Altruist (The Altruist Series Book 1)

by Walsh, Ashley

  A short, stout man stands on the threshold and, upon making eye contact with me, he rushes down the stairs, his arms move back and forth much quicker than the rest of his body as if his legs are simply just not on the same page. “Catherine!” he shouts, utter joy resonating from within him. The top of his grey, balding head barely reaches my chin and he gawks wildly at me from behind thick, wire-framed spectacles. He grabs my hands in his, they are rough and thick, and his closed-mouth smile exacerbates his double chin and accentuates his bright red cheeks. He pulls me down towards him and clasps his arms around me. I feel my expression drop from happy confusion to dreadful confusion and my body stiffens.

  “Ephraim!” Abel shouts as he pulls my duffle bag out of the trunk. “Give her a break.” He laughs, clearly finding the violation of my personal space amusing.

  “Right, right, sorry, sorry,” Ephraim mumbles, pulling away and adjusting his brown tweed vest so that it meets neatly with his matching trousers. I stare at him and he stares back and the moment lasts nearly too long before Abel interjects yet again.

  “Ephraim, would you like to show us inside?” he says, nodding towards The Manor. Its frame makes me feel far away and small in its shadow, and I instantly miss the loud house with the red door, my home.

  “Yes!” Ephraim smiles. “Of course! Eliath has been anxiously awaiting your arrival. And Judah has been drafting plans for weeks, and—”

  “Judah? Judah is here?” Abel asks, stopping Ephraim mid-step.

  “Why, yes! He mentioned something about wanting to be on the front lines this time and what not.” Ephraim continues up the stairs, spouting off random tidbits about the architectural significance of the manor.

  “Is everything okay?” I whisper to Abel.

  “Yeah, everything’s fine.” His stern expression is quickly replaced with a forced smile.

  As Ephraim turns the gold doorknob, emblazed with the triangular symbol that I’ve come to know so well, the rich smell of oiled mahogany escapes from the room within. It reminds me of my dad’s study, except here the dark wood adorns each wooden plank as well as an intricate wooden inlay across the walls. As I near the far wall, I allow my fingertips to trace the pattern, lines and flowers, faces and swords tell the beginning of a story, or the middle, or for all I know, the very end. A soldier fights alone against clouds of darkness. I tilt my head towards the ceiling, so far from my small frame that I can barely make out what comes next in the warrior’s tale, or before. Minutes pass and the room is quiet, so quiet that I nearly forget that I am not alone.

  Turning my head towards my escorts I smile and mumble an apology. “Sorry. This place is really beautiful,” I say as I take in the room, all but empty except for a running rug that measures the length of the floor and stretches to doorways on either side of the space. “I can’t believe this is all out here. Does the Council know it exists? I can’t imagine they do. Or why would the ever leave it here? I mean, at the very least, you would think they would utilize it for government ongoings. Or even a country home for our President. Yes, this is certainly the type of place a President would take rest in. How could you not? Right? How could you step foot here and not feel instantly better about every little thing in this world?” I tilt my head towards the ceiling again and smile, inhaling the musty air and allowing it to sit in my lungs, to fill them with something other than the air that I’ve always taken in. Air filled with the aftermath of too many days of refineries running and a city bursting at its seems with overpopulation issues. My eyes leave the solitude of the ceiling and meet Abel’s. “I’ve begun to ramble again, haven’t I?” I bite my lower lip and smile, shaking my head.

  “I was just going to let you go. Weren’t you, Ephraim” Abel says.

  “Oh, yes, absolutely, Sir.” Ephraim smiles and laughs and his structured tweed vest is unable to contain his belly from giggling slightly.

  “Yeah, okay, you guys are too kind.” I say, walking back toward Ephraim and motioning my arm, palm side up. “Continue the tour,” I say smiling and slightly embarrassed.

  “The Etched Hall” Ephraim says, pointing at the room around us. I narrow my eyes and scan the room, the room, not a hallway. I’ve never know a square room to be referenced as a ‘hall’ before and for a moment I wonder if the people who are able to own homes this obnoxiously large are able to call their rooms whatever the hell they please. I will make a mental note to take advantage of that perk if and when I ever own an obnoxiously large home of my own. In which case, I would most definitely name such a room as this a parlor, or a saloon. Yes, a saloon, this ‘hall’ most certainly screams ‘saloon.’ Ugh where is Willa when I need her, she would find my string of comedic gold hilarious. Willa, it’s been too long since I’ve been near her, since I’ve been allowed to laugh at things like the important task of naming rooms when I am some day undoubtedly very, very wealthy and take holiday residence in country homes fit for a president.

  I follow Ephraim from The Etched Hall into an actual hall, lined with oil painted portraits of faces that I have never known. Faces that are faded, not by the sun but by the time that has lapsed since these faces where a part of a person who breathed and laughed and lived. Dark hues of cream and blue, black and red inflect detail into intricate strokes that make up these people who once were. And that’s it, isn’t it? They were, and now they simply are not. There is a peace in that basic understanding. That sometimes life happens and whether I live a long life or die next month, death will in fact find me at some point because death is as constant as life, and I need to learn to accept that. I’m not sure if I can or not. And if I’m able to, does that make me less human than I already am? Regardless of the lasting affect a change in my mentality towards existence may have, if I want to be focused, if I want to be strong, if I want to have a chance of getting through this life, I need to erase the fear that comes along with death. It will happen, it will come, but until it does, I will fight like hell.

  Ephraim’s words are muffled between his mustache and nasally voice, but between colliding thoughts in my own mind, I’m able to make out words here and there.

  “Leopoldo Longhurst-Lovelock. Saraswati Flowers. Regulo Jefferies. Agata Anstee-Adair.” Ephraim rattles off the names of heroes past as we make our way down the hall, at the end of which stand two enormous foreboding doors, a flutter of light breaks the threshold.

  “Kip Chang. Basu Huck. Wilfredo Warnett. Manolete Holleran.” The faces, so many lost in a war that I know little about and for every name my ears manage to catch, I miss three names that fade into oblivion.

  “Catherine Quill-Decatur.” My heart stops at the ring of my own name, just long enough for the world around me to stand still as my eyes meet Abel’s. I slowly turn from Abel to meet a portrait of a younger me, though only slightly. A deep green gown flows effortlessly across the oil paint, my dishwater blonde hair pinned back, I sit there, quiet and paused in time. Much like now, quiet and paused, I scrutinize every detail, pour over them so that I’ll be able to remember them again when I’m inside my own mind and alone again.

  “It took a solid week of persuasion from my mother to convince you to have this commissioned.” Abel’s voice is quiet and careful as he slips his fingertips between mine. “You’ve stood here like this the two other times you’ve seen it.”

  Twice, two lives I have no recollection of. I glance towards our clutched hands and blink at the thought of missed memories, before returning my attention to the portrait.

  “With absolutely no bias, Ms. Quill, this is in fact my very favorite portrait in the gallery.” Ephraim’s voice squeaks as it leaves his body, jittery with nerves. It makes me wonder how I’ve acted, or responded to such heirlooms in the past. I simultaneously raise my eyebrows towards the center and Abel’s arms to my chest, hands still clasped and smile, “Thank you, Ephraim.”

  We linger there for a moment, and though the feeling is odd, I embrace meeting the girl I use to be. The confident woman I hope to be again.

&nb
sp; THUD. “And if I had been there the outcome would have certainly been different!” The voice, though muffled at this distance, is clear in its assertion and my focus shifts to the doors beyond. Abel’s hand releases mine and I stand idly as he nears Ephraim and whispers something. What outcome? I wonder, are they talking about Asher? Or the incident in the woods with Pricilla Thynn? Or something entirely different that doesn’t involve me whatsoever and I can simply stand here, fading into the background and settle with my own thoughts. I turn once more and glance at the portrait, the oiled mirror. Decatur, my rightful last name.

  “Cate.” Abel’s voice wakes me from my daze, he motions towards me and I take the three steps forward so that we are side by side again. Wary of what’s ahead, I move closer to him and hold onto his hand, a gesture that has become so common that he hardly notices. Ephraim’s brown leather shoes squeak incessantly against the freshly waxed floor. Stepping twice as quickly as Abel does in order to make up for the lapse in height, I find him so peculiarly endearing. We follow him down the hall until we reach the room guarded by two large wooden doors. The words “Invenire Semetam” adorn the entry. Ephraim presses his right palm against the triangular symbol that grips one door to the other. Slowly the two horizontal bars that lie across and complete the symbol begin to pull away from each other, allowing us to enter the room beyond.

  Sun streams through the large windows that face where we stand, splitting around us and casting broken shadows on the wall behind us. The walls are filled with thousands of books, so many that to even attempt to attribute the correct total seems like a fruitless task. In the center of the room sits a large circular table, maps drape over its entirety. Eliath stands towards the far end of the room gazing out at the countryside and sipping on a glass filled a quarter way with brown liquid and ice. A man, who I’ve never met, stands hunched over the table with a compass of sorts and a pencil. He is older than I am, maybe by 6 or 7 years, though if he is, in fact, a Tylin it’s impossible to know how accurate my estimate is. Strands of golden blonde pull away from his neatly side-parted hair and drape drown to his furrowed brow. He’s medium height and noticeably muscular beneath his mint green oxford button up, suspenders firmly clasped to brown trousers. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows so that twin triangular burn marks are visible, much like the brand that adorns Abel’s back.

  “Abel, Cate.” Eliath walks toward us, his voice seeping with concern and for the first time I realize that he does care for me. He shakes Abel’s hand and, in comparison to the welcoming Ephraim gave me moments ago, the gesture seems distant. The man consumed with the maps turns slightly and looks at me from the table, his green eyes fill with the overflowing saturation of his shirt. His stare is piercing and unwavering, so intense that I look down at my feet, overwhelmed with discomfort.

  “Judah.” Abel nods and the man nods in return. His eyes are red, like he hasn’t slept for too long, like his days blur from one to the next, like he looks how I feel, like he is broken, too. His eyes flash to me again and stay there, I smile nervously but his face stays stoic and then he returns his attention to the maps below him.

  “Did you find it okay?” Eliath asks, gesturing us out of the room.

  “Yeah, it hasn’t changed much in the last decade, huh? Looks exactly as I remember,” Abel says. “Ephraim did a wonderful job as keeper while we were away.”

  Ephraim’s chest expands slightly with pride and his back straightens as he leads us down the hall and up several staircases. The fourth floor landing is bright with the waning sun and Ephraim abruptly stops in front of the third door on the left. “This is you,” he says looking at me.

  I look at Abel. “Are you staying somewhere else?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be just down the hall. My belongings are already settled.” Searching my face he must notice my small disappointment. “Unless you need me to say, I can stay,” he rambles off.

  I bite my bottom lip in anxiety of this new place. “No,” I say. “I’ll be fine.” The line is more a self-affirmation than anything else. I will be fine because I need to be fine, and for no other reason.

  He releases his hand from mine and kisses my forehead. “We’ll have time to talk tomorrow,” he says, then walks down the hall with Eliath and turns the corner.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of providing some essentials, clean linens, towels, toothpaste, etc.” Ephraim smiles and I wish that I could bottle up his happiness and take smooth sips of it throughout the day. “I’ve left a notepad on the desk. If there’s anything else you require, jot it down and I’ll be sure to obtain it as soon as possible. The Counsel has made acquiring some goods difficult, but we have channels for nearly anything you could possibly need. If there’s nothing else, I’ll be going now. My room is just down the hall. Don’t hesitate to knock if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, Ephraim. I’ll be fine.” Fine, I am fine. I sigh deeply, his sincerity and helpfulness is refreshing and greatly welcomed. He exits the room and closes the door behind him. Lately it seems as though I’m incapable of basic human functions and his precise directions are extremely comforting. The room I find myself in, my room, has pale yellow walls accented with white crown molding, a nice change from the dark wood that runs the rest of The Manor. A white desk sits in the corner, a brown leather book lies on the center. The bed itself is a small twin, though it’s frame is massive and embellished with a large draping canopy of thick yellow and navy fabric. With posts so high that the ceiling must be at least sixteen feet tall, it’s affixed to the far right corner. Its brown frame contrasts with the crisp white linens in a way that fills the room with a quiet and warm beauty. Beyond a small vanity that sits opposite the desk and a small metal cage, rusted from ware and filled with shiny stones, the room is barren. I walk towards the vanity and touch the dark frame, the wood feels familiar under my hands, have these things always been mine?

  “Do you like it?” Eliath’s voice startles me from the doorway and I jump.

  “Oh, hi, have you been there long?” He leans forward and walks within a few feet of me.

  “No.” He smiles. “I know it’s early.” He glances at his watch. “6:30pm. But I think it may be best for you to have an early night. You need the rest so that you can focus on the work that will begin tomorrow, and it will be work, I need you to understand that. For now though, try to relax. I know the past 72 hours have been a whirlwind, but trust me when I say that you are safe, that the ones you love are safe, and that you are of no use to anyone in this condition.” He nods at the vanity mirror then turns and leaves. I am alone again.

  I take a seat on the bench and peering into the vanity’s mirror I notice a similar redness under my eyes, the inevitable consequence of running a full gamut of emotion. My hair is tangled and frayed as I piece it through my fingertips. Who am I? Dried blood makes a patchwork of my shirt and I don’t know what is more disturbing, the fact that I wouldn’t care if it were my own, or the fact that it doesn’t bother me that it’s not my blood. I feel numb to the fact that I know exactly where it came from, that I know when my hand collided into the scout’s nose that blood flowed like a faucet and my shirt was its safety net. Who am I? My nails press into the fresh dark wood and then curl into my palms, anger mounts within my veins. “No!” I scream so loudly that the vibration of my words scratch at my lungs and give me temporary relief from the numbness that has made its home in my heart. I pick up the silver plated brush from the vanity and throw it violently at the mirror, shattering the glass. Shivers of my reflection fall to the floor.

  “Nicely done,” a voice calls. I turn and see Judah leaning against the frame. “Your aim’s improved.” I stare at him confused; the mirror was a mere foot from where I sit. “It’s a joke. It jabs at your poor marksmanship. I doubt you’ve worked on it since we last spoke.”

  I hate knowing that these people, these strangers, that they know me, know me well enough that he believes we have inside jokes. And I am so tired of feeling so small and having ever
y conversation float so high above my grasp. “Yeah well, the Council has pretty strict guidelines when it comes to firearms, so, not exactly sure when I should have been practicing.” My frustration comes off more passive aggressive than I intended it to be and I feel utterly transparent. Judah eyes me and pulls his lips down slightly in a momentary facial nod of approval. He stares at the ground, motioning his foot at an invisible spot and tapping it repeatedly, nervous, pent up energy showing. “Is there something I can help you with?” I ask, aggravated by his presence.