Solomon's Ring

by Mary Jennifer Payne

  Mr. Khan kicks off his shoes and comes into the apartment. “Don’t get too optimistic. The shelves are pretty sparse at the shops, and prices have jumped again. I managed to get us some bread and a few fresh tomatoes and a dozen eggs.”

  “Chicken eggs?” Jade says, her voice thick with hope.

  “Not unless you’re a lot wealthier than me,” Mr. Khan says. “Wild pigeon. Apparently, according to the shop employee, these were freshly gathered by Sandra Smith’s little night army last evening. Jade, if you’d be so kind as to help me in the kitchen, we’ll whip up a little feast and then the four of us will discuss our strategy for facing the media today. Jasmine, I need you to go get ready.”

  “Should I change into my Supergirl outfit, cape and all?”

  Mr. Khan grimaces as he glances toward the closed door to Mom’s room. “This is going to be tricky. No matter what, we need to divert their attention away from Beaconsfield. If the media discovers how many twins are with us, and that gets out to the wider public, it could have consequences beyond our imagination. Especially if they investigate further.”

  About fifteen minutes later, the four of us sit down to eat. Mom brings out a fresh pot of chicory and the last of our honey.

  “I think it would be wise to keep the story as uncomplicated as possible,” Mr. Khan says as he pours himself a cup of steaming hot chicory. “Simply put, many people experience what happened to you. Life-threatening situations have often brought on adrenaline and cortisol surges that have allowed people to do something beyond their usual capabilities. That’s our story for the media. I mean, that’s what must’ve happened, right?”

  Jade sneaks a sideways glance at Mom. I wish we could just tell her the truth that it had nothing to do with adrenaline — well, maybe a little — and a whole lot more to do with being a Seer.

  “Yeah, must’ve been,” I say. “Don’t really remember much. Think I was on survival mode. I was carrying that pole because it was a prop for a play at school. I was going to decorate it at home.”

  Mr. Khan nods approvingly as he tears off a wad of bread and stuffs it into his mouth. “Really incredible what you did, Jasmine. Just tell it like it is, and hopefully another story will come along and knock you out of the spotlight sooner rather than later.”

  JADE

  As soon as we open the front door of our apartment building, we’re bombarded. Questions are thrown at us like hand grenades. Reporters move forward en masse, leaving little physical space to move or breathe. In an instant I feel claustrophobic. Panicked.

  “Jasmine, how are you feeling? How did you manage to defend yourself? Have you thought about meeting Jamie Linnekar’s grieving mother?”

  I look over at Jasmine. Her eyes are steely and her lips are set. She moves a hand to shield her eyes from the bright sun. I’m worried she’s going to say something she shouldn’t.

  A reporter moves toward me. He’s so close, I can smell his sweat. It’s a pungent mix of onions and earth.

  “Jade, you and your sister seem to be miracle twins. First you reappear as if from the dead, no worse for wear, and then your sister single-handedly saves you from death a second time.”

  I nod, not knowing what to say. The heat is intense. I wish I’d brought my sunhat.

  “Where were you for those five years? You must ­remember something,” another reporter chimes in.

  I feel as though ice water has just been intravenously dumped into my veins, rendering me mute with shock. I shake my head, knowing I must look like the biggest idiot on Earth.

  Thankfully, Jasmine steps forward. “My sister has ­always said she doesn’t remember what ­happened ­during the years she was missing. She’s told the ­police, her ­doctors, and us, her family, that she doesn’t ­remember. And I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary when my sister was attacked by Mr. Linnekar. Anyone would defend their family members, their loved ones, in the same way. And I don’t remember much about what happened … just like my sister doesn’t remember her ordeal. I guess adrenaline took over and allowed me to do what I needed to in order to save her and myself. Like people who can lift cars when there’s been a bad accident with someone they love.” She smiles widely. Several cameras snap photos. The reporters are eating this up like chocolate cake. I inwardly sigh with relief, glad to be off the hook.

  “What about the CCT insignia? Do you have any ­affiliation with them?”

  “I’m sixteen years old. Do you really think I’d be a terrorist?” Jasmine snaps. She’s losing her cool.

  “Less than twenty years ago, thousands of teens joined terrorist armies in Syria, Pakistan, and other places in the Middle East,” one of the reporters shouts out. “And how do we know you didn’t tamper with the security cameras in order to make sure there was no evidence of you leaving the CCT marking on the sidewalk?”

  Jasmine’s eyes narrow. “Because they are at the top of posts thirty feet above the ground, and I’d just been nearly strangled to death. I couldn’t even walk. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon …”

  Mr. Khan steps forward and places his hand ­firmly on Jasmine’s arm. “Toronto Police at 51 Division ­assure us that they’ve got forensic evidence from the scene that points to at least one other person being there shortly after Jasmine and I left in the ­ambulance. At no time have either of us been suspected of ­leaving that insignia. I’d recommend you direct your ­questions with regard to that part of the investigation to the ­police,” he says.

  And that’s when I notice a long black car trying to pull into the semicircular drive in front of our ­apartment building. Sunlight casts a reflection over shiny paint that shimmers like water. The windows are darkly tinted. There aren’t many cars on the streets these days, let alone luxury cars like this one.

  Mr. Khan has noticed it as well. He stops ­speaking, his brows drawing together into a scowl. Curious ­murmurs spread through the crowd of reporters. They part like water as the car moves slowly up the drive toward us.

  “What the…?” Jasmine says.

  The car comes to a complete stop almost directly in front of us. Mom tenses beside me.

  A uniformed driver gets out, walks around to the rear of the car, and opens one of the back doors. A set of tanned, toned legs appears. There’s an audible hush as Sandra Smith steps out, smooths down the front of her white dress, and smiles widely at Jasmine.

  “I’ve been waiting for this moment since I saw the video the other night,” she says, moving forward and extending her hand to my sister. Her nails are painted silver and sparkle in the sun. She does a quarter turn and smiles toward the cameras as she grasps Jasmine’s hand, giving it exactly three firm pumps.

  To say Jasmine’s return shake showed a lack of ­enthusiasm would be an understatement. I want to tell my sister to be careful, that she needs to hide her ­emotions. After all, Mayor Smith is a very powerful woman. And this entire exchange is being caught on video.

  “This young woman represents the kind of ­fighting spirit Toronto, and indeed the nation, needs. She shows fearlessness and exercised the right to defend herself, despite the fact that in doing so she needed to make a difficult and perhaps unpopular decision.”

  The media continues to snap photos as Smith speaks. I watch Mr. Khan’s expression darken, and Jasmine ­begins to look nervous as well as angry. Mom is ­beaming away, oblivious. I’m watching Smith’s every move. Where exactly is she going with this?

  “And if I may say so myself, Jasmine certainly inspired me to add another few pounds and an extra repetition or ten to my strength-training regimen last evening.” Smith flexes a well-toned bicep, resulting in a chorus of laughter from the reporters.

  Then her face grows serious. She pauses, regarding the crowd of media silently, and places her hand on Jasmine’s arm. I hold my breath in case my sister, who’s now as tense as a tightly wound spring and sporting a look as dark as storm clouds, hauls off and
hits her.

  “These are uncertain, dangerous times. The events of the last few weeks in New York, Tokyo, and London ­demonstrate the need for constant vigilance. Climate change is an unfortunate reality, and our world has passed the tipping point. None of us wants to see the suffering and misery happening in places like India, South Africa, and Australia. We may have friends and family abroad. But there is nothing we can do. The ­situation is beyond salvageable. England closed her borders several years ago, knowing that there weren’t enough resources to sustain the hordes of ­asylum seekers from Northern Africa and the Mediterranean ­regions. It’s been a godsend having commercial flights stopped in terms of preventing new climate-change refugees from coming into Canada, but now we need to find ways to strongly ­discourage new immigration to Toronto and Montreal. Vigilance is required on all our waterways. We need to conserve what we have for those who are already here. And weed out those amongst us who might be threats to our safety and security.”

  There are murmurs that mostly sound like ­agreement from all around us.

  “The kidnappings in Toronto have ceased for now, and thankfully there has not been a bombing for ­nearly a year. However, we can be assured that this will merely be the calm before the storm if we do not stay one step ahead of the terrorists. Our youth, particularly those who are ­disaffected, are vulnerable to ­recruitment by ­organizations such as the CCT. As such, I feel it is ­imperative that they have representation in ­leading Toronto, in helping to make this city the safest ­metropolis on the planet. And I can think of no one more suitable to lead our city’s new youth advisory than Jasmine Guzman.”

  JASMINE

  Bitch.

  I plaster on a smile for the cameras clicking every few seconds in front of my face like a tap dancer on crack. I’d rather pull out every one of my fingernails with my teeth than join her youth committee. I don’t want to join ­anything associated with her. She’s dangerous. I can smell it like a rabbit smells a wolf.

  And that’s because there’s a lot more to this than meets the eye. I can read Smith’s thoughts, though fuzzily, and there’s a sinister side to her plan. She wants me to distract from the bad news, to stir up patriotic feelings, to get people to agree to her crazy plans about closing off Toronto to new residents and imposing the death ­penalty for terrorists, especially members of the CCT.

  She holds up her hand, palm forward, in that ­annoying way she has. “I’d like to invite Jasmine and Mr. Khan, her advisor, to join me at City Hall right now for a lunch to discuss next steps. I’d like to see our youth, since they are our future, involved as soon as possible.”

  I glance over at Mr. Khan and raise an eyebrow. What about Jade? From the look on my sister’s face, she’s thinking the same thing.

  The questions burst forth like a tidal wave. I’m ­grateful that most of them are directed at Mayor Smith.

  “What powers will this youth advisory have? Will you appoint all the members? Can you ensure a diverse cross-section of Toronto’s youth will be represented?”

  “Why do you think the kidnappings and killings have stopped so suddenly? What do you attribute this to?”

  “Can you share with us any information you have ­regarding the identity or whereabouts of any of the CCT members? Is there a reason so few of them have been brought to justice?”

  Smith nods in the direction of each question. “Let me just say,” she begins, “that your questions are ones I’ve asked myself. First, I think the diligence of our new night work crews and the extra eyes they provide have helped to quell the activities of the CCT for now. For that, I commend the men and women who are giving back in the program. Let me just remind everyone that the CCT is a highly structured, complex organization. It is also difficult to ID people who’ve blown themselves into small bits. Though it can be and has been done, we often have no suspects and would need the DNA of close relatives to make a match. I don’t want to give away any classified information, but we suspect there are different levels or cells within the organization that we have yet to identify. Those individuals who are chosen, or who volunteer to embark on these heinous suicide missions seem to have been absent from ­society for a prolonged period. We believe individuals in the other cells are given the task of banking, shopping, et cetera, to enable this to happen. In fact, we can’t be sure that some of those Torontonians who have been reported as missing aren’t actually CCT recruits.”

  “How do we know that Jade Guzman, the young woman who disappeared from society for five years, isn’t actually involved with the CCT?” one of the ­reporters shouts.

  “Because she was ten at the time she was abducted, stupid,” I snap, my face turning ember red. My hands are shaking from the adrenaline surging through my body, so I clench them into tight fists at my side as I turn to Mayor Smith. “Thanks so much for the offer. Tempting, but I’m going to have to pass. Really busy with my schoolwork this year. You know, grade ­eleven and everything, and I’ve just missed two weeks of ­classes because of my injuries. I’m sure the committee will be great.”

  Smith’s impossibly white smile becomes even ­brighter in the intense sun. She leans over and whispers into my ear.

  “Lola told me all about you and what you and your sister are. If you don’t want to put your family, your loved ones, and all your little Seer classmates in immense danger, you’ll join me. I need you, and believe me, you need me much more than you realize.”

  What she means by immense danger is that my family, Mr. Khan, anyone I love and care about, will ­disappear. Disappear and be killed. Her thought ­ricochets inside my head like a gunshot. Does she realize I’m reading her mind?

  She straightens and smiles. “What do you think of that offer, Jasmine?” she says, more to the reporters than to me.

  For a moment I can’t speak. I wish I could talk to Mr. Khan privately, to tell him what just happened, what was just said to me, but know there isn’t time. I get the feeling that Smith, like a cobra, is ready to strike if I don’t do what she wants here and now. Losing face in front of all this media is not something she’ll allow. I don’t need to read her mind to know that much.

  My legs feel like jelly. I stare out at the sea of ­reporters. “Um … Ms. Smith has just made me a very kind offer that will ensure the Youth Advisory Committee does not negatively impact my studies. As such, I am happy to join her in making Toronto a safe and ­environmentally sustainable city now and in the future.”

  A beaming Smith grabs my hand and raises it in the air with hers, putting just enough pressure on my skin that I feel a ring on her hand dig into my flesh. It’s a subtle reminder of her power over me and her ability to inflict pain.

  “We’ll need to wrap up now,” she says apologetically. “I need to get these two to my office.”

  Smith leans over to me. “Now get your ass into that car,” she hisses. “And smile the whole time you’re doing so.”

  Suddenly, I realize why she doesn’t want Jade with me. She knows Seers are stronger together than apart.

  JADE

  I watch Sandra Smith’s car slide onto the road and pull away, taking Jasmine and Mr. Khan with it. I am ­paralyzed, trying to absorb what just happened. The ­reporters ­scatter like a swarm of mosquitoes bombed with insecticide. I guess they got their story and are now in a mad dash to be the first to get it edited and out there. Already loads of live feeds will be circulating throughout the city, and maybe even nationally.

  “Well, this is thrilling,” Mom says, her dark eyes ­glinting with excitement as we walk back into the ­building. A few residents are gathered on the sofas. I bite my lip to keep from saying something I shouldn’t.

  “Your daughter’s quite the star,” Mrs. Ford says, ­glancing up from her video watch. She’s poured her large frame into a yellow sundress that’s about three sizes too small, which makes her breasts pop out of the top like two bald men’s heads. Patches of dark sweat stain he
r underarms, turning the fabric of the dress in that area from a sunny yellow into a colour closer to that of an alcoholic’s urine. “The mayor’s security person wouldn’t let us out the door, but I watched the whole thing from in here and could catch what was being said on live feed.” She taps her phone and grins. “Who knows? Maybe Jasmine will be mayor someday herself.”

  “We’re very proud of her,” Mom replies with a smile.

  Mrs. Ford turns to me. “Sorry the mayor didn’t pay you more attention. That couldn’t have been easy.”

  “It was fine,” I reply through gritted teeth.

  “Did you know that Jasmine risked her life last year trying to save someone?” Mom says, talking loud enough that not only Mrs. Ford will be able to hear. “My best friend, Lola … you probably remember it being all over the media. She was killed in a fire at one of Mayor Smith’s homes. Well, wasn’t it Jasmine who ran into the house to try to save Lola, just when ­everyone else was running out? Dios, I don’t know how my girl ended up being so brave.”

  “No one was in there when the fire started,” I ­interject. “Remember? So no one was running out.” Except Mina, I think. I’d never say that out loud, though. Sandra Smith made sure the entire incident was reported as an accident.

  Mom shoots me a sideways glance. “I’m very proud of both my girls. Jade here is the smart one. Always the top in her class.”

  “That’s nice,” Mrs. Ford replies. “Well done, love.” She might as well be describing a beige piece of furniture, her enthusiasm is that lacking.

  I force a smile onto my face. Really, I shouldn’t be wasting time standing around here talking to Mrs. Ford. Though I’m confused and more than a little hurt and annoyed that Jasmine, and especially Mr. Khan, didn’t even say goodbye, let alone ask me to join them, I realize this media attention could be very bad for Beaconsfield and the Seers. They’re going to want to uncover every juicy detail of Smith’s new darling. I need to let the others know, especially Ms. Samson and the rest of the Protectors.