by Laury Falter
I realized he’d chosen this subject over the more volatile one - whether I did actually own The Rope of The Sevens. Intended or not, I appreciated it.
“By the way, would you mind…” he questioned, holding out his hand to me. There, in the middle was an open wound.
“Should I bother asking where this one came from?” I muttered.
He smirked and shook his head, confirming it had been one of my cousins.
I performed quickly on him, finishing just before a student entered the room. Then Jameson and I were back to acting as if we didn’t know each other for the next hour. At the end of it, when students left the classroom and Ms. Wizner was pulled away at the request of another teacher, Jameson and I were finally alone again.
“Did you hear a word she said?” he asked, implying I was spending more time concentrating on him than on the lesson.
“No,” I replied flatly. “Did you?”
He chuckled. “I don’t remember a single one from her since you sat beside me that first day of class,” he admitted.
I laughed with him and then his mood changed and he stiffened slightly.
“Look,” he said, dubiously, his eyes drifting toward the window briefly as if he were still considering whether he should be bringing up whatever it was on his mind. Then his focus came back to me and he said, “If you want to heal others, there’s a place I can take you where people need your help.”
I gave him a quizzical look.
“It’s…It’s not a place I can tell you about, exactly. We, those in our world, keep it private.” His lips pinched closed and he momentarily looked irritated. “They shun it really.”
I blinked back my aversion toward that statement. From the sound of it, these people in need were victims or criminals. Either way, it was clear from Jameson’s behavior that they needed our help and quickly.
With that in mind, I responded without much contemplation behind it, “When?”
He seemed relieved. “Tomorrow night? Meet me at Olivia’s store? Eleven o’clock?”
“That late?” I asked, surprised.
“It’s the safest time to go.”
My eyebrows lifted at hearing the word safest.
“Who exactly are these people, Jameson?”
His mind had been racing, which was clear to me as his eyes locked on the floor without blinking and his expression stiffened, but my question broke his trance.
“They aren’t the ones you need to worry about. They’re the outcasts.”
Ms. Wizner appeared in the door, but with her back to us as she finished her conversation we were allowed a few extra seconds.
“Thank you,” he said hastily, in a way that made me feel as if I was doing him a favor.
“We can talk more after school,” I offered collecting my laptop.
“Oh no…” He shook his head. “Going to have to skip our errands today. You’ll need to rest. It’ll be harder to heal them than the others.”
That made me curious. I was just about to ask why when Ms. Wizner turned fully into the room. So, instead, my head snapped forward and I stood to follow Jameson out in the hall. Of course, there were students and faculty still roaming so my chance to ask more about this mysterious excursion to heal the outcasts was over.
I was left wondering why Jameson was thankful I’d agree to help them. That, I figured, was a foregone conclusion. Also on my list of questions was how they’d become outcasts, why we needed to meet them so late at night, why it would be harder to heal them, and who exactly made it unsafe? These questions remained in the back of my mind until the next day, when Jameson didn’t appear in class.
Then my attention turned to his whereabouts…and the clock couldn’t move faster toward the eleven o’clock hour. Every few minutes, I checked it and found it didn’t appear to be moving. Yet, when one class ended and the other began I knew time had not stood still, contrary to my perception. Then came dinner, which was just as antagonizing. But the worst of it came after. When our traditional after-dinner practice of the mystical arts had ended and everyone had gone to sleep, including Nolan, I sat staring at the clock.
When it came time to sneak out, I was fully prepared. Not only because I’d been thinking about it for the last half of the day but also I was well versed in the effort. It had been me at the academy in New York who went first through the window or down the hall or out the door late at night. It was me with the talent for avoiding the headmistress and the security guard who walked the grounds. Applying my knowledge here, gave me the foresight to distinguish the sounds of everyone’s sleep habits, the odd creaky floorboard, and how much the front door could be opened before reaching the point where it squeaked. Sneaking out here was fairly easy, in fact, and I was soon on my way to Olivia’s shop.
The French Quarter streets were filled with tourists and locals, beads hanging from their necks and cups of fruity liquor called Hurricanes clutched in their hands. I had to swerve to avoid several of them as they darted in front of my car. Otherwise I would have needed to use my healing abilities and that would have drawn questions I had no interest in answering. It quieted, thankfully, as I reached the street where Olivia’s shop could be found.
Having only been here once, I initially questioned whether I’d gotten the directions wrong. Expecting to find a group of people loitering around Olivia’s door, I was surprised that the street was vacant.
Pulling up beside her door, I turned off the engine and then waited. The sound of a harmonious jazz rhythm floated through the streets, soothing me like only this particular music could.
While I hadn’t been happy to leave the academy in New York as fast as I was forced to, New Orleans was a pretty good place to end up.
No more than a minute passed when headlights came around the corner behind me. They stopped at my bumper and the driver side door opened.
Then he was there, walking toward me, his sturdy frame being carried by a confident swagger that had come to spark a reaction in me every instance I saw it. This time, however, it wasn’t a swell of warmth or the trigger of an extra heartbeat. I felt the muscles that had contracted slowly throughout the day during his absence finally relax.
The recognition of it almost made me laugh. Here I was meeting a Caldwell on a dark street who will be introducing me to an admittedly unsafe group of people without any mention of it to my family…and I was more at peace now than I had been the entire day.
“Smiling? I see you didn’t miss me much…” came Jameson’s playful tone next to my ear. He’d reached my car window and was now an inch from me, so close that his eyes filled my sight.
“No,” I replied as frankly as I could while my heart picked up its pace. Somehow it always reacted the same way to him. “Ms. Wizner was in tears though.”
He chuckled and then said, “I figured you’d want to drive yourself, my being a Caldwell and all…”
“I think I’ve made my mind up about that one,” I replied.
“Really?” He was intrigued. “And the verdict is?”
“I think you’re all right.”
His eyes widened in offense. “Just all right?” he scoffed.
“You’re going to need to work for more than that,” I said with a smirk.
“You’re tough…” he said under his breath before stopping to grin. “It’s a good thing I already have a few ideas in mind. If you don’t run from me tonight, after where we’re going, I’m pretty sure you’ll let me take you on a date.”
Two things made me freeze then. First, he’d hinted again that tonight would be dangerous. Second, and far more shocking, was the suggestion of a date.
“You haven’t thought about it?” he asked, noticing my reaction, and I wasn’t sure if he were seriously offended or mockingly playful.
“I just…I didn’t think it was an option.”
“Our families never need to know,” he replied cautiously.
“So we would meet somewhere late at night?”
“Like we are now.” His lips turned do
wn. “Not the way I planned it in my head.”
That admission made my heart skip a beat. Evidently, he’d been considering asking me on a date for a while. A Caldwell asking a Weatherford on a date - the first one in history, no doubt. It was a big deal. No wonder he was putting some thought into it.
As if that weren’t enough to cause the burning excitement now coursing through me, the words ‘not the way I planned it’ repeated in my mind, which meant one thing. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I had a traditional streak in me and I was flattered at the idea that he wanted to pick me up.
Yeah, I thought, that wouldn’t go over so well at my house.
“Um, Jameson?” I asked, distracting him from thoughts that didn’t seem all that pleasant. “Where are all the people I’m supposed to heal tonight?” He had mentioned something about driving.
“Right,” he said, jumping into action. “Did you want to leave your car and come with me?”
As much as every muscle in my body was magnetically moving in that direction, I forced myself to decline. “I can’t imagine leaving it here unattended.”
He nodded thoughtfully, disappointment evident in his expression. “I’ll make sure you can follow.”
With that, he took me out of the French Quarter, down the I-10, and exited at an off ramp that looked as if it had been forgotten by the rest of society. From there, we jostled over rough pavement and then along a dirt road where my headlights caught pieces of my surroundings. An abundance of trees hid whatever was beyond them but infrequent patches revealed a swamp stretched along the left side of us.
About forty minutes into our woodland expedition, his taillight began blinking and he turned off the road, which made me laugh. We were in the middle of nowhere without any reason to abide by the laws of the road and here he was using his blinker. He was being courteous, I knew, and it was sweet. He had no understanding of my driving skills and couldn’t have known that I had once outrun the security guard through the backwoods of our academy back east.
I pulled up beside him and stepped out.
The air around us had transformed from soot and smog so typical in the city to fresh air layered with the hint of sweet moss. The warm night had inspired the wildlife to emerge. The frogs’ bellowing echoed off the still water and bats darted between cypress trees that stood like soldiers against the moonless sky.
With our headlights now off, he used a flashlight to guide me to the water’s edge and then to show me why we’d stopped.
A dock extended out into the water, one that looked like it hadn’t been used since the Civil War. I didn’t pay it much attention though. The twelve-foot, flat bottomed boat tied to it was far more fascinating. Overflowing with bags and boxes, it had clearly been left there for us.
“This,” said Jameson, “is why I was absent from school today. The supplies came in late.”
“Ah,” I said playfully, acting like it all made sense. “Of course they did.”
He suppressed a laugh. “I have you guessing, don’t I?”
“Yes…you do.”
“You’ll get your answers soon,” he reassured and walked down the dock, stopping at the boat. Lifting his foot, he placed it on the edge and then swung his hand out to me. “Ready?”
“For what exactly?”
“To heal those who need it,” he replied soft but emphatically.
“Right…” I whispered to myself and then treaded lightly toward him, unwilling to back out now. Even if the dock swayed beneath my feet and there was no map in his hand to tell us how to find our destination in this maze of waterways.
Yet, a few seconds later, I found myself sitting on a hard wooden bench in the hull of the boat and Jameson taking a seat beside me. He then untied us, pulled the cord on the outboard motor, and the hum of an engine rose up around us. Then we were moving, the soft, moist breeze picking up strands of my hair to toss them over my shoulder.
Then I figured it out. The boat. The discretion. The night time excursion.
“This is the secret trip you take every week…” I said loud enough to be heard over the engine.
His head dipped leisurely in a nod.
“The supplies are for the outcasts,” I went on.
“Yes.”
Then I demonstrated just how well I knew him. “This is where your family spends its money. Not on elaborate vacations or parties but here on these people…”
Again he nodded. “You’re more insightful than the others,” Jameson said, referring to my family.
“Why didn’t you bring me here sooner?” I asked with a confused shrug. “We could have been helping them already.”
He slowed the motor then, allowing us to drop our voices to a more practical level.
“I know what I feel for you, Jocelyn. And it’s strong. I didn’t want that emotion to blind me in my opinion of whether I could trust you.”
My lips almost lifted in a smile at his acknowledgement but I held it back. His explanation sounded levelheaded, exactly what I would expect from Jameson, but I still didn’t understand. “Trust me for what reason? Why the secrecy?”
We’d been steering around cypress stumps and down the waterway we were now moving along when we reached a bend. Slowly, as Jameson curved around it, lights began to shine through clusters of trees along the embankments. From there, I could smell wood fires burning and see boats moored in the water.
Without having to be told, I knew we had arrived. My time was running out to get an answer from him.
Jameson slowed the boat more, allowing him to speak in a regular tone. Even then, his voice was husky, restrained. “It puts everyone here in danger, if you were to talk about this place.”
“Me? Specifically me?” I lifted my shoulders in confusion. “I don’t understand what I have to do with this place…”
“Your mother works for the ministry,” he replied, pulling alongside another weathered dock.
“So?” I persisted.
“So the ministry sent them here.”
11 THE VILLAGE
The shacks were built on stilts that dripped with moss, giving them the illusion of hovering above the water. Lanterns flickered at the end of the docks and below the rafters, illuminating nets, crates, and fishing poles, which were found in abundance at every shack we stopped. Some had rocking chairs beside their doors or at the edge of the water where I knew the residents cast their lines during the day. In summary, the place we’d entered was a village hidden in the hollows of a swamp, a place for those intentionally forgotten.
We stopped at the first few shacks and Jameson heaved either a bag or a box from the boat to the edge of the dock, whether windows were lit from within or not. It was immediately clear to me that this was not a new routine and I couldn’t help notice the feeling this stirred in me, something along the lines of admiration. He’d given up his nights to deliver goods to people in need and didn’t appear to ask for anything in return.
If only my family could see him now…
On one delivery in particular the bag opened and spilled some of its contents across the wooden planks. As I rushed to help Jameson collect them before the items fell in the water, I was surprised at what I found. Canned food, fishing hooks, bait, candles, a knife and sharpener.
Evidently, they didn’t have the freedom or the money to acquire the basic necessities themselves. This understanding made me pause and wonder what kind of establishment imposed a punishment like this one. Then I froze.
It was the kind where my mother worked.
This realization settled over me like an uncomfortable blanket so I was partly glad when we didn’t see anyone outside for the first few shacks. It gave me time to allow this fact to sink in.
If any of the recipients knew we were there, they didn’t acknowledge it by coming out to greet us. They were there though. The laughter and music coming through the walls confirmed it. We moved from shack to shack making me feel as if I were standing outside a party I hadn’t been invited to. Which was
a fairly accurate depiction of the situation Jameson and I were currently in.
Then we came across the fifth shack and he tied us to a post, signaling that we would be visiting this one. It was quieter than the others, playing soft blues music on what sounded like a scratchy, dated record player.
Hauling a bag to his side as he stepped up to the dock, Jameson explained, “You should know that healing will be harder here.”
“Why?” This was no less disconcerting from when he’d mentioned it the first time.
Jameson stood over me, hands on his hips, looking out over the water. “When someone is sent here two things happen. First, they suffer the worst punishment our world can invoke. They are bound, unable to use their abilities. This is to make certain they cannot protect themselves by revoking their punishment or exercise their powers to improve their situation. Second, the closer you get to them, the greater your energy will dissipate. That cast is to prevent anyone else from helping them. It’s the reason why I suggested we take a break yesterday in order for you to rest. Because you’ll need it.”
“Can I get around it?” I asked, uncertain.
“We’re going to find out.”
I scoffed in return. “Great. Sounds easy.”
He had offered his hand to me by this point and I had taken it to step up to the dock. “It won’t be,” he assured once my feet were firmly under me. “But I know the level of frequency where your energy vibrates. When you healed our whole class, Jocelyn, that just doesn’t happen. No one has that ability. No one but you.” He caught my gaze and held it, his hands still holding mine. “You can do this,” he stated with unwavering conviction.
I knew what he’d been doing, taking another look inside me, assessing me. It would have been natural to feel my privacy was violated but I didn’t have this reaction. Instead, I appreciated the vote of confidence because I wasn’t so sure myself.
We were on our way to the door when I asked in a whisper, so those inside couldn’t overhear, “How do they do all of that? Bind these people and those who visit them?” Then I realized I already knew the answer. “Channeling.”