by K. M. Herkes
Ruth remembered little of her intake processing. The orders and questions had blurred past without time for understanding. She had moved from station to station with the rest of her battered fellows, gathering equipment and lessons in procedure without comprehending any of it. Hours had passed in a blur of announcements and questions, ending in assignment to this duty or that, based on past employment and ability to work.
The counselors insisted that the purpose of the camp was to induct the newly-changed into the mysteries of their new abilities. They believed in themselves and their mission, even as their every action undermined and belied their words of encouragement.
Interns were expected to master their new talents without even being taught how those talents worked. They were set up for failure, and when they failed, they were blamed for their laziness and their lack of ambition. Exploration learning, the guards called it, and refused to interfere unless–until–their charges’ lives were in danger. Even with those obstacles to overcome, the cohort learned from and with each other. Slowly, ever so slowly, Ruth learned to tap into the warm power she could feel still growing, still maturing, inside her.
It told her its name in the dark, hot nights after curfew. She made its acquaintance through the voices of frogs and the whine of mosquito wings. God was filling her with the fullness of the world. Songs of stone and wood, air and water would be hers to sing. Souls would be hers to move. Miracles would answer to her heart, if she lived.
She kept her knowledge to herself and bent her neck to the yoke. Any rebellion, however small, generated an immediate, uncompromising response. First offenses resulted in punishment–physical, painful and public. Any further infractions–any infraction–resulted in counseling. No one who returned from that office committed a third infraction. They came back to their bunks with slack faces and empty eyes, and they were models of proper behavior forever after.
Ruth bent her head, and prayed as she did every morning, for the patience to endure one more day, for her transformation to reach its end, and for deliverance from counseling. The sympathetic, smiling men and women who stripped the souls from their victims were the only enemies on the island that she truly feared.
She made no friends. Alliances were dangerous. After watching lovers join and pairs bond only to be counseled into docile propriety, she resigned herself to wandering alone in this wilderness. And since she was alone she recited the names of the fallen to herself, to keep them vivid in her memory. There would be a time for them.
Inspection went well that morning. No one was beaten. Only one woman was taken away for punishment. The insults and accusations were bitter to swallow, but swallow them Ruth did. She dressed and followed her bunkmates to breakfast, where they ate not nearly enough, and there she received her duty for the day: beachcombing.
The chore of cleaning storm debris from the shoreline was a torture and a reward as closely bound together as a chunk of tender meat marbled with gristle. Her power grew steadier whenever she walked barefoot on the earth, near the whispering dune grasses, but the labor tore her flesh and racked her aging joints.
The ranks of her crew were composed of others equally challenged, and they were set the task of moving an uprooted tree at the high edge of the tideline. Find your gifts, they were told. Reach deep. Push yourselves. Don’t be lazy.
There were others in the camp who could already move heavy objects with the force of their will. They had been given other tasks, requiring skills that would not come easily to them. The counselors were not interested in teaching mastery or providing practice, no matter what they said. They cultivated suffering.
No one spontaneously developed telekinesis. They rolled the log by hand, back to the sea through the stubborn sands. Just as they reached the wash of the surf, Ruth felt something tear loose, deep inside. Her knees gave out as muscles spasmed in her belly, in her back. She fell, crying in her soundless voice, and her palms scraped against the tree’s splintered, soggy bark when it moved onward and she did not.
“She’ll get up or she won’t,” one counselor said to another, while they watched her tremble helpless beneath the weight of the air. “You know the statute. No interference with the natural order. Call it in.”
They left her there, lost between land and water, between the agony of consciousness and the solace of oblivion. No one spoke up, no good Samaritan came passing by. Ruth lay on the sand, alone and abandoned, but in that dead silence, God smiled on her at last. Her power burst forth.
She pressed her hands against the wet earth full of a million crawling microscopic things and took the gift of creation and destruction into herself. Her skin rippled and darkened as life tingled through her body. Aches and pains vanished as if they had never been, and strength flowed into her limbs.
She sat up, admiring the beautiful walnut skin she had thought lost forever. Another thought, another wish, and she touched springy hair as soft as cotton, and she knew it would be as black as it had ever been in her long-ago youth. Next she chastised herself for the sin of selfishness, and she stood.
It was time. She gathered up the all the slights and the hurts, all the fears and humiliations, and anger rose in a whirlwind. She stood primed to release justice, but a voice whispered in the silence at the eye of her storm, and she paused to listen.
Her daughter’s new baby was laughing at sunbeams. Her grandson was singing.
The wind fell. Cold water lapped Ruth’s toes. The sun burned down. She smiled. The retribution of flood and fire was not hers to dispense. Vengeance belonged to the Lord. She held death in her hands now, but she held life as well.
She opened her mouth and raised her voice in thanks. Tears flowed down her face as she sang, and they dried in salt tracks on her skin before she finished. She sang the oppressors back to shore, to their families, to contemplate their sins and find their own fates. They had sown the wind, but the whirlwind would pass them over this once.
She sang the souls back into the deadened hearts of the counseled next, and then she sang of cleansing, and healing, and life. When she was done, the sky was twilight purple, and she was no longer alone. Hands reached out to her, ears pricked up, and eyes human and inhuman stared at her amidst a crowd of bodies wondrous and common. Shoulder to shoulder they stood, God’s gifts on display, brought into their powers by hers. They smiled and rejoiced with her, for they were free.
“What will we do?” someone asked.
“The Lord has brought us to this place,” Ruth said. “We will make it ours.”
Lockdown
18 April, 1500 Cottonwood Rd,
Elgin, Illinois
Elena Moreno's family wasn’t normal. She wanted to be ordinary more than anything in the world, so every morning before school she checked her grocery lists and made breakfasts and lunches for her siblings. It was a lot of work, but someone had to do it so they could have all the things normal families did.
Her sister Teresa did as much as anyone could ask of an eight-year-old. She could wake to an alarm and dress herself in the outfits they chose before bedtime, and she could even get little Marco dressed and walk him to day care on her way to school. She was a good girl, but she wasn’t old enough to trust alone with knives or the toaster. Elena had to do the complicated, dangerous things for her.
They were all supposed to count on Papa to take care of them of course, but he almost never stayed awake in the mornings. They couldn't rely on him, so Elena took care of what she could, and they all got on with life.
On Friday morning, Elena sat alone in the kitchen and scraped butter and the last of the jam onto a slice of toast. Guilt turned every sweet bite to sour in her mouth. The jar was supposed to last until Monday, but she’d used too much all week, the way she always did. She wrote “strawberry preserves” on the grocery list and hoped Papa didn’t want toast over the weekend. No one liked seeing him angry these days.
The usual excuses ran through Elena’s mind while she packed up her lunch. It wasn’t her fault she�
�d eaten too much. She had track practice. Running burned calories. She was thirteen. Her body was changing. She was growing. Nutrition was important. It was only a little jam.
The excuses were all lies. The truth was simple: she couldn’t control her appetite. Tears stung her eyes as she looked at her lunch bag: ten grapes in a bag; two chocolate-chip cookies; two wraps, each with a swipe of beans, one spoonful of salsa and a chicken slice. Too much. Her breakfast made a hard lump of misery in her belly until she put one cookie into Teresa’s bag instead. She prayed for strength every day, but sometimes she thought it might be better if she’d never been born.
When headlights flashed through the gap between the heavy curtains in the living room, she grabbed her books and hurried towards the front door. The hall rug slipped under her feet, throwing her off-balance, and her bag thumped against the stair rail. The sound echoed through the quiet house. She froze, hoping it might be overlooked.
No such luck. Her father’s voice rolled down the stairs. “Maria Elena Moreno, don't you dare leave this house without speaking to me.”
His words were slurred, like always these days. Elena’s heart began to pound as hard as if she was doing wind sprints. “Papa, Izzie’s mom is here. I have to go.”
“Mrs. Givens will wait. If she won’t, I’ll drive you to school myself. I told you last night that I wanted to see you before you left for school. Come up here right now.”
Elena set down her bag and trudged upstairs. Her father’s office door was cracked open, and the light from inside the room painted the hall carpet a rusty color like dried blood. She put a trembling hand on the door knob and went inside.
“I’m sorry, papa, I was trying to be quiet so I wouldn't disturb you.” The words came out in a rush, and she kept her eyes down. The fear inside got bigger, and it pushed tears up into her eyes. “Please don’t be angry.”
The silence was agonizing. The sound of the chair moving under Papa’s weight made Elena's knees go wobbly, and she wanted to throw up.
“Elena, I swear by all that’s holy, I do not know what to do with you.” Her father came closer, smelling of cinnamon and cologne. His shoes stopped right in front of her.
If I run away, what will he do? Would he chase me? She couldn’t run. She was too scared to move.
“This can’t go on, m’ija. You tiptoe around like a ghost, you eat less than a mouse, and every time I turn around, you’re either locked in your room or running out the door. You are breaking my heart. Tell me what's wrong.”
Elena’s mouth went dry. “Nothing. You don’t have to drive me. I can walk, if Izzie and her mom left already. Nothing’s wrong.”
Her father sighed. The force of it warmed Elena’s scalp, where her braids left skin exposed. “You are ashamed of me, aren't you? Frightened and ashamed.”
“No, Papa.” Yes, she was scared and ashamed, and ashamed of being scared. She wanted a hug so badly that her whole body ached with the need, but her skin crawled, and the fear was bigger. Please don’t touch me. Please don’t.
Her father retreated. The floorboards squeaked, and keys tapped. He said, “I sent Mrs. Givens a message. She will wait. I don’t know what to say. Maybe we should call your mama. It's already afternoon where she is. She wouldn't mind.”
“No!” Elena said. I don’t want to bother her. I hate being a bother. I don’t want to be noticed at all. “She’s busy. Don’t make her upset. I don’t want her worrying over me. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Please, Papa. I have to go.”
“Go where?” Papa came closer again. “I know it’s testing week. The nurse called yesterday when she saw that the form wasn't signed. That is why you're so frightened, isn't it? It's brought all the memories back up. Tell me true, are you going to school, or running away?”
Elena’s heart sank. She had hoped Papa wouldn’t find out until too late to stop her from skipping. “I can’t do it, Papa. I don’t want to know. I don't want to have to leave home like you and Mama did. I’m going to school, but I need to skip the test. I was going to leave at lunch. Please don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry.” His voice turned hard. “I’m not, but it's the law. Think about Teresa and Marco. Do you want Public Safety to come here looking for you? Think of how much that would frighten them, after what happened to me. I need you to be responsible, m’ija. Promise me you’ll do your duty. It's only for screening, to see if you're at risk later. We need to know.”
She hadn’t considered any of those things. Guilt washed though her again, and she felt too tired to keep fighting. “Yes, Papa. I promise I’ll be good.”
“Good.” Papa sighed again. “I’m getting better. I’ve been staying up later, every day. I walked Marco to school once. Today after I see them off, I’ll go to the church and light a candle, and I’ll pray that your mother and I didn’t pass our curse to you.”
Elena’s heart swelled, and she looked up. “Oh, Papa. Thank you.”
That’s all she could get out before the lump in her throat got too large to talk around. Her father’s face made her want to run away and never look back.
Not my papa! That was what Elena’s heart screamed. Her papa had a broad brown face and a smile with small square teeth, and his shoulders were so wide that he could hold Elena in one arm and her sister in the other. This weird stranger had moon-glowing eyes, and his pale, narrow face gleamed in the dim light. His hair was a fine white ruff that rose high over his pointy, twitchy ears.
He’d had a hand outstretched, hovering near Elena’s cheek, but he dropped it to his side. His fingers were long and slim, not the thick strong hands that tossed Elena into the air when she was as young as Marco was. The claws at the fingertips flexed in their sheaths. When he spoke, the tips of his fangs showed.
“You take after me,” he said in his lisping voice. “When my date came up, last year, I told myself that it wasn't important, that I didn't need to know. Your mother had only been home from quarantine a month, and I didn't want to leave you with only one parent again so soon. I appealed for delay after delay, and I told myself that this couldn't possibly happen to me. I was wrong.”
His ears went back, drooping. Elena looked away. Her stomach went tight and queasy.
Papa said, “You were so brave, calling for help and hiding your sister and brother from me when I was crazy with the pain, but I—if I had done my duty, I would have spared you all of it. Your mother and I, we're both so proud of the way you handled it. You never should've seen what you did.”
Elena shrugged, because she couldn’t say, I don’t care if you're proud. I don’t want to be brave. I don’t want anyone to know I have freaks for parents. Resentment boiled up in her chest. I want my family back.
At least Mama had still been Mama after her internment. She'd given everyone presents and hugs before she left, and when she came home she could fill the pool without a hose, and keep the rain off the roof, and make snow for sledding. She hadn't turned weird and weak and helpless.
Everything would be fine if Mama was home now, but she wasn’t.
Papa went to his drafting desk, turned on his screen, and stared at his palettes and tools. He had a picture of Mama on the display, and he touched it with one finger. “I thank God that I was allowed early release when your Mama got drafted for the drought effort, but I wish—everything would be better, if she was here.”
It hurt to hear her angry thoughts spoken aloud in that sad, soft voice. It made all her efforts seem pointless. But I try so hard! Is it all for nothing? Elena swallowed the pain. “Am I doing such a bad job? Aren’t I taking care of things properly?”
“Oh sweetie. You are a blessing, but it isn’t fair that you’ve had to grow up so fast. You do so much, and adjusting has been so much harder than I expected. Relying on you to make me lists and read bus schedules and guide me in the bright stores, taking care of Marco and Teresa when I can't ... it isn't right. The doctor says my vision will be day-safe soon. Things will get better. I want to go to the park with Te
resa in the afternoons. I want to cheer you in your cross-country races next fall.”
“You do?” If you come and people see you, then everyone will know. Elena bit her tongue and prayed that it wouldn’t happen, and she knew she was the worst daughter ever, for having those thoughts. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Oh, Maria Elena.” Her father closed his weird eyes and slumped in his seat. “I pray for so many things, but most of all I pray that you’re a null, that you never see disgust and fear in your own child’s eyes.”
He sounded so sad, and it was easier, when he wasn’t looking. Elena wrestled down her shame and found something to offer him. “We’re out of jam. Maybe we could go shopping early this week? If we go tonight, and then to church after, we could pray together. I’ll ask Izzie to babysit if you want. I would like that.”
Papa’s sat up straight and blinked very fast, as if that would hide the tears. “That would be wonderful. I'll take a nap to make sure my strength lasts. Go to school now, and get your DPS test with your class, and remember that I will love you whatever happens.”
Elena ran down the stairs, thumping all the way, with the memory of Papa's smile like a small warm spot in her cold, aching heart.
The van was stuffy and smelled like sausage, and Mrs. Givens was yawning. Izzie was sitting way down in the bench seat with her boots up against her mother’s seat back. She wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue, which was shorthand for: watch out, Mom is having one of her bad mornings.
Elena buckled up and said polite things, and soon they were picking up Kelli from her apartment complex.
“Honestly, girls,” Mrs. Givens said as Kelli bounded down the outside steps. “What goes through your empty little heads? In ten years, you’re going to look back at pictures of yourselves and die of embarrassment.”