okay, we will catch you later.” Fara pushed me out of the way and started to close the door.
“Oh, yeah, okay later.” He seemed shocked as the door swung shut in his face.
“That was rude,” I said, dropping the daisies onto the floor.
“We have important duties today. He’ll come to dinner. Do you like him?” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes until the black liner around them seemed to blend into a black mask.
“He’s okay.” No! But I don’t want to talk about why. You’ll ask me about Kirian.
She didn’t let up. “
He has much desire in his eyes for you.”
“He doesn’t desire me.” I shuddered. I’d been there once. Kirian loved me. Wanted me. Left me. Betrayed me. No, thank you.
Fara shrugged. “Whatev.”
I laughed at her atrocious accent and parody of an American moron. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing?” The kitchen was my domain. I wasn’t sure how I felt about sharing it.
“You are always saying you don’t know enough about me. I’m sharing.”
“Now?” I asked. Everything, all at once?
“Do you have to be so annoyance-ing?”
“Yes.” I smiled, laughing.
Earlier, Tony mysteriously disappeared but left Fara with the car keys. And without a lecture about scaring him. He must know what’s going on.
She shrugged her shoulders and tossed her hair—or tried to. There was so much goop in it that it didn’t move at all. Her expression grew serious. “I miss the tastes of my father’s people. You understand this? You will help now?”
What of my father’s people? What do they eat? I was too tired to argue. “All right, what are we making?”
We settled into a rhythm of Fara directing me to chop green leafy herbs: parsley, cilantro, dill, mint, and tarragon. Soon the scents of garlic cloves and cardamom pods layered themselves in. The kitchen became exotic and fresh. I was transported, unclenching the tight grip of my control. I usually knew exactly what flavors went where, but I had no idea what our end menu included. I should feel awkward with Fara bossing me around in the kitchen, but I don’t. Why not?
Next, I chopped tomatoes while she prepared to cook the rice and chickpeas. Silently, I did as she bid. She’d turned into an expert, confident and demanding. Soon, she began to talk.
“I first made Kuku-ye Zabzi Zereshk—you can call it Kuku—with my father when I was three years old. He had me crack the eggs carefully in the bowl after he’d chopped like a superhero with big knives, and fast hands, all the herbs.”
I listened, watching her expressions animate with these wonderful memories.
She continued. “We made this over and over again until I’m sure I murmured the ways in my sleep. Then he added Ash-e Reshteh, noodle soup, when I was five. I picked the bad chickpeas and beans out of the dried mix. Very important job. But if you wish while you make it, the wish comes true.” She laughed.
She motioned for me to chop scallions and more garlic. She burst with fussy.
“Then came Mast-o Khiar. A yogurt sauce.” She squeezed limes over a pot of rice, onions, chicken thighs, and tomatoes. She dotted the top with tiny saffron threads. “Rice and green beans is called Lubia Polow.”
I practiced pronouncing her words until my tongue tied. I don’t know the names but I know these flavors.
“This smells of my father.” She held a small cardamom pod, dried and green, under my nose as she broke it.
I nodded. Food piled higher around us on every surface. All of the hungry in our city might be satiated by the volume of this meal. Why a party now? What is there to celebrate?
“Sabzi Polow is a spring rice, green like your grass.” She heated a large pot of oil and pulled catfish out of the refrigerator. “Mahi-e Tanuri, like Rumi’s catfish fry?” She giggled and I laughed. He never missed an opportunity to eat fried fish.
Fara kept up a steady stream. “When I knew each of these dishes and how to pick the best, the freshest parts, my father added in sweets, cookies, and frozen creams to our practice. But these foods, they were the most important. Each family has their own recipes, their own way, yes? This is our way.”
I inhaled, relaxing with each breath as the scents of cooking food, spiced with life, filled the condo.
“This is a lot of food.” I glanced around. “Is everyone coming to dinner?”
“Ah, we go to them. Sit.” She pointed at a chair.
I sat as she handed me a cherry fizz drink that made my mouth pucker and my heart sing.
“Your day to begin is Nowruz. The day of the New Year, a day of new beginnings and fresh spring. I was to be here. I was supposed to cook with you this meal. We were to make you fresh, clean, welcome to the new you.” She spit out a string of words I didn’t understand. “Translate is hard.” She paused in frustration.
“We write down all the wrongs of the year before, all the mistakes.” She pushed a pen and paper toward me.
All of them? Where do I start? “Do you have more paper? I’m not sure this will be enough,” I tried to joke.
“No joking. Write. What makes your heart hurt? Your soul cry? Put on paper. Takes much time.” Fara went and checked the food and left me to stare at a blank page. As she clanked around the kitchen, I began with a single word. Kirian. Then Mother. Added Meridian. And soon the words began to pour forth as if my pen were a mere extension of myself. I didn’t believe Nicole. I didn’t save more kids or elderly. I let Ms. Asura make me doubt and hate. How did I give her permission to make me feel these ugly, horrid things? I paid no attention to the possibility anyone might read what I wrote. I knew what it said. Every word.
I glanced up and saw Fara studying me. “My baba told me love has only one enemy. Not hate. Unknowing.” She searched for a word. “Ignorance.”
I nodded.
“Nowruz is about knowing our soul clean again. Loving each other. Chasing the dark away and welcoming the light back. It is a clean start. You see? Write more. Write it all.” She waved toward the paper and turned away.
I nodded, though I felt like I was in the middle of a crazy crash course. I kept writing until my hand cramped and kept going even when my fingers hurt so much the words were no longer recognizable. Not only a year of wrongs, I wrote my lifetime.
Fara quietly tasted food in pots and wrapped the fried fish to keep it warm.
I laid the pen down and stretched.
Fara nodded. “We are ready. Let us load the car.”
Night fell like velvety ganache down the sides of a chocolate cake, which meant hours had passed as we’d cooked. As she’d told me stories of Nowruz, Baba, and traditions.
After making several trips to load the food into the car, Fara declared, “We are going now.”
“Where?” I asked, buckling into the passenger’s side.
I wasn’t sure she was going to answer, but after a few moments, she said, “Home.”
I frowned, wondering where she meant until I saw the turn toward DG. “Why? No, turn around.” This is no home.
Panic rose in me like dough in a warm oven until I couldn’t swallow past it. What are we doing here? A party? No parties ever happened here. The opposite of parties is DG.
“No. We go.” Fara’s resolve shut down my words, but my fingers cramped along my thighs as I tried to hold on to the calm and confidence I’d found such a short time ago.
We pulled up among many cars, and I recognized all of them belonged to people in our coalition. Including Joi and her husband. Bodie and Sema shrieked joyfully as I got out of the car. My heart lifted seeing the littlies. They seemed so relaxed, happy, and cared for. They look like children who are safe and cherished with no worries except what flavor of frozen custard to choose.
“They’re back?” I asked Fara as the kids ran toward us.
“Just for tonight. They needed to be here too.” She smiled as they approached.
Bodie and Sema raced toward us wearing crimson hats and red satin capes. They banged pots and spoons in a cacophonous racket all around us.
Bodie sang out, “Like this, Fara? Are we doing it right?”
I swept them into my arms for a brief hug before they danced away, intent on performing their task.
“Yes, little one, all around us. Chase away the bad! Dance in the Light!” She danced with them and sent them off banging around the edges of the property. At my questioning glance, she explained, “They are the Haji Firuz. They scare away evil and help us celebrate Light’s victory over Dark.”
Sergio and Tony came toward us to help carry all the food
from the car. Tony stopped by me, hesitated, then kissed the top of my head, as if saying hello. Or goodbye.
“You all know what this is?” I asked him as he loaded up his arms.
“Fara’s a good general; she delegates well.” He shrugged. “We’re only following orders.”
“Uh, yeah, she gave me that note and it took three hours.” Sergio grinned ruefully. “Next time I’ll remember not to agree so easily.”
Fara laughed and waved them off.
A huge bonfire blazed on what used to be the back lawn of DG, nearer to the creek than the road. Gus and Joi set up tables and chairs. Tony helped Rumi light candles under colorful glass bulbs.
Beautiful. Magical. I almost forgot where we were.
Nelli and Bales draped garlands between the trunks of two skeleton trees. Fara pointed out the objects strung together. Apples and oranges, bunches of grapes, tiny mirrors dangled and reflected the bonfire. I saw faces I recognized in the photographs hanging down too. Everyone was there in candids and poses. Meridian’s silhouettes were light but blurry; mine were balls of light with no human form.
Fairy lights twinkled amid the candles. Fara pointed up. “Light is the symbol of Nowruz.”
Rumi even strung a few new Spirit Stones from the branches of the trees. Mini lay beneath one, still bandaged but alert, with Custos as her side.
As we unloaded the food onto the tables, Fara taught everyone the names and which ingredients were in each. The aromas blended with the warm air and earth around us like a delicious promise. My heart beat easier. My lungs allowed in more oxygen-rich air.
I listened to the creek giggle and laugh behind us in approval. I wondered if my mother was watching with Fara’s baba. If Kirian knew where I was.
We ate, laughing, Fara orchestrating the conversations to stay airy and silly. Bales seemed to blend into the shadows of the perimeter as if he was guarding the event. When had Tens, Fara, and he discussed it? As we finished eating, Fara opened up about her father and their Nowruz traditions.
“There are seven kinds of immortals, seven of our kind who guard all of the Creator’s domain. With the light, we guide our ancestors’ spirits home and chase away the evil.” She moved to the table lit by green pillars. “Sofreh-ye Haft-Sinn, the holiday table.” She frowned.