by Laury Falter
From inside a shack nestled beneath the trees at the end of the dock, enraged voices made this abundantly clear. Even though they were indistinct, a result of them speaking over each other, it was clear a heated argument was taking place.
Recognizing where we landed, I recalled the last time we were here it hadn’t turned out well for Jameson or me.
He, too, seemed to be resistant about it. “Why are we at the outpost?” he asked, as cloaked figures dropped to the dock alongside my mother.
Removing their hoods, Theleo, Jameson’s parents, and my Aunt Lizzy stepped forward. The last hood to fall revealed a lanky man with a gruff, discontent face. I realized there was only one person he could be.
“Uncle Lester?” I presumed, his height causing me to angle my head almost entirely back to meet his eyes.
Aunt Lizzy responded instead. “He was waiting for you, dear…knowing you’d come when your mother was sequestered and knowing you’d need help. He found us in the crowd and gave us the cloaks to keep us concealed before leading us to you.”
I waited for him to back her up, support what she’d said, give some formal verification, but none came. Sensing this, Aunt Lizzy leaned forward to whisper, “He doesn’t speak all that often.”
“Oh,” I mumbled and immediately concluded my own reasons for it.
It was reasonable to assume that Uncle Lester had learned through his duration at the ministry to be reserved or face consequences. And I couldn’t judge him for it.
“Thank you, for helping,” I said, forgoing a hug. “Welcome home…”
He gave me an almost imperceptible nod without the slightest hint of a smile, and I stepped back, wondering what the Vires had done to him.
“Why are we at the outpost?” Jameson repeated, with more reluctance.
His mother explained, keeping a cautious eye on him as if she could predict his reaction. “There was some…”
“Reticence,” his father assisted.
“…about our stay here before we left.”
Based on that, and the escalating argument inside, any illusion that our hiding place might have been comfortable vanished completely.
Jameson’s head snapped in the direction of his parents. “Why?” he demanded, his voice gruff with annoyance.
He was offended, and he had every right. His free time over the last several years had been spent assembling and delivering supplies to the very people who now appeared wary about our presence in their village.
“This has nothing to do with you, Jameson. It has to do with me,” my mother stepped forward, sharpening her gaze at the door. “I imprisoned them.”
“I imagine you aren’t the sole person they have concerns with,” Theleo added. “You may have put them here, but my forces kept them here.”
“You bring up a good point,” said my mother, and I had some hope she would treat him kindly. She obliterated that with her next statement. “We need the perimeter secured and you aren’t needed here. You’ll have to leave or we risk provoking them further.”
Theleo, staggered by her rebuke, nodded in quiet agreement. He extended his hand, uncurling his fingers to show the moldavite stone he held in his palm. “This may help convince them.” He blinked and then extended that hope. “And you.”
Momentarily taken aback, my mother hesitated. Everyone understood the significance of Theleo's offering; it was unheard of to part with your family stone. He would be the first in our world to deny what was essentially his family.
The meaning of this wasn’t lost on my mother. Her lips pursed, she took it, hesitantly. He turned then and left the dock, levitating overhead for a few seconds before darting across the treetops. The tension that exchange left was almost palpable.
“He just saved our lives,” I mentioned in support of him.
She gave me a look which could only be interpreted as “I don’t care”. Her extensive experience with Vires would be Theleo’s greatest obstacle.
Heading for the door, she stated, “Right now, there are other people's perceptions we need to influence."
Realizing my mother intended on entering the shack first, Jameson stepped in front to lead the way. She gestured him aside, fully prepared to take the brunt of what was waiting through the door.
“I think you should reconsid-” Jameson began to insist, but my mother interrupted him.
She had her hand on the knob but paused. “Jameson, I appreciate the offer, but there are some doors that people need to open on their own.”
Then the thin wooden partition swung open. The first thing I heard were chairs screeching against wood floors, followed by shouting.
Jameson and I rushed to make our way in, but in an attempt to protect us, his parents blocked our entry.
A window next to me offered some insight on what was happening, albeit through dirty glass and sheer drapes. The room was full, allowing for standing room only, and those inside appeared to be divided into opposing sides. One group charged the door when my mother appeared, and the other effectively blocked them. I noticed Nolan's nose was bloodied, although it was already dry, indicating this hadn’t been his first scuffle tonight.
Jameson was eager to spring forward, poised, with his hands balled into fists. Yet, only when the second conflict erupted, and his parents were forced to protect my mother inside, did we make our way in.
“Enough!” bellowed Jameson. “That’s enough!”
He advanced into the room, and was about to disappear from my sight when I instinctively called out his name. He paused and looked back. “Stay there, Jocelyn.”
While his words were a command, they were spoken with a certain tenderness that stirred something inside me.
Still, I shifted for a better vantage point, where I watched his siblings and my cousins come to Jameson’s side in support. Surrounding them were people of all races and ages, their family stones glinting against the flickering lanterns hanging along the walls.
“When did the Caldwells start defending the Weatherfords?” criticized a disapproving woman in the back corner.
“Since I fell in love with one,” Jameson declared.
His blatant announcement sent a flutter through me, stoking the fire that had been simmering in my stomach since I’d first seen him standing in defense of me in front of The Sevens. Here he was, doing the same thing again.
His demeanor seemed to will others in the room to attack him as he straightened his shoulders and tilted his head proudly.
When no one dared to respond, he unclenched his fists, relaxed his shoulders, and continued.
“My family and the Caldwells have been aligned to fight against each other in order to fulfill The Sevens’ agendas. But no more. We stand together now, and if needed, we’ll fight together.” His transparent warning was noticed, causing everyone to turn and look at each other in surprise. “For every one person sent here, Isabella Weatherford saved ten more from imprisonment. It was her work at the ministry, and at great risk to herself, that allowed her to do this. Do not persecute her on the basis of unsubstantiated rumors.”
“You can’t tell me that she’s innocent,” said a man, indignantly, from across the room.
“I won’t,” said Jameson. “I have a biased interest in keeping her here. It’s the only way her daughter will stay. And, they’ll be safer here than anywhere else. But there is one person who can confirm Isabella Weatherford’s character, someone who you all know and respect.” He surveyed the room and then swung out his hand. “Isadora?” he said, ushering her to the center of the room.
A familiar face came into view and my heart softened. The gentle expression on a woman in her nineties emerged from the shadows; it was tucked below her back bowing from age. She had helped save my life, months ago when I had collapsed trying to heal too many people at once, and now she was about to do it again.
She shuffled forward, the jingling of bracelets hanging from her frail arms becoming the most prominent noise in the room. Her family stone hung from a neckla
ce dangling to her waist; it was a honey-colored amber, capable of converting energy from pessimism to optimism.
Jameson waited until she was steady on her feet before leaving her side and heading for the door, leaving her to work her persuasion in peace.
Our families followed him outside, where Jameson stopped to ask out loud, “Which shacks have we been assigned?”
“How do you know they’ll let us stay?” asked Spencer, always the circumspect one.
Jameson looked at him pointedly and replied, “Because there’s no reason they shouldn’t.”
Nolan scoffed. “That’s what I kept telling them,” he said, his ego bruised more than his nose.
“Yeah…,” said Estelle, discomfort crinkling her nose. “It’s more in the way you said it, though.”
“I said it loud and clear,” he retorted.
“That was the problem,” muttered Oscar, who was always more level-headed than my other cousins.
From this exchange, I determined that Nolan had used his typically brisk manner and raised voice. And as much as I shouldn’t have been, I was proud of him. He wasn’t one to step down easily and I respected him for it.
Ironically, Jameson had just shown the same determination, although he had been far more successful.
“The shacks?” asked Mr. Caldwell, bringing us back to the conversation at hand.
“Right,” Alison replied, holding up a finger and then using it to point in the direction where we could find them. “I’ll lead the way. They need a little remodeling, but Estelle has a few ideas for them.”
The remodeling comment turned out to be an understatement.
We learned that we’d actually been loaned several structures – the oldest and most decrepit in the village. Cobwebs clung to the windows, gaping holes allowed a view through the floorboards to the water below, and the furniture was sparse and rickety.
No one seemed particularly excited about our living arrangements, least of all Charlotte, who repeatedly muttered that it might actually be better to be sequestered by The Sevens, until her mother told her she’d heard enough.
We investigated the shacks, determining which ones we'd like to use during our extended stay here. Somehow, Jameson and I ended up alone in the farthest one.
Because it was dusk, the room was dark enough that the corners were hidden in shadows, but it didn’t stop me from stepping inside. I hoped that Jameson would follow, and he did.
With my back to him, I kept my voice low. “Jameson…did you really mean everything you said in there?” Recalling his declaration of love and his biased interest in keeping me here sent a pleasurable shiver through me.
“You left me,” he said, cooly. He used this change of subject to address something that must have been festering the entire day.
I hesitated and then faced him. “I had to get to my mother, Jameson.”
“You didn’t do it just for her,” he stated. I turned to find he was frowning. “Did you?” When I didn’t answer, he continued. “You did it because our fate says you will take my life and…” His jaw momentarily tensed in anger. “…and you intended to give up yours before I could lose mine.”
My body trembled slightly as I registered what he’d said. His understanding of me was so much deeper than I realized. I felt as if he could see right through me, and wondered if the shame rising in me was visible to him. And, yet, I couldn’t understand why. I had every right to give up my life. It was my life to give.
“Yes, that was my plan.”
Although he delivered his response tenderly, it didn't lessen the impact. “Don’t use me as your reason for killing yourself, Jocelyn.” This blunt, emotionally-charged statement stunned me into silence.
With that, he turned and walked away.
3 COURAGE
Waking up the next morning, I could tell someone had been in my shack.
The canvas bag on the floorboards next to my bed was a telltale sign.
Laying on my stomach, I leaned over the edge of the bed to investigate, finding it contained the basic necessities: clothing, hairbrush, toothbrush and, most importantly, the black belt that held my most treasured possession. Opening it, I found the cable of multi-colored hair and the seven pieces of dried skin fastening the strands together.
The Rope of the Sevens, I thought, and smiled.
The cloak I’d worn from the ministry was neatly folded in a perfect square, next to the bed. I took this as a sign that I was expected to wear it from this point forward. No more dropping stones, herbs, or any other mystical tools down my boots or in my pockets. The belt and cloak would serve that purpose.
I knew only one person with the gall to enter a sleeping person’s room uninvited or with the foresight to prepare a bag of necessary personal items. She was the same woman who wouldn’t care that raised voices in the early morning might wake others: our housekeeper, Miss Mabelle.
“Nah, ya ain’t!” she bellowed. Her voice ripped through the tranquil swamp disturbing everything in sight, even the fly on my windowsill. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and, from the window, saw Theleo’s head tucked and shaking back and forth.
He was really having a tough time here…
Quickly, I wrapped the belt around my waist and slipped the cloak over my shoulders before leaving the shack. I didn’t need to go far, though. They were still arguing just outside my door.
Neither of them noticed me approaching; not with Miss Mabelle standing chest to chest with Theleo, her dark, dreadlocked hair swinging as she shifted her wide hips to the side.
She launched into another rant just as I stepped up beside them. “Silly…stupid…ssss…” She drew out her hiss until finding the word she was searching for, “…superstition.”
“What’s wrong, Miss Mabelle?”
“Wants ta stand guard over ya, n’ he wants ta do it outside yer door.” She finished with a critical stare in my direction, waiting for my reaction.
“I don’t see a problem with that.”
Her eyebrows rose in shock. Not to be outdone, she announced, a bit loud in my opinion, “N’ he wants ta hang a horseshoe over da door!” She scoffed, adding, “No needs ta do that! No horse’s here!”
“It’s for good luck,” explained Theleo and then settled his gaze on Miss Mabelle. “Something we can all use a little more of at the moment.”
Her face conveyed a disgruntled frown and then she rambled a cast so quickly from her lips, I almost missed it. “Alligator foot and wing of bat, welcome only good luck across this welcome mat. There!”
But she wasn’t finished, I found, as she ambled forward, her round body rolling with the motion of it. When her chest came close to colliding with Theleo’s, she stopped and stabbed the cane she always carried down on the dock, just missing the edge of Theleo’s toes.
“She don’t need no horseshoe n’ she don’t need no keeper. She got enough eyes on her already.”
A sweeping glance of the waterway from where my shack stood corroborated her statement. Each residence sat only a few feet apart, close enough at times to leap across the water to the next one. All of my new neighbors were standing outside, either at their doorways or at the end of their docks.
Miss Mabelle returned to shouting at Theleo. “Ya go on! Back there! Git.”
“Git?” he replied, baffled.
“Git! Just git!” Although Miss Mabelle’s raised voice and her choice of words made no sense to Theleo, her hand gesturing must have registered, because he turned and left the dock, looking confused.
Not to be defeated, he landed a few feet away on a dry piece of land, standing guard from afar.
Taking one final verbal jab, Miss Mabelle shouted across the water, “Only reason ya ain’t been run outta here is 'cuz she wants ya here! And she the only one!”
A rush of air left my lungs, understanding for the first time Miss Mabelle’s issue.
“What?” she demanded. “What ya thinkin’, chil’?” She imitated my gasp for animated reference.
I almost laughed so I hurried up and answered. “You’re not mad about the superstition. You’re worried about my safety….”
Not willing to show her soft side, ever, she signed loudly, turning her back to me and hobbled away with her cane. To anyone else, her behavior might look like an absurd response, but to me, it was confirmation.
I stayed in place, considering how peculiar it was that so many people were looking out for my safety when I never asked for it; and how they each handled it their own way.
As if that realization were prompting me, I glanced up and found Jameson watching from the next dock over.
He had stayed close throughout the night.
Standing barefoot, dressed in jeans that molded to the bulging muscles in his thighs and a shirt that boasted the contours of his chest, I was instantly awestruck by the sight of him.
Uncomfortable under his intense gaze, I turned back to Miss Mabelle. “You don’t need to worry about Theleo, Miss Mabelle. He’s my self-proclaimed guard now.”
She shot a glare over her shoulder at me and then stepped into a canoe tied to the dock.
“Goin’ ova’ ta the Caldwells. No pesky Vires ova’ there.”
“And thank you for bringing my bag of-”
She cut me off with another exasperated sigh.
“You know, as much as she’s a pain,” muttered Jameson, watching her leave, “I like her.”
“She’s stubborn, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” he said, keeping his eyes on her. “Reminds me of you.”
He was briefly consumed by the thoughts running through his head, but he shrugged them off and refocused.
“I heard breakfast is at my parent’s shack,” he stated randomly.
“All right….” I wasn’t sure if he meant just me or if the rest of my family was invited also.
It became clear when he asked, “Want to ride together?”
The fact that he even offered sent a spark of excitement through me.
“Yes.”
My response was noticeably too eager so I was glad to catch the side of his mouth lifting in a grin before turning away from me. As he stepped into the small, flat-bottomed boat tied to his dock, I suggested, “How about I levitate us there.”