“What flavors do you enjoy?”
“I’ve no clue. Only smoked one kind of herb until I came inside New Eden. Have any of that?” He gave her a small lopsided grin and she smiled in reply while shaking her head no. He shrugged. “You choose. I liked your selection last time.” Fillion pulled out the tinder box from his leather travel bag and handed it to her.
“I shall have your supplies ready shortly.”
“Wait. How do I pay for everything?”
Another kind smile formed on her face. “There is no currency in New Eden, sir.”
“Right. So do we barter a trade or something?”
“Your contribution during your stay shall provide for my sustenance and comfort, payment enough.”
With graceful strides, Joannah walked out from behind the counter toward him. She placed a hand on his arm and studied his eyes for several seconds, and he stiffened—too afraid to look away and too paranoid to maintain eye contact. The room was small, and the interaction was far too intimate. Even for him.
“Love has little to do with romance and everything to do with honor.”
“Um, sure.” What the hell? Fillion turned his head as she walked away, focusing on his foot as he scuffed the compacted dirt floor. The words floated around in his head in an attempt to anchor to something he understood. But there was nothing. Honor, for the most part, was a meaningless idea in his world. It didn’t exist. Not like here, at least. Romance, however, was an industry that sponsored every relationship, every product, and every experience.
A clay jar clunked onto the wooden counter, snapping Fillion out of his thoughts. He was definitely out of his element, and he needed to give his mind an occupation. Turning around, he drifted toward the corner of the shop and perused the labels inked onto clay jars and containers of various sizes. The jar labeled “lavandula angustifolia” piqued his interest. Lifting the strange fabric that sealed it, he leaned forward and took a whiff. Fillion enjoyed one more sniff before gently placing the waxy fabric over the top.
“Your order is ready, sir.”
He started at the sound of her voice and casually looked over his shoulder, trying to act cool. Fillion meandered back toward the counter and Joannah lifted the lid to his tinder box when he neared. Inside were rolling papers, two small clay vials, a cloth sack, and five joints already prepared for him.
“One is sweet with spicy undertones and the other is savory. Try both and do let me know which you prefer and I shall keep a ready supply of your favorite flavor on hand. The cloth sack contains St. John’s wort tea to help with the withdrawals. Bring it to the Great Hall and they shall boil water and steep the tea on your behalf.” Joannah handed him the box. “I do not have a candle lit at present. The Forge is next door, as you know, should you wish to enjoy a smoke immediately. Connor will not mind your company, I am sure.”
“Arigatou gozaimasu.” Fillion wanted to roll his eyes with the shaky sound of his voice. Joannah blinked curiously, but didn’t appear bothered by his language slip. “Thanks. I appreciate everything.” He took out one of the joints, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, and then placed the tinder box in his bag.
“Good day, Corlan.” Joannah dipped into another curtsy.
“Yeah. Same to you.” Unable to resist, he gave a shallow, tight bow and said, “Yoi ichinichi o.”
In quick strides, he ducked through the opening and exited into the morning light. His eyes squinted against the sudden brightness as he ran a hand through his hair. The Forge was a stone’s throw away. He rolled the joint between his fingers, ignoring the curious stares.
That morning, he had found a note just inside his door with the cryptic message, “I know who you are,” scribbled across it. Really? That was supposed to terrify him? The entire world knew who he was. And with his handle and resemblance to Brianna, it was only a matter of time. Whatever. Now that Willow knew the truth after his monstrous purge, his worst fear had passed. Everyone in the dome would know who he was eventually anyway.
Connor emerged from The Forge to toss a tool into a bucket of water and spotted him. The sizzling sound made an irritating hiss. The biodome was strangely quiet. The flat and dull quality made Fillion feel dizzy at times. He never realized how much ambient noise was in the outside world until he came inside these panes.
“Corlan, good to see you.” Connor slowed in front of him and looked around. “Are you on your own?”
“Leaf ditched us. He was summoned to the rainforest.” Fillion tried to smile politely, but he was irritated. The Son of Earth wasn’t his babysitter or interpreter, and he was tired of everyone treating him as if Leaf was necessary for his survival. “Joannah said I could light up at The Forge?” Fillion lifted up his joint, feeling a little foolish.
“Come, keep me company. We can talk without Leaf’s presence,” Connor said.
Fillion almost replied “You think?” but kept his mouth shut. Damn, it was hard. Instead, he tried the politeness thing again. “Want a smoke?”
“No, not at this moment. I shall take you up on your offer another time, though.”
They entered The Forge and Fillion had to adjust his eyes once again. This would take some getting used to. His first impulse was to search the wall for a switch, making his fingers twitch.
Connor picked up a burning coal with a pair of iron tongs, motioning with his head for Fillion to approach. Fillion placed the joint in his mouth and then leaned forward, inhaling as the hemp paper began to crinkle and smoke. God, that felt good. It never got old. A pleasant taste filled his mouth as he inhaled again. Savory herbs danced on his tongue. Was that sage? Hints of oregano? A thin trail of smoke curled past his lips as he exhaled and Fillion closed his eyes as he leaned against a wall. A joint and a dark corner. Glorious.
“Difficult day, is it not?”
A scraping sound echoed in the shop and Fillion opened his eyes. With the tongs, Connor moved some of the coals around aimlessly. A drawn expression darkened the older man’s face as the orange light flickered and intensified with the fresh oxygen. Coal. Did Connor miss his son?
“Yeah. God, I hope there’s alcohol tonight at dinner again. I could use a drink or two. Shit. I could use a whole jug.” Fillion thunked his head against the wall with a heavy sigh. Why did he just share that? He was a socially awkward idiot. He really shouldn’t be allowed to make small talk.
A humored smile formed on Connor’s face. But the Fire Element kept his focus on the furnace. “My heartfelt apologies,” he said in a teasing tone. “Wine is only served on Sundays and during celebratory feasts.” The furnace crackled as the silence ticked away. Fillion puffed on his joint instead of replying with meaningless conversation. Eventually, Connor continued. “Do you possess any Old World skills?”
Fillion lifted his head from the wall. “Not much. Most of my skills are from the good old present.” Mack was the only one besides his immediate family who knew of his non-tech trade skill, and only because he spent many summers with Fillion’s great-grandfather, too. “I can do some woodworking.”
Connor quickly turned his head. The Fire Element’s eyes narrowed slightly before he turned around and walked toward the opposite end of the shop. Fillion watched through the haze of smoke as he exhaled slowly. He flicked the ashes into the furnace and enjoyed another drag. Shuffling sounds padded in the dim shop as Connor lumbered toward him, holding a worn box.
“This belonged to Della when she was a little girl. It was hand-carved and crafted by her Grandpa Corlan, a man I shall never forget.”
The cinnamon tones of the wood warmed with the firelight. Fillion imagined his great-grandpa in his wood shop, a master carpenter who labored and built custom furniture every day until his dying breath. Fillion spent his summers and many weekends with him at his cabin, fishing, hunting, and building in the wood shop. He was the only adult who ever made Fillion feel like he mattered, gifting him with a childhood.
Every evening, Grandpa Corlan would pour a shot of whiskey and sit o
n a log round, toasting the sun as it set behind the hills. Even when it rained. Fillion used to think the man was crazy to sit in the rain and toast the cloudy sky. But his great-grandpa would insist, with a wink, that it was an Irish tradition, a believable explanation in his thick brogue.
Fillion was twelve, spending the night at Mack’s house, when his mom called with the news that Grandpa Corlan had died. Both he and Mack had cried—the only time they had ever cried together. As a tribute, Mack snuck down to his parent’s liquor cabinet and poured both he and Fillion a shot of whiskey. They climbed out of his bedroom window and onto the roof and toasted the moon, for the sun had already set. They felt so damn poetic and grown-up. And then they choked the amber liquid down, coughing and shuddering with the burn.
Fillion took another long draw on his joint. He tried to push away the memories. “Why are you giving this to me?” he managed to ask, smoke billowing around his face.
“Della gifted this chest to me on Moving Day as a family keepsake for my first wife and me as we began our new life and a new family inside New Eden. I pray it shall comfort your homesickness. I know Della would wish for you to have it.” Connor extended the chest toward him.
Fillion looked up at Connor. Did Connor know who he really was? Of course he did. He was married to Brianna, after all. Placing the joint in his mouth, Fillion took the chest and held it with both hands, his thumb brushing over the smooth surface. Opening the lid, he found a single clump of coal, and his throat tightened as he peeked over the rim at Connor.
“Fill the box with memories, Corlan, and when you leave us, take it with you so that you may remember the family you have left behind.” Connor placed a large hand on Fillion’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. Drawing in a deep breath, Fillion turned toward the fire and blinked. “You look so much like Dylan,” Connor said. “The resemblance is ... uncanny.”
Fillion hugged the box tighter against his body as he took another long drag on the joint. The large hand dropped from his shoulder and Connor turned away. Fillion flicked the ashes.
“When you walked into the meadow it was as if a ghost had appeared. I would almost believe Hanley planned that on purpose. Joel dies, and suddenly Dylan rises from the ashes.” He slid a quick glance toward Fillion to gauge his response. So Fillion morphed into a posture of indifference, returning to the wall and placing a foot behind him as he leaned back. He shrugged. “It was planned too perfectly,” Connor said.
Fillion expected a follow-up question and relaxed when none came. The drawn expression returned to Connor’s face as he picked up the tongs and moved the coals around, pausing to watch the glowing embers grow brighter. Coal and Ember. The Fire Element missed his children.
Did Hanley miss him? Fillion knew the answer to that, and he bit the inside of his cheek as the heartache threatened to overwhelm him once again. His dad was probably relieved of the burden. Not that he ever showed any concern.
“Let’s skip the charades,” Fillion blurted. “We both know my name isn’t Corlan.” Connor didn’t even look up. He just nodded knowingly. “I don’t know if Hanley planned it like you say,” Fillion said, “but he’s always plotting something.”
“Why are you really here, Fillion Nichols, Son of Eden?” The Fire Element shifted his attention from the furnace and faced him.
A shiver ran through Fillion’s body. He placed his great-grandpa’s chest on a nearby table and moved in front of Connor. “What the hell do you mean by Son of Eden?”
“It is your honorary title, given to you upon your birth. You are a Noble son of both worlds.”
An unamused chuckle left Fillion as he shot Connor an arrogant look. “I promise you, I’m entirely of my world.”
“Indeed. That is not to what I refer.”
“Then enlighten me in your anachronistic medieval hippie ways, oh wise sage.” Fillion rolled his eyes. “I don’t want anything from my dad, including a stupid title.”
“Happy for you, then, that it was not your father who gifted you with the title.” The small, humored smile appeared on Connor’s face again. The Fire Element sized him up. “I bestowed this title upon you when you were a month old. Hanley and Della approved, as did The Elements.”
“Doesn’t change how I feel about it.”
“You are rather defensive over something you know very little about. Since your arrival, you become disagreeable whenever someone in our community wishes to pay you respect. Why do you believe you are unworthy of such honor?”
Last night returned in a rush and Fillion refused to rehash his anti-self speech to Connor. Instead, he shuffled on his feet. “I’ve done nothing to earn anyone’s respect.”
“Finally, a serious answer from you.” Connor warmed with a kind smile. “Let us make a deal, you and I.” He extended his large, charcoal-stained hand. “I shall not play games with you, and I expect the same in return.”
“The irony of your statement nullifies the very root of your request.” Fillion puffed on his joint and shook his head with irritation.
Connor laughed. “Indeed. You will have to forgive me for I have not spoken your ways and been part of your world in so long. You, Son of Eden, have much to teach me and I you.”
“Fine.” Fillion shook Connor’s hand. “How am I deserving of such an epic title?”
“You are a Son of both worlds. One day soon, you shall hold New Eden Township in the palm of your hands as you stand firmly upon the soil of Earth, the original Eden.”
Fillion sighed and a small stream of smoke escaped his lips. “Don’t get cute. New Eden is firmly upon the soil of Earth.”
“Granted. However, a whole generation may not fully understand this truth. You are their real connection to the Eden beyond these walls, their champion, their protector, and their provider.”
Are you ready to discover what is real? The hologram’s words from Saturday morning echoed freshly in Fillion’s mind and another chill coursed through him.
“I still fail to understand how this became my problem?”
“It is your birthright.”
Fillion swallowed and slowly met Connor’s eyes. “I’m ... I’m not fit to lead. OK?”
“And why is that?”
“It’s complicated.” Fillion threw the butt of his joint into the furnace. “Is this interview over?”
“Not quite.” Connor crossed his large arms over his chest. “You shall begin carpentry duties on the morrow, working under me in this shop.”
“Not what I thought you were going to say,” Fillion muttered. “What time do I report for active duty?”
“After you break your fast each morning.”
“Deal.”
Connor offered a knowing smile. The expression unnerved Fillion and he looked down at his feet. The Fire Element returned his attention to the furnace and picked up the tongs, once again absently shuffling the hot coals around. “What is Hanley’s agenda? Please do not drag this out, either. I wish for a direct answer.”
“Works for me. But my question first: Was Joel murdered?”
Connor drew his eyebrows together and cleared his throat as his face fell. His eyes nervously flitted around the shop and then he answered quietly, “Della received my message?”
“Too ambiguous.”
Connor sighed. “You have your father’s mind.”
“Lucky me.” Fillion angled his head away from Connor, reining in the instant anger. God, he hated being compared to his dad, especially as a compliment.
“We have a tradition in New Eden. When a member of the community passes away, someone close to the family is assigned to place a well-known object of value in the pocket of the deceased for the household’s representative to publicly discover and display prior to cremation.”
Fillion couldn’t hold back his disturbed expression. His stomach sickened as he remembered Leaf’s story of how the young noble found the Death Card. The idea of a cremation freaked Fillion out. It was so gross. But Connor didn’t seem to care or notice, instea
d continuing without missing a beat.
“I was given Hanley’s Death Card—the one he used as a Gamemaster to permanently remove characters from the game we played once upon a time—with instructions to use it should I ever suspect someone was murdered. Most especially if I suspected it was due to ICE symptoms. Jeff records every detail of every death ceremony and procedure for your mother’s psychological team and your parents read every report. Although I planted the card in Joel’s pocket for Leaf to discover and display before the community, the Son of Earth failed to do so. I was most certain the card burned with Joel and, since his cremation, continually worried about how to relay such a message to Della without gaining unfavorable attention or alerting the media.”
Fillion felt the air whoosh out of his lungs. “What the...? Oh my god.” He blinked rapidly, trying to contain the surge of shock and disbelief pulsing through his system. “So my dad didn’t kill Joel?”
The blacksmith dropped the tongs and narrowed his eyes, considering Fillion’s words. “You believe your father is capable of murder?”
Fillion rubbed his temples as his pulse throbbed, pushing back the paranoia that wanted to root itself in his mind. Why the hell didn’t his dad tell him about the card’s origins or history? In fact, his dad outright stated that he didn’t know why the card was in the dome when Fillion confronted him. Fillion thought over Connor’s story, not sure if he should fully trust the explanation. Was his dad playing him? Wouldn’t be the first time. He’d caught his dad in so many lies it was ridiculous.
“Yeah, I do believe Hanley is capable of murder,” Fillion said through gritted teeth. “He’s locked you all up in here to see who lives and dies, right? Or has New Eden’s motto completely brainwashed you?” Fillion pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, closing his eyes tight. “How do I know you didn’t kill Joel?”
“I would never commit murder.”
“Well, that solves everything. Case closed.” Fillion pinned Connor with a hard stare. “You may have convinced everyone else that honor guarantees truth in your little piece of utopia, but not me.”
Elements (The Biodome Chronicles series Book 2) Page 17