The Hierophant (Book 1 in The Arcana Series)

by Madeline Claire Franklin

  He breathes evenly, focused, analyzing. “What does it feel like?”

  With the current thrumming in me, his voice sinks its hooks into my guts again, and I shudder. “Now?”

  He nods.

  “Like you're jamming live wires into my hands and they're coming up my throat.”

  “Hmm. Visceral.”

  “Very.”

  He puts my hands palms together and holds them between his own, and looks me in the eyes. “Is it less harsh now?”

  I nod. “It's still there, but turned down a notch or two. It's worse when you—well.” I stop, because it sounds awkward.

  “When I touch you?” Trebor finishes, still holding my hands between his own.

  I nod. “But not right now, for some reason.”

  “Only certain places.” He nods. “Are you familiar with the human energy meridian system?”

  “What, like they use in acupuncture?”

  Trebor nods. “Ancient human cultures were much closer to the subtle energy systems of your world. Meridians, lay lines, the effects of planetary alignment on the physical and mental world—these are all real things, all still present. Most of your race has just blinded themselves to it, in favor of rationalization. For centuries, humans have been trying to parse their world into categorical definitions and a predictable, controllable science, when the truth is, no such thing exists.”

  “Oh,” I say. “So you’re saying humans are control freaks. So, what, do Irin not have science?”

  “Magic is the only science we need.” He smiles. “Back to you, though. Ancient Hindu culture discovered energy centers within the human body that, when blocked, can affect your physical and mental state. They call them chakras.”

  “I know about chakras,” I tell him. “I just...never appropriated it.”

  “Appropriated?”

  “It's another person's culture, I figured I wouldn't understand it properly.”

  “It's your culture, too, Ana. You're human.”

  “Oh. I’ve never thought of it that way. So, why do you know about all of this then?”

  He grins. “Because I'm fascinated by how much humans have in common with us and have no idea.”

  “So, then, the chakras in my hands—and the one at my solar plexus...”

  “Your personal power center.”

  “So, all of them would feel like live wires if you touched them?”

  Trebor reaches out, not too swiftly, and brushes my hair away from my neck, making me shiver in a very different way. He touches under my ear. “Feel relatively normal?”

  “Um, sure.” Absolutely not.

  His fingertips move to the front of my throat, and I want to scream. Not because it hurts, but because there's such an explosion of energy there that my vocal chords want to tremble and roar. I yelp instead, and swat his hand away.

  “Sorry,” we both say.

  “I see what you're saying.” I rub my throat, hoping it will help the energy dissipate. “So, why is it that you make my chakras go all supernova?”

  “It's probably just because of what I am,” he says quickly. “I'm sure any Irin would have the same effect. Our composition is different from yours—magic is in our bones. It's probably just a reaction to that.”

  “Okay,” I nod, even though he sounds like he’s still trying to convince himself of what he’s saying. “So, again, why is it that I'm experiencing this? I see Sura. I see your kind, even though you didn't think it was possible for a human to see an Irin in hiding. And I have this need to explode with an energy that you think is magic.”

  Trebor takes a deep breath and considers me, brow furrowed. “I honestly don't know. There must be something different about you that we're unaware of. There are nomadic clans in Sheol, like your mother’s—down there they're called Zee. It could be that your clan is descended from them. But they aren’t exactly human.”

  “You think they might be descended from Sura? But then why would they pass on traditions that scorned them?”

  “Maybe the Zee are descended from your clan. Members who have Fallen.”

  “I thought Fallen humans all burn themselves out?”

  “They do, but sometimes they survive in Sheol in a changed form. No longer human.”

  I feel a pang in my chest, but it doesn't make sense. “I don't think that's true. The Ouros are proud of their fight against the Sura. They're one of the only clans left that has kept the old stories alive. Their magic is earth-based, archaic—almost all of it is about protection against dark forces.”

  Trebor raises his hands. “Hey, you don't have to convince me. It was just a theory. In other words: I don't know why you have the abilities that you have. But does it matter at this point?”

  “No, I guess not. Sorry.” I sigh and shake my head. “Sorry for a lot. I've been pretty rude to you, and I know you're just trying to help.”

  Trebor shrugs and looks sheepish. “I wasn't going to help, actually. I’m taking a huge risk by telling you all of this. But it dawned on me that if I don't help you understand what's happening to you, the Sura are going to get to you first.”

  I nod. “And kill me.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “That's what it looked like in the creek the other night.”

  Trebor frowns. “Do you know about the different kinds of Sura?”

  I shrug. “Only a little.”

  “You have Zee, like I mentioned. And there are the chimeras, and shadow people. Wraiths. You’ve seen plenty of them, I assume—they have the easiest time slipping through the cracks in the veil when it thins since they aren’t fully tangible themselves. And of course you met one of the water demons. And then there are skinwalkers. Right now, they're your biggest threat. Skinwalkers are incorporeal—they don't have bodies. What they do is take over bodies of humans who are either willing, or dying. At the brink of death, they funnel into your body and bring it back to life. They cut the thread of your spirit when they take over. Your spirit goes on, to wherever you believe spirits go.”

  “So they want to kill me to take over my body? Why?”

  “Not kill you. Empty you. Because your ability to use magic is a physical manifestation. It's something in your genes, or something you've developed maybe, like a muscle—but whatever it is, it’s tied to your body. If you're a powerful human witch, then the skinwalker will be, too. Only, skinwalkers have been alive for thousands of years. They will know how to wield your power as a weapon more dangerous than you can imagine.”

  “Huh.” I bite my lip. “So, you're just training me because you don't want that to happen. Because that would be bad news for the Irin and the Malakiim.”

  Trebor cocks his head, thinks about it longer than I like. “I would be lying if I said that was true. But, yes, that is what I should say.”

  “Why?”

  Trebor shrugs. “We're not supposed to get involved with humans. Just protect them.”

  “No, I mean why would you be lying?”

  Trebor scratches his head, smiles a grimace of a smile. “Well, just because I'm not human doesn't mean I'm a monster. You'd do the same for me.”

  “Hmm, maybe.” I smirk. “So, aside from keeping your hands off me, what do I do about this mysterious power surge thing?”

  He laughs, and grabs my left hand, thumb in palm.

  “What are you—” I can't finish the sentence.

  “Time to learn, Anastasia.” Trebor puts two fingertips over my heart.

  My insides take flight. There is nothing but a gale howling through the empty cavity, whistling through my bones, singing under my skin. A light explodes behind my eyes, building a pressure that pushes against my ears. My heart beats once, hard and long, as if inflating. My throat itches to scream—my fingertips are on fire, my feet feel rooted to the ground even as my legs burn to run.

  “Stop trying to hold onto it,” Trebor instructs me, his voice sinking into me like a fist through wet plaster. My whole internal framework begins to crumble. “You can't c
ontain it—it's a force beyond your understanding—beyond mine, beyond anyone's. You have to let go, and let down your guard.”

  “How?” I hiss between gritted teeth, wondering if the word even came out of my mouth or just bounced through my head.

  “Let go. Give up. Stop fighting.”

  That voice wraps around me, runs its fingers through my hair, holds me tight enough to know that I will be caught if I should fall. I feel my hand shaking, squeezing Trebor's so hard I'm afraid I'm hurting him.

  “Let go, Ana. I've got you. It's okay to let go.”

  I take a breath, feel his palm over my heart, heat searing my skin, and just like the night I almost drowned, when I could not stop shivering except for when I grew too weak to use those muscles—I find a moment where the clenching stops, where I breathe out and my shoulders drop, my stomach relaxes, my hand lets go of Trebor's, and a light huge and beautiful consumes the confusion inside my head—

  I'm screaming—

  I'm floating—

  I'm going to throw up—

  “Ana,” Trebor's voice travels down my spine, and I discover that I'm still sitting—quite silent—in my chair, and that I'm vibrating.

  When I open my eyes, the world has changed, softened and sharpened at the same time, like putting on 3-D glasses and blunting the focus. “Everything is...shiny.” I look at Trebor. He smiles at me. I blush and smile back. “What's going on?”

  “I think you're high on magic.” He laughs. “It won't last, don't worry.”

  “Oh, that's too bad. I feel better than I have in years.” Tears well up in my eyes, of happiness, or beauty, or sadness, I don't know. “What the hell.” I wipe my eyes, and feel an ache in my chest.

  Trebor flinches, removes his hand from my heart, and touches his own.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He looks strangely at me, still holding my hand. “There's...it's like...” He can't find the right words. “It’s like you are the hole in your heart.” His brow furrows. “You don't...you're so...human.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” I murmur, feeling sick with emotions all over the spectrum.

  “No, it's...it's good. It's real. Sometimes—sometimes being what I am—it doesn't feel...real.” Trebor twitches again, and drops my hand.

  The connection severed, the terrible-wonderful lightness of being begins to drain from me. But I’m compelled to grab his hand again before the lightness can leave completely, to hold onto it for a moment longer, locking my eyes on his.

  “You're the realest thing in my world right now, Trebor,” I whisper, and feel my heart chakra screaming in free-fall.

  I let go quickly, bring my hands back to my lap. The lightness leaves and the world dulls, becomes harsh and muted, and I'm left feeling silly and sick and far too exposed.

  “So…what just happened there?” I ask after a few deep breaths.

  Trebor is so still and silent, I almost don’t expect him to answer. “I overloaded your system with magic,” he says, softly, after a while.

  “I got that. I mean…what happened to you?”

  He looks back and forth between the floor and me, considering. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

  “What?” I almost scoff. My mouth is already open, ready to deliver an angry retort, but the earnest plea of his voice stops me.

  “Trust me, Ana. Please.”

  His words swirl around inside of me. Maybe it’s magic, and maybe it’s not, but I feel his need to withhold as if it is my own, and I understand. “Okay. Sure. So, what now?”

  He turns the jeweled dark of his eyes to mine. “We keep practicing.”

  — 31 —

  We practice. Day after day, Trebor tries everything he can think of to crack the restraints I’ve built around the energy—the magic—coursing through me. I meditate for hours, trying to learn how to clear my mind, how to let go and stay in control at the same time. It doesn’t get me very far very fast, but it’s something.

  Two weeks pass in a blur, bringing us full into spring. Andy finally catches me on a day when Trebor is off doing questy things, and we agree to meet for that cup of coffee I promised in March.

  It feels different this time, when I meet up with Andy. Everything related to my heritage and to the world of the Arcana, as my mother called it—it all seems suspect, like there might be an all-mighty truth hidden somewhere. Maybe a truth that, when uncovered, will explain everything. I don’t know if Andy is a part of it at all, other than as an amateur anthropologist, but I have to look at him as suspect too.

  We’re seated by the fireplace inside the cafe like last time, but it’s already dark out now. Warm light is playing across his features, making him look soft, trustworthy, human—a distinction I must make all too frequently these days.

  “Are you okay?” Andy asks, surprising me. “You look tired.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I am. It’s been a long week.” Trebor and I have gotten together every day after school so he can try to teach me how to use magic. It’s left me exhausted, and sometimes—with our lack of progress—defeated.

  “Sorry to hear that. I can keep it short.” Andy smiles, amenable. He flattens his hands on the table, and his smile falters.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. Andy’s façade doesn’t slip—he let it down. He either wants me to know he’s upset, or he actually trusts me enough to be genuine around me.

  “Well, I did find some interesting information about the Ouros.” He takes a breath. “They were called the ‘keepers’ because they were famous for keeping their secrets all locked up. Literally. They kept sacred objects, books, instructions, all locked up in these primitive-looking wooden boxes.” He shrugs. “A lot of people make puzzle boxes, but here’s the weird thing: literally no one could open an Ouros box except for the person who closed it, usually at a predetermined place and time.”

  I squint at him. “That’s a strange tradition to pass down.”

  “I know. Evans-Pritchard couldn’t explain it—it was like the entire tribe had an obsession with hiding things, like OCD dogs burying anything precious that belonged to them. Not to degrade them.” He clears his throat. “The boxes were something they sold only once, back in the nineteenth century, to raise money for the clan to come to America. But a lot of people bought them to try and figure out how they worked, how they could recreate and sell them.” He shakes his head. “No one has ever figured it out. Even Evans-Pritchard convinced them to give him a box, but once he closed it and stated some arbitrary date—a date that he didn’t live to see—no one could open it. Even with tools. Even with fire.”

  “That’s like what Ky—” I stop myself. The box my mother gave me. But I didn’t close it. How could it open again? “That’s, like, crazy.” I stammer, covering my words.

  Andy blinks, and nods. “Maybe. Evans-Pritchard developed a theory that the proliferation of these ‘enchanted coffers,’ as he called them, actually had to do with a greater secret—real or imaginary—that they were keeping in one of the boxes. I mean, eventually there were thousands of locked boxes—if one of them had something significant inside of them, no one would know which one.”

  “That’s insane,” I point out.

  “Well, they also claimed the boxes were made from enchanted wood, and that they were locking them with magic.” Andy shrugs. “So, insanity, or faith, who knows. They were definitely an unusual people.”

  The Key. The box. What if the very thing Trebor is looking for is inside of that box? Would he be able to open it with magic? Would he just have to wait until I finished school next year? Will it ever open for me at all?

  “So, any idea what that ultimate box might have held?” I ask, swirling my coffee in my cup, trying to appear interested, but not excited.

  “Evans-Pritchard said it was probably their ‘holy grail’ myth.”

  “Their holy grail myth?”

  He nods. “A lot of cultures have one—something the believers must quest for, and obtain only at the end of a
great journey, and many sacrifices. It’s usually symbolic of some form of enlightenment or salvation.”

  “Like the MacGuffin of the religious world?” I wonder dryly, thinking of an American Films elective class I failed last year.

  Andy stares at me, confused.

  “In a story, when there’s an objective that’s not really important besides the fact that it moves the story along. Like…” I think about it. “Like the briefcase in Pulp Fiction. Or unobtanium in Avatar. Or the Maltese falcon in, well, The Maltese Falcon.” I pause, waiting for him to get it. “Because the story isn’t really about the object, or about reaching the goal, it’s about what you learn on the journey.”

  “Oh,” Andy sees. “I guess so. Yeah.” He shrugs. “Anyway, whatever might have been their holy grail, they never let on. The point is it might not even exist—it might have only been a myth they perpetuated, just like the grail, and their stories about demons and watchers and angels.”

  “So my mother wouldn’t have known what the object was, even,” I speculate.

  Andy takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Maybe. That’s the thing.”

  I cock my head. “What?”

  “If the Ouros ever knew what was in the box, your mother would have been the last to know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He swallows. “My father is colleagues with a woman who took over some of Evans-Pritchard’s open case-studies when he passed away in the seventies. I called her up and asked about the Ouros—she’s the one who gave me all of this information.” He hesitates.

  I stare at him. “And?”

  “And…they’re all gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “She stayed in touch with the clan over the years—they wanted their history preserved. They liked the attention, I guess. But then, she said about seventeen years ago…”

  “Stop pausing! What happened?”

  “They died.” He frowns.

  I shake my head. “That’s impossible.”

  “I swear. She told me the tribe had dwindled in numbers over the years, and one day she called their last known location and the call was redirected to a sheriff—” He swallows hard. “They were slaughtered. It was like…a genocide.”