Then there was a flash of light so bright it left stars in my vision, and I felt the explosion before I heard it as the orb collapsed in upon itself. The wave hit me in the chest, knocking me backwards as I felt what I could only describe as ripples flowing in the space around me, waves that I sensed in the same way I could sense the orbs themselves.
“Rickey, what the shit did you do this time?” I heard our neighbor scream at her husband through the wall, while car alarms started to screech in the street and a child wailed in chorus with them. Through the hole, I could see that the orb had passed clean through an oven, absorbing the metal and the half cooked dinner alike along its path, and a face now filled the space where the meatloaf had been.
Stephen’s wide eyes met mine as he stared, face white, holding a book with a semicircular hole melted into its outer edge, the pages morphed into solid pulp from where they had touched the orb.
“What the—” he started as Rickey’s wife launched into a tirade about how her mother had warned her that he was nothing but trouble, and that they never should have left the trailer park. But then I broke eye contact with Stephen and left through the still open door, taking the steps two at a time to the street where a small crowd had already gathered and stared up at the sky, where no trace was left of the sphere except for the hole leaving the building through brick, the clay puckered outwards as if it had been fired that way long ago.
“Never seen anything like it,” an old man was mumbling to his wife, both holding hands on the other end of the street, while their granddaughter pulled at his shirt.
“What do you think it was, Papa? What type of Special could do that?” she asked, thrusting a fist in the air and mimicking the explosion. “Ka-Powww! Where were they born? In a thunderstorm?”
“How many years ago was that hurricane, Matilda?” the old man said to his wife, putting a quieting hand on his granddaughter's head. “The category five, was that ten years ago? Maybe it was something from that, the one that made them reconstruct the entire block. Ain't no way a normal storm did this.”
With my head down, I wove through them, the rain wetting my shoulders and my hair sticking to my temples. And I thought about what to do next, what I had to do next.
I had to find my mother, and I had to save her. To do that, I would have to know where to look, to find someone who might know where the police had taken her. A Special who might know.
And once I had found them, I would have to be able to control my power well enough to be sure I wouldn’t hurt my mother as we escaped, and to be able to fight them. I’d have to learn, and for that, I’d have to attend the academy while keeping my true intentions secret.
Biting my lip, I shivered in the cold, my thoughts racing far ahead of my footsteps. Wishing that there was an entry in the Directory about myself, one I could consult, and understand my limitations.
By now, I’d been traveling down Twelfth Street for a mile straight from my apartment, and turned a left onto a new block, one with three-story houses instead of hulking buildings, the yards increasing in size with each side street, several maintained to hold exotic floral arrangements by teams of dedicated Climate Controllers and Green Thumbs. None of the cars here had rust or dents, and the driveway to my apartment had more potholes than the entire mile of street.
I watched the addresses on the mailboxes as they ticked upwards, then turned into a drive with a fountain in the lawn, the water following intricate webbed patterns that would be impossible by physics alone to form a family crest suspended in midair, and crossed the grass to the front door. I raised the knocker and rapped on the door, wincing as I remembered the last time I had heard knocking.
In moments, the heavy oak slab swung inwards, and a face peered out at me in the rain, the expression filled with excitement.
“Daddy, Daddy,” shouted Arial, jumping into the air with excitement and forgetting to come down. “The Boreal, he’s here! I told you that I didn't make him up!”
Chapter 7
Arial ushered me inside to the foyer, where her mother spotted me and rushed to the master bathroom, returning with a stack of colored towels.
“You poor thing,” she tutted, wrapping me once before I had a chance to move, then sponging me off with the end of another towel, the fabric so soft that I doubted its very substance. “You must not have been expecting the rain. Why on earth did you not call a taxi?”
“In the north, we do not experience rain except once a year, and that as cold as ice,” I lied, feigning ignorance and knowing that my lack of pocket money would arouse suspicion. “Why would you not take the rain?”
“I have heard they are strange up there,” said Arial, and her mother glared.
“Arial, it’s called culture, and you should learn to respect it,” she scolded. “Now, you’ve arrived just in time for dinner. First course is coming out as soon as Emma, our chef, finishes. She’s French, darling, with a certificate to prove it. Lorraine, to be precise, born in ‘76. A fantastic year.”
Already, I could smell the aromas testifying to Emma’s powers, scents of spices that I had not known existed, yet my watering mouth knew would burst into explosions of flavor. Beaming, Arial led me into the dining room, the table already set with more utensils than I knew how to handle, and with more decoration food than typically filled my entire pantry. Arial seated me in the guest chair, then claimed the spot next to me, leaning forward in expectation for not the food, but for the coming conversation.
“So,” said the man already across the table, his fingers steepled in front of him as he studied me, not a single strand out of alignment in his dark parted hair, “Arial has told me you’re a Boreal. How intriguing. I do take an interest to the rarer powers such as those you possess.”
“Why, why thank you,” I answered, offering a quick smile. “I am fortunate – both for my abilities and for your hospitality.”
“Fortunate indeed, for your ability,” he responded as Emma waltzed behind us, bearing cups of soup garnished with blooming flowers that she placed before us, her movements so graceful I thought she had skipped me until I looked down. “Born in the northern hospitals – your parents must be quite wealthy for a chance at a Boreal son.”
“Yes, erm, indeed,” I mimicked, wondering why the letters were missing in my soup, and whether Emma had forgotten them. “Most wealthy, of course. Just like you, wealthy. Which is why they sent me here, to board at the academy, since the schools up there are open to anyone.”
“An interesting choice, here of all places,” said Arial’s father, staring at my shirt, which had a patch over one elbow and a stretched collar. “And yet your clothing choice is quite… unique.”
“I’ve only just arrived, and these are my traveling clothes,” I said, “My belongings were misplaced; they should arrive soon.”
“Yet your aunt did not see it fit to—”
“Artie,” interrupted Arial’s mother, “let the boy eat without being berated. Had he been wearing his proper attire, it would only have been ruined in the rain.”
“Yes, I’m sure they would have been soiled,” he remarked after a minute of silence as we finished our soup. and Emma carted away the bowls. “Tell me, boy – SC, is it? What a curious name, unlike any I have known. Tell me, did your parents phone ahead to the academy or perform any research? I’m afraid you shan’t be allowed in.”
“Father, a Boreal would definitely be allowed in!” protested Arial, her fingertips pinching the edge of the table.
“I have the ability and the strength of it!” I added, but he raised a hand.
“Power is not the issue here, nor rarity. Take Arial, with the power of flight, a common power, yet she was admitted with no qualms. A power from an accidental airplane birth on the way to the hospital, a level one in the Amazon rainforest, with a down payment more than this house.”
Beside me, Arial was quiet and still as her father continued, and Emma placed his entree before him.
“No, SC, I’m afraid you
can’t attend because the school is closing. Had your parents done their research, as any parents should before mailing their son halfway around the globe, I’m sure they would have learned that as well. They would know that due to a gerrymandered district, it is being converted into a rehabilitation facility. I doubt you would have interest in attending there, whether or not you qualify. I’ve started the process of pulling Arial out, but many of the other children on scholarship will finish their schooling at the facilities there, or they’d have to repay their debt to the city.”
He raised his knife and sliced into his braised chicken, expertly removing the meat from the bone, though his eyes never moved off of me.
“But enough talk about the academy, SC. I’m sure we can find accommodations for you elsewhere, with a power as special yours. In all my years studying the rarities, I’ve only come across five or six Boreals. Come, treat us to a show, and I’ll inform you how you compare.”
He smiled, baring his teeth as he took the first bite, chewing slowly as I felt the blood start to drain from my face. Arial had been simple to trick; she’d only seen one Boreal and from a distance. But her father – her father would not be so easy to fool.
I imagined creating the force point on the table, pushing space downwards to pull her family in with all the food, wrapped in the tablecloth like the filling of one of Emma’s pastries. It wouldn’t hurt them, I was sure, at least not bad. And it would give me time to escape.
“Go on,” Arial’s father whispered, eyes glinting, and I felt the other inhabitants of the table lean in as the air stilled. “Or would you care to admit you are something far more common, if anything at all?”
I exhaled and chose my target, a tray of softened butter at the center. And just as I collected my will, the shrill ringing of a telephone interrupted from the kitchen.
Their three heads snapped towards the kitchen as the butter on the tray morphed into a symmetrical ball, pulled together by the point as I released it an instant later before it could cause more damage, the water in the tall glasses around the table sloshing back and forth just enough to be noticed.
“For you!” cried Emma, rushing forward with the phone and handing it to Arial’s father, who listened to a voice on the other end. Then his expression tightened and he sprang up from the table, wiping his mouth with an embroidered napkin, and shouldering a coat from the rack.
“An emergency has been reported on Twelfth Street,” he said to his wife. “There has been an unregistered power sighting, and word is already getting to me an hour late. Something unlike anything I have heard of, that requires my immediate attention. Something rare.”
With long strides, he reached the doorway, thrusting it open, and turned back, letting the wind and rain billow past him into the house. Turning back, he spoke one last sentence, letting the sarcasm drip from his voice.
“SC, the next time we meet, I’m sure we would all be delighted to see your true abilities.”
Then the door slammed, and he raced into the night.
Chapter 8
Arial sniffed, poking at her plate with a fork, ignoring Emma as she placed a miniature dessert at her elbow. The last course consisted of a crepe shaped like a butterfly, the wings streaked with patterns of strawberry, blueberry, chocolate, and balsamic that melded so well with batter that the dish appeared alive. And it nearly was – as a perfectly timed scoop of ice cream melted in the rigid center, the wings drooped down from their upright position as if it was ready to take flight, and two cherry stem antennae perked upwards.
“Oh, Emma, you’ve outdone yourself,” complimented Arial’s mother, her speech as forced as wading into cold water. “The dessert, and the butter as well! It fits the flow of the table so much better in that shape – I found the rectangular edges otherwise to be quite jarring. The little wave patterns on the surface are so intricate!”
Emma raised an eyebrow as she looked at the butter, tilting her head in confusion as she set down the plate, the back of her hand brushing against Arial's father’s drinking glass that had been left on edge of the table. It toppled, the stem cracking in two as it smashed into the floor, and Emma immediately bent over to fetch the pieces.
“Pardon, my apologies,” she exclaimed with a quick bow, wiping the water from the table with a fresh cloth. “Fortunately, there is little mess, but I will sweep for any stray shards.”
“No need, Emma, no need,” hushed Arial’s mother, plucking the two pieces from the chef’s hands. Then she placed them back on top of each other, stroking an index finger down the glass, the material flowing back together until it was seamless once more. A streak of gray flashed through her hair as she set it back on the table as if brand new. “Just give it a thorough wash.”
My breath caught in my throat as Emma took back the unblemished glass, and Ariel’s mother smiled at me.
“Please excuse my powers at the table,” she said with a nod. “Uncouth as it is, they do serve their purpose. It will be our secret.”
“You’re a Mender,” I breathed, and she released a tinkling laugh, throwing a lock of her curled hair behind her shoulder.
“Oh me? Yes, I am, dear. Not the most powerful of types—”
“But exceptionally rare,” I finished as mild annoyance crossed her face from me interrupting her performance. And rare she was despite the simplicity of the power, and though Menders were one of the few power types that could be born anywhere in the world, their conditions at birth were what made them unique.
For Menders, it was a requirement that the child be born on the brink of death, often mistaken for a stillborn. Brought into the world broken so that child had to be restored to life, its cold body coaxed warm once more, its first breath occurring just at the inflection point of mortality. Those cases were common enough in hospitals, children saved by particularly adept medical staff, placed crying into their sobbing mother’s arms. But what was not common was the last requirement for a Mender to develop – that the doctor that delivered them perish within the same day.
“He was old,” said Arial’s mother, guessing my thoughts, “and went peacefully in his sleep later that night. And not a day goes by that I don’t thank him for his gift.”
Then she stood, the grey streak in her hair slowly fading to match the brown of the other strands, and addressed her daughter.
“Arial, it’s time for your schoolwork and your friend to depart. Walk him out, but don’t leave the yard – though the rain appears to have let up, it’s getting dark.”
“Yes, Mother,” mumbled Arial, leaving her dishes for Emma and treading towards the door. For someone who could leap into the air with the slightest twitch of her toes, her posture slumped as if gravity had laid an extra hand upon her, and she kept her face pointed ahead as she led me outside.
And when the door shut behind us, it wasn’t raindrops that splashed against the front porch.
“Nothing’s ever good enough for him!” she whispered, her lip trembling and she turned her eyes away from mine, two more tears streaming down her face. “That’s why I brought you here, SC. I thought he might be proud of me.”
“Arial,” I started, unsure what to say as she shook, “it’s going to be okay. Your mother seems nice.”
“No, no it’s not,” she sobbed. “Mother won’t stop him when he gets like that. And now, my school is shutting down, and he’s taking me from my friends. He didn’t even believe you were a Boreal! If only you had a chance to show him before he left.”
“If only,” I answered as she steadied her breathing and wiped away her tears, her sleeve still ripped from earlier that day. “Arial, why didn’t your mother fix your sleeve like she fixed the glass?”
“It’s not good for her,” she answered, blinking to dry her eyes, “so Father won’t permit it. You saw how her hair turned grey? Each time she fixes something, she has to recover. But she can’t stand seeing anything broken, so it always makes her angry until it’s fixed.”
“I’m sorry,” I answered, l
ooking to the patch on my sleeve that my own mother had mended physically, Arial’s tears nearly contagious as I wondered where she might be now.
“It’s not your fault. And I don’t care what he says, wherever I go to school next, you are more than welcome to come. I’ve seen your powers, I know you’ll get in. Or better yet, I’ll refuse to leave!”
“Where do you think you’ll be going? I’d like to go to one of the ones better known for fighting.”
“Fighting.” She laughed through sniffles, her face starting to return to its normal complexion. “We don’t fight. That’s what the rehabilitation facilities are for, training the soldiers and policemen. The north really must be so different, or maybe that’s why your schools are as terrible as you say.”
“Wait, what do you do, then?” I said. “What else do they teach you to do with your powers?”
“Our powers? We only use those an hour each day, and just theory even then. It’s more reading and math and history. What exactly did you think we did? It’s a school, not a boot camp.”
“Well, erm, come to think of it, I wasn’t sure. I just assumed if it was a Special school you would do Special lessons.”
Arial tilted her head, squinting her eyes at me, barely visible in the darkness.
“The north really is odd,” she said, just as her mother shouted from inside, and she turned to leave. “But really, come to school with me. I promise you’ll like it!”
Star Child: Places of Power Page 3