Younger and younger.
To the graceful perfection of the early twenties, and then younger, to eighteen, and younger still, into my early teens with the buds of womanhood beginning to blossom, and then that roundness disappeared into twelve, eleven, and I was full of awkward bony angles, and younger still, nine, eight, seven.
The child in the mirror looked back at me with awe. Her green eyes overpowered her pale face. Her red hair, my hair, flamed in soft clouds around a face that still held the last traces of babyhood.
She was full of fledgling promise. I felt an overwhelming desire, a mother need, to reach out and wrap her in my arms. The girl in the mirror. The me/not me.
“Find him. You need to find him.” Her voice was a clear ringing bell, so sweet and so familiar.
“Find who?” I managed to croak.
“The truth-seeker.”
“Who? What do you mean?”
“Find the one who searches for you. You need his help, if you’re going to stop them.”
“Stop who? I don’t understand.”
For a moment I thought she would say more. But then she looked over my shoulder and her eyes widened in horror. She screamed, and her voice rose octave after octave until the scream became silent. She was frozen in a rictus of terror.
I wanted to turn, to see what had caused her fright, but I, too, was frozen. I stared helplessly into her open mouth, her enormous green eyes. A fireball streaked across her eye-sky, trailing a tail of blue-white light. I fell back, landing hard against the tile floor.
“Find him!” she screamed, and then the world exploded.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“My name is Jack Elias Barbetti. I was born May 9, 2004. I live in Seaside, Oregon. My parents are Emma and Keaton Barbetti. My dad works at a sawmill. My mom died because—”
No, don’t go there!
“I’m in fourth grade at Seaside Heights Elementary. My teacher is Mrs. Sutherland. My favorite subjects are math and science. My best friends are David McGregor and Mikey Parsons.”
Jack’s head was splitting open. The shots they injected every morning not only made him feel slow and far away, but the headache lingered until dark, when the sleepy-time injection took away all pain and consciousness.
He began the mantra again. “My name is Jack Elias Barbetti . . .”
It had been repeated so many times the words had lost their meaning. They were the strings that tethered him to a bunch of balloon-memories. But they kept trying to float off into the ether, while he clung desperately to the strings, knowing that to let go was to lose the Jack that was.
He didn’t know where they had taken him, or how long he’d been there. His old life ended when the bee stung the back of his neck. He’d had just enough time to lift his hand to swat the bee away, hot dogs dropping unnoticed to the dirt, and then the whole world went black.
Some time later, he’d been swaddled in blankets in the backseat of a moving car. There was the sensation of speed, and he understood they were on a freeway.
The next time he regained consciousness, he was in a soft bed, covered with quilts that were scratchy against his cheek. When he rolled over, searing pain ripped through his skull, making him want to vomit. His eyes closed as he fought the wave of nausea. Eventually, he was able to crack open an eyelid and inspect his surroundings.
The walls were made of logs, rough and splintery. There was a wicker dresser in the corner. Slowly, he sat up. The room around him throbbed in time with the pounding in his temples, and he moaned and closed his eyes, swaying.
That first morning of his new life, a man in dark robes entered the small bedroom. Jack had learned about predators, about what men like this wanted to do with boys like him, and he gritted his teeth and vowed he wouldn’t cry.
“Remember, Jack. Remember everything you see, and look for your chance to escape. When he does those things to you, you must go to the White.”
Was that his voice, or his mom’s? It didn’t matter. He would obey.
Flattening his hands against his thighs, he pressed until the tips of his fingers were white. It took all his willpower, but he looked the man straight in the eye, taking a mental tally of his features and committing them to memory. Old and skinny, with narrow shoulders. Gray beard and bushy eyebrows. Soft brown eyes, with lots of wrinkles around the edges. Red cheekbones and nose, like he needed to use sunscreen.
He was dressed like a priest, and Jack found this very unnerving. The last priest he had met thought Jack was infested with demons.
But Jack knew where the demons lived, and it wasn’t inside him. What a ridiculous idea! Father Santos hadn’t understood Jack was of the White; no demons could enter his soul. They were all around him though, oh yes, they were. Jack knew them well, as they knew him.
“Are you going to molest me?”
The man seemed startled by the abruptness of Jack’s question, and then somewhat horrified.
“No!” He sat on the edge of the bed, as far away from Jack as he could manage. “I am Father Gabriel, of the Holy Order of I Fidele. I am not here to violate you, or to harm you in any way. I am here to be your guide, your advisor, as you begin your new life here among your brethren.”
“I want to go home.”
“Of course you do. This time of transition is difficult, full of pain as one sheds the skin of the past. But like a snake, one must shed that skin to become new again. A wonderful life awaits you, my child—”
“I am not your child,” Jack cut in.
“Nevertheless, in time you will, I hope, look to me as a father of sorts. Today—”
“My father is Keaton Barbetti, and I want to go home to him!” Jack stood on the bed and screamed directly into the man’s face.
Father Gabriel wiped spittle off his cheek with the sleeve of his robe. “I’m sorry to tell you Keaton Barbetti is no longer your father. Soon, you will forget he ever existed, as you immerse yourself in your new life.”
“I won’t forget him, and I won’t stay here!” And then Jack did the only thing he could think of to do. He filled his lungs and screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
Eventually Father Gabriel got mad. He leapt across the bed and clamped a large paw over Jack’s mouth and nose, sealing his airway and stifling the scream, which lodged in his throat.
Up close, his eyes were pinwheeled with orange. His mask fell away, and Jack saw the demon that lurked behind it. He saw the forked tongue and the leathered gray face. He knew the demon for who it was. Jack’s angels sprung to life, swarming around him with buzzing alarm.
“Shut up! Your father will soon be dead, along with the rest of the cockroaches who walk this earth. So shut . . . the hell . . . up!”
His hand tasted like roast beef. Jack bit down.
After biting Father Gabriel’s hand, he was left alone for the better part of the day. The buzz of his angels swelled and receded as he lay, wide-eyed, on the scratchy quilt. Eventually, hunger and the need to use the toilet forced him to emerge from the bedroom. He found the tiny bathroom off the combined living room and kitchen area.
He peed, washed his hands in the bitingly cold water that emerged from the tap, and dried them on a purple towel.
He was alone in the small log cabin. The kitchen held a sink, a small ice chest, and a propane stove. Beside the kitchen was a scratched wood table with two mismatched chairs. A couch sat in the main living space, covered in a fraying red plaid quilt. Across from the couch was a dull gray chair with yellowed lace doilies covering the arms.
The floor was made of rough wooden planks, sanded but unstained. Jack pulled at the door, but it was locked from the outside. He wasn’t surprised.
A red pillowcase covered the one small window. He pulled it to the side and stood on his tiptoes to look out. The window was only two feet across by one foot high, and it provided a view of trees, trees, a
nd more trees. They were different from the ones he was used to, with thinner trunks and lots of needles.
In the ice chest he found bread, cheese, and milk. There were also apples, the Red Delicious kind. Jack made himself a meal and sat at the table, munching. His headache eased with the food and drink.
By the time Father Gabriel returned, right hand in a bandage, Jack was clearheaded enough to feel the full extent of his fear. He sat at the table, watching as Father Gabriel took the seat across from him.
“Well, then,” he said. “Perhaps we should start again?” He waited a moment, but Jack remained still and watchful.
“As I said before, I am Father Gabriel. I will be your spiritual advisor here at I Fidele. This is a large place, with many children I’m sure you will befriend.” He smiled, as though he expected Jack to get excited. Jack gave no response.
“In the beginning, we keep new children separated from the group, but it’s only temporary. Think of it as a sort of cocooning; you come in here as a caterpillar and will emerge, in time, as a beautiful butterfly. But that will only be the beginning of your life here. You will join the I Fidele family, and your life will be given a purpose beyond your wildest imaginings.”
He smiled again at Jack, and the smile was so sweet, so gentle, Jack could almost forget the demon he had seen lurking in the underworld of his soul. Almost.
“In fact, what we do here is very much like superhero training. Do you like superheroes, Jack?”
Despite himself, Jack nodded. Encouraged, Father Gabriel continued.
“Of course you do! Have you ever wished to be a superhero? I know I did when I was a boy, way back in the dark ages.” He laughed, and Jack felt his lips curl up into the beginning of a smile.
“Well, I have a secret for you. Do you want to know what it is?” Father Gabriel leaned across the table, whispering. “The secret, Jack, is you actually are a superhero. But you already know that, don’t you?”
Jack watched him, eyes wide.
“Of course you do! You’ve always been different than the rest of your friends, right? You’ve had secret powers no one else could understand, powers you’ve had to hide from everybody, even your dad. Isn’t that right?”
Jack found himself nodding.
“Have you ever wondered why? Why you have these special powers no one else has? What their purpose is?”
Jack did wonder. He wondered all the time.
“Well, I have the answers to all those questions. Right here, at I Fidele, you are finally where you belong. Because we are all special here. We are all superheroes, and you are going to be joining an elite team of superheroes in training.”
“There’s no such thing as a superhero.”
“Oh, but there is, Jack, there is!” Father Gabriel smiled. “Of course, you’re right. Superman doesn’t exist. Or Batman, or Spider-Man, or any of those other silly made-up superheroes. Their stories are fictional. But the idea of them? That had to come from somewhere real, don’t you think?”
Jack shrugged.
“Let me ask you this. Are demons real?”
He stared at Father Gabriel, waiting for the mask to disappear again. When it didn’t, he gave a small nod.
“And the White? Is that real?”
Jack was stunned. “You know about that?”
Father Gabriel laughed. “Of course! Who do you think we serve? The I Fidele family serves the White!”
“But you . . .” Jack stopped, confused. His angels had quieted to a low hiss. What did that mean?
“I know it’s a lot to take in. Don’t worry. For now, all you need to understand is we’re your friends. You’re safe here, Jack. Safe to be yourself, for the first time in your life.”
There was a quiet knock, and then the door to the cabin opened. A woman in a red robe entered, smiling at him. Jack was stunned into stillness at the sight of her. He had never seen a woman so beautiful in all his life. She was like a golden princess. Her hair was long and silky, and it floated around a face so perfect it reminded him of the angels who had visited that time he ran a fever of 105.
“Hi, Jack.” Her voice was like the tinkling of a wind chime, sweet and enticing. “I’m Maya. I’m here to give you some vitamins.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Everything returned to normal so quickly, it was like waking from a dream. My right hip was throbbing. I pulled myself up using the frame of the bathroom door, and stood there like a palm tree swaying in the breeze. The mirror girl was gone.
From the living room, my computer beeped to signal a new message in my in-box. It spurred me to action, and I staggered away from the bathroom. My laptop was open on the coffee table. The in-box was open, and the new message was highlighted at the top of the list. It was sent from my own e-mail address, [email protected], and the subject line said “FIND HIM!”
Heart throbbing painfully against my rib cage, I clicked to open the message. It was blank. I leaned back against the cool leather, rubbing my temples. Had the girl in the mirror really been a younger version of me? And who was this truth-seeker she wanted me to find? And how in the world had I sent an email to myself while passed out on the bathroom floor?
“Maybe it’s time to check yourself into the psych ward,” I muttered to myself.
While that certainly seemed like the right place for me to be, instead I grabbed the notepad and pen Dan had used earlier. Perhaps if I put everything down on paper, it would all begin to make sense. At the very least, I could document my trip into insanity for any future psychiatrists, so they could dial up the dosage on my meds from “calm and complacent” to “comatose.”
It took ten minutes to write down everything I could remember, from the “Ricordare, Ritornare” note to this latest vision. Then I started digging for any recollections of my childhood. My temples began to throb as I searched the blackness of my mind for some spark of memory.
The most important missing piece was my dad. I couldn’t remember anything about him. Not his life, not his death. Shouldn’t I have some kind of emotional response? Residual feelings of love? Grief? Had I felt those things yesterday, before that note had turned my life on its head? My tongue rolled over the ridges of the roof of my mouth as I thought back.
Yes, I was certain I had. That loss had been my traveling companion through the solitary journey of my twenties and early thirties. It had laid its head on the empty pillow beside mine. It had been the empty seat in the auditorium when I crossed the stage for first my BS and then my master’s. It had stood sentry over my desk through endless hours of study. It had been my silent dinner companion at restaurant tables set for two, while I buried my nose in a book to avoid the questioning gaze of other restaurantgoers, and pretended I dined alone by choice.
Not twenty-four hours before, that grief was a part of my daily routine. Mine was a solitary existence that occasionally crossed over into loneliness, but more often than not was filled with the busyness of academia.
The Spaceguard Program had always been so much more than just a job. It was an obsession that had pushed me through each grueling course, from Astronomy 101 to the recent completion of my doctorate.
Relentless in my pursuit of scholastic achievement, I had never vacillated between different academic pathways. My goal of joining MIT’s Linear program had been completely single-minded. Every academic step brought me closer to being a meteorite hunter with Spaceguard.
When they had posted the Space Data Analyst job three years before, I had jumped at the chance to move to New Mexico, eager to get my hands on those GEODSS telescopes.
It was thrilling to be on the front line in the hunt for dangerous meteorites. To be the first to find new threats, the first to study the telescopes results, the first to know.
Since moving to New Mexico, I felt a sense of peace for the first time in my adult life. I was exactly where I was supposed to be, and doing exact
ly what I was supposed to be doing. I was home.
Besides Dan, I had made no friends, and hadn’t dated anyone, either. I had chalked it up to the lack of free time that came with working nights at Linear and completing a doctorate during the day.
But the truth was, I had rarely dated in Massachusetts, either, and any friends were more like acquaintances; I kept people at a safe distance. The more I liked someone, the more I distanced myself.
Dan was the exception, and although I had not analyzed the reason why, if asked I would have said Dan was closer to me than anyone else because I was so happy in my current situation.
With a shake of my head, I turned back to my notes. To the words “truth-seeker,” circled over and over. Who could be considered a truth-seeker? I chewed on the pen while I pondered, letting the plastic bitterness tickle my tongue. Some kind of spiritual leader, like a rabbi or a priest? Or a scientist? Or maybe a journalist?
Pulling the computer back onto my lap, I typed “truth-seeker” into the Google bar. The first two hits were a news site out of the UK and a “freethinker” site in the US.
The UK site dealt in conspiracy theories and stuff the mainstream media wouldn’t touch. I skimmed articles on militant rebels in Syria merging with Al-Qaeda, North Korea’s latest crazy antics, and how the US Navy was apparently deploying a laser-prototype weapon near Iran.
Focusing solely on the men, I searched through their list of columnists. Several were listed as ex–Israeli army, or Middle East correspondents. None of the names jumped out at me, so I focused on the Americans for lack of a better idea.
One of them seemed to favor political rants aimed at the current president as well as 9/11 conspiracy theories. The other was an anti-Semitic propagandist who seemed to be blaming Jews for the paltry state of his life. It didn’t seem like truth was high on his priority list. I closed the site and moved on to the next.
This one advertised as “Free Thought Publishers since 1873.” The founder was listed as D. M. Bennett, the original “truth-seeker.” This might have caused excitement, but he had died in 1882.
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