by Jim Kroepfl
“See that one?” He points to the left. “It looks like a dog. What do you think?”
I glance up to appease him. “It’s a cow.” The cloud shifts in the air currents. “Now it’s a … a horse.”
“How about that one?” He points a few inches to the right.
I spend some time studying it. When I think I have it, the cloud transforms into something entirely different.
“I used to spend hours watching them on the orphanage’s rooftop,” Orfyn says. “It’s not only about the shapes. Clouds reflect every color there is. When it’s storming, they’re on one side of the color wheel, violets and purples and blues. But at sunrise and sunset their colors are on the other side, reds and oranges and yellows. I don’t know anything else that changes like that.”
“A chameleon?”
He laughs. “You got me there.” His smile drops. “I think those kids are Candidates, but something went wrong.”
“I knew the procedure has risks, but there are so many of them.” I recall the numbered files Stryker found. “And there may have been even more who didn’t make it.” I rub my finger along the scar on my thumb, but cloud-watching feels more soothing.
“But what happened to Marty? If it was an accident, he’d be in the infirmary, not hidden away on a floor we can’t get to.”
“For some reason, they don’t want us to be aware of his condition,” I say.
Marty wasn’t rational in the library. Was he despondent enough to try to commit suicide? If I’d remembered to talk to Deborah, could I have prevented it? I watch the racing clouds, blinking back tears.
Orfyn starts moving closer, looking concerned.
I hold up my hand. “Can you stay there? Please.”
He, thankfully, does as I ask. I can’t handle what I saw in that room and Orfyn’s close proximity simultaneously. I spot a cloud in the shape of an angel. Unlike the others that are shifting in the winds, it holds firm. I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. I made a mistake, and now I need to move past it so I can focus on learning the truth.
“We need to determine if Marty’s condition is associated with his merging.” I say.
Orfyn nods. “How hard do you think it would be to break into Cecil’s office?”
“Cecil, I need you,” Orfyn says.
“Excuse me?”
I’m hiding around the corner and can hear Cecil’s words spewing like venom from his snake lips.
“There’s this guy—I think he’s a Darwinian, but I’ve never seen him before. He wants to destroy my painting.”
“And?”
“I need you to stop him.”
“Kevin, I’m extremely—”
“It’s Orfyn.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“I was trying to do something nice for you guys. You know, restore the old charm to this building. He called my painting dreck—I don’t even know what that means, but it doesn’t sound like a compliment.” Orfyn’s performance is Oscar-worthy. Hurt, a little pleading, and a touch of defiance.
“What do you expect me to do?” Cecil asks.
“Come and take a look. If you hate my painting, then I’ll cover it over. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I don’t want one guy’s bias to overrule everyone else’s appreciation for fine art.”
I cover my mouth so I don’t laugh out loud.
“It won’t take long,” Orfyn says. “Come on, help me out here. I don’t have a Guardian on my side.”
I forgot about that. Who’s been conducting his daily debriefs? I make a note in my journal to ask him later.
When Cecil says, “Where is it?” I want to shout in triumph.
As orchestrated, Orfyn follows Cecil so he can drop a tube of paint to prevent the door from fully closing. Orfyn talks non-stop, holding Cecil’s attention as they head down the hallway.
I’d labeled Orfyn as irresponsible, but he was willing to put his position at risk by coming with me into the restricted area. It feels as if he’s watching out for me. And now he’s doing this. Am I accurate or prejudiced about those who are dominant on the right hemisphere of their brain?
Orfyn pulled off his part. Now it’s my turn.
His paint tube stopped the door, but it got crushed in the process, oozing chromium oxide green onto the white tile floor. Will Cecil believe it fell out of Orfyn’s bag and just happened to land in the perfect spot to prop open his office door? I can’t risk it. I search Cecil’s office but can’t find a box of tissues. I end up losing precious time wiping up the oil paint with the bottom of my shirt, ruining it.
I sit in front of Cecil’s computer. On his desk is a photo of a little girl who resembles him. Cecil lives here full-time, so she’s growing up without a dad. Actually, not having him in her life may save her from years of psychotherapy.
I wasn’t sure if I could access our computer files, but I luck out. Cecil had been in the midst of making notes in Marty’s record. I start skimming the information and feel burning bile rising up my esophagus. I clasp my pen tighter and jot down key phrases from Cecil’s notes into my journal without allowing myself to process the horrifying implications.
Mental breakdown exacerbated by continued pressure to reach standards that may or may not be achievable.
Subject’s brain patterns indicate high dreamstate activity. Unknown at this time if subject is an active participant.
Mentor’s consciousness appears to have superseded the subject’s. Unknown at this time if situation is permanent.
Possible loss of subject’s self-awareness.
Currently unable to determine whose identity will be dominant should the subject regain consciousness.
If situation continues, recommend we
Whatever-His-Name-Is is trying to hijack Marty’s mind! But the even more frightening realization is: what can the Darwinians do to stop him? They can’t expel Marty’s Mentor, or sentence him to jail, or even hold an intervention. Contrary to everyone who is alive, there are no consequences for his actions—unless he ends up destroying his own consciousness by killing Marty.
My body starts to tremble, but I can’t let fury consume me. There’s something else I need to do.
We’d timed how long it takes to travel from Cecil’s office to Orfyn’s painting and back, which gave me seven minutes max. I have one minute left, thanks to the sacrificial paint tube. I click on my file and am barred by a black screen demanding a password. It’s useless to believe I can crack his password and have to give up on that part of my plan. I write down what I’d hoped to learn instead. Is Deborah telling me the truth about my memory? Then something occurs to me. Cecil isn’t my Guardian, but he is Stryker’s.
His file opens with a click, and I see Subject’s Name: Stryker Paix, alias. Why would he be using a false name? I jot down, Stryker. Alias? I read about how a previous incident has made Stryker question his judgment. What happened to him? He always appears confident. Is it all an act?
As much as I want to keep delving in Stryker’s file, I’m out of time. I click back to Marty’s file and make sure it’s as Cecil left it. I stare in frustration at his unfinished thought. What is Cecil’s recommendation?
Within seconds of ducking around the corner, I hear Orfyn. “I get that not everyone appreciates medieval-style demons, but I was trying to express an updated theme that depicts the challenges modern man faces.”
“I want it gone before tomorrow,” Cecil says.
When we reach my room, I gesture for Orfyn to come in and glance at the ceiling as a warning. I open my journal to the page where I’d copied Cecil’s notes, and hand it to Orfyn. Shock fills his face as he reads. When Orfyn looks back at me, his golden-green eyes are glistening.
Before I can stop him, he pulls me into his arms and holds me close. I know I shouldn’t let him, but it’s been a really disturbing day. I lean my head against his shoulder, breathe in his cinnamon-walnut oil scent, feel his warmth against my
cheek, and hear his heartbeat pumping against mine. I finally pull away. “I need to sail … I mean, sort out my thoughts. Alone, if you don’t mind.”
Orfyn looks down at his paint-drip-covered shoes, then back up at me. “Are you sure?”
No, which is why I need him to leave. I have so many conflicting thoughts, it feels as if I’m at war with myself. Where’s the Nobel for Peace when I need him? I then realize that not once had I wished it were Stryker with me today. Despite everything I believe to be true about artists, I fear I’m falling for the wrong boy.
I nod, because I don’t trust that I won’t ask him to stay.
“What about the others? Should we tell them about,” he glances at the ceiling, “that surprise birthday party you’re planning for Anna?”
That’s what he came up with? Despite everything, I choke back a laugh. “Her birthday is coming up soon. We’d better hold a special meeting today.” I notice how long his eyelashes are. “I just need a little time to create a lion … I mean, a list of tasks. Then we’ll wake everybody up.”
He leans down, and his lips graze my cheek. A rush of heat flows through me. Once Orfyn leaves, I look down, fully expecting to see the floor scorched. I am in so much trouble.
I collapse onto my couch. Even though I’ve only been awake for five hours, my body feels as if I haven’t slept in a week, but I don’t dare dream. Enough traumatic things have happened today; I can’t handle topping it off by slaying another one of my octopus friends.
My hand touches the spot where Orfyn’s lips kissed me. I can’t keep pretending I don’t like him. But liking someone and doing something about it are two entirely different things.
I shake my head to dislodge my fixation on Orfyn and open my journal. I re-read my notes and write, Why does Jules have a key? I’m actually surprised no one is pounding on my door, demanding me to forfeit it. My mind grasps onto a hypothesis, but Sherlock Holmes warned that one shouldn’t theorize before reviewing all the evidence. I start a list of possible reasons.
(1) She found it and was planning to return it. Except her book now seems more like a hiding place than homework.
(2) Cecil asked Jules to fetch something from his living quarters and gave her the key. He would have made Jules return it. I can’t see him allowing her to frequent a restricted area, which triggers another thought. How does Jules have so much time to socialize?
(3) Jules stole it. She loves being the first in the know, but would she trespass in their offices to search for gossip? I can’t see it.
(4) What I first suspected, but didn’t want to believe.
Orfyn
I want to punch my fist through every white wall I pass. But if I break my right hand, I can’t paint. If I’m not a painter, I’m nothing.
My skin stings, and I’m grinding my teeth into gravel. What’s happening in Marty’s mind? Does he understand his Mentor is battling him for control? Was it Angus’s intention all along, or did he only discover after merging that he couldn’t handle living without a body?
Ever since I got here, Marty has been slaving away, working a hell of a lot longer than I’ve been. What was the big rush? He and Angus have a lifetime to write their novels together.
It never seemed like Marty had any fun writing. When I’ve got a brush in my hand, I lose hours, and there’s nothing I’d rather be doing. Marty must be a great writer, or he wouldn’t be a Nobel, but did it give him any joy? If not, why was he doing it?
I’ve never read anything he’s written. As far as I know, none of us have. Did the others ever ask to read his stuff? Because I never did. Why didn’t I? It might’ve helped him to hear some positive feedback.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance, but I have a way to get a glimpse into how his mind works. I go to my desk, where I’d stashed the two crinkled pieces of paper I never got the chance to return. A surge of excitement hits me as I begin to read Marty’s work. It’s good. Really good.
At the time when we either become a faint imitation of our dreams or a concrete image of our nightmares, I was rescued. It was not a religious epiphany. It was not a pragmatic realization. It was not a ridiculous philosophical declaration. It was a girl. And while the world crumbles and malice rules the universe, I am undismayed, because I love the girl with hair the color of sunshine.
Corruption descended on the prairie like a cloud of locusts, and for the first time I learned what my family really believed in. Not all that much. The church was a club of suckers and sadists, and only the fake sinners paid. To the others—the ones who would cut your throat to take your grandmother’s wedding ring and catch up with the Revival a few days later—it was a breadbox. An unholy deception of the worst kind, and I loved everything about it. Because she was there.
The wandering cow came home that night, and I just knew we’d make it. We sat around the fire—more smoke than heat, due to the wet forest—and little Sally hooted, and damned if she didn’t call down an owl, and Rance took it with the bow, and we cooked it and were about as happy as we could be, ’cause we knew there’d be mice around. And then the blond girl gave me this look, and it all went away: the fire and the forest, the dreams and the darkness, and the unexplainable need to stay alive.
You could feel the heat. The fire was closing in. It had crossed the river to the south and made it all around Lake Duroy. It was only a matter of time before the Town vanished into ash, and all its sins with it. The smart folks were gone with the last train, along with any semblance of order. There was no way out, and the only thing standing between her and a life she deserved was him. The only thing.
Every afternoon I walk to the park, and if she’s there, I watch her. Her blond hair catching in the breeze; her reddened cheeks tightened in laughter; just the glow of her. I know when she has a hard day. I know because it’s hard for me. It’s hard for everyone else, too. I make sure of that. She is the sun I revolve around. And I hope she never finds out.
I’d tapped out all the relatives, friends, and church-goers; pressed all the people that owed me dough; hit the plasma clinic; and sold Granddad’s stock in the Green Bay Packers. For the first time in my life, I knew who I was and what I cared about. I knew what I had to do. My life would matter, and I would never leave her alone again. I would follow love.
How many other first paragraphs has Marty thrown away? Dozens? Hundreds? He was writing a love story. Is there a special girl waiting for the day when he’s allowed to see her again? Will someone tell her Marty may never come home?
We’ve got to get him back so he has the chance to finish his novel. And I want to help him understand that the thrill of being an artist comes from reaching beyond what we think we’re capable of, not achieving perfection. I also want to learn if there really is a girl he loves.
My eyes catch on Lake’s canvas, leaning against the wall. Until today, she’s never let me into her place, so I’ve never hung it for her. The bottom third is still blank, since Alex broke up the party before she could finish it. He’s got to be scared to death that they can’t figure out how to help him. I vow to start hanging out with him more. Hear him play the guitar. Make him laugh.
I take the canvas over to the table and grab my oils, but not my brushes. I’ll finish it like Lake started it: with my hands. It’ll be a pain to get the paint off, but I want to respect her style. Unlike the criminal who painted over the beached whale, I’m not changing a thing about her work. As our paintings brush up against each other’s, I want the emotions to merge into something bigger—something that will blow her mind.
Lake
“You’re lying!”
“Jules, I’m not the liar here,” I say. “You lied about Marty’s writing. His Mentor never allowed him to move past the … the beginning part. The first paragraph.”
The Darwinians have to be questioning why the six of us are sitting in the middle of the crumbling outdoor track, and I doubt they’d believe we’re holding cheerleading practice. This one�
�s going to have to be one creative lie—which I’ll let Stryker deal with.
Jules twists her hair into a bun. “They told me they were moving Marty from our wing for observation.”
“Why would they tell you and not the rest of us?” Alex wheezes. He has a clear tube running from an oxygen tank into his nostrils, and he still got winded getting here. But at least he’s well enough to rejoin our meetings.
“Yeah, what’s so special about you?” Anna demands.
Stryker catches my eye and lifts an eyebrow to prod me. I understand how Johann Becher must’ve felt when they debunked his theory that objects combust because they contain phlogiston.
“You’re spying for them,” I accuse Jules.
“Lake, I hate to sound mean, but you haven’t exactly been thinking clearly.”
My anger grapples with gut-wrenching shame until I realize she’s purposely trying to fluster me. “It’s the only, only … explanation for why you had that key and why you’re aware of things the rest of us aren’t.”
Jules removes her glasses and wipes the lenses with the bottom of her shirt. “I can’t help it if people feel comfortable talking to me.”
No wonder it appears as if she barely eats. She’s been using food as a prop to justify the hours she spends in the dining hall, prying secrets out of us.
“It’s over, Jules.” Stryker says. “Since none of us will confide in you again, I hope for your sake you’re providing other value to the Darwinians.”
Jules’s chin juts out, and her eyes narrow, making her resemble a fox readying itself to pounce on a defenseless rabbit. “I’m more valuable than any of the rest of you.”
“Then it’s true? You’re their spy?” Anna asks, sounding more upset than I’d expect given her typical aloofness.
Jules says, “I’ve only been confirming facts so they know if everyone is telling them the truth.”