Solomon's Ring

by Mary Jennifer Payne

  “They tried. I think they were both so emotional ­because of Isabelle. She didn’t die immediately … so the demon got away.”

  I look over at the mat. Amara and Vivienne are sparring with their poles, each careful not to hit the other with full force, since that could result in a fatal blow. Perspiration runs down their faces in rivers. I don’t need to even watch them to know I messed up big time today. I’m lucky Ms. Samson didn’t come in to watch like she often does. I’d be in detention training for a month if she had seen my pathetic display.

  I lean back against the bleacher. I’m angry. Angry for Isabelle, who didn’t deserve to die that way, ­especially after her years of service to others. It’s stupid. There are people dying all over the world right now in ­catastrophic floods, hurricanes, and droughts. Countries that never used to eat dog and cat, like Australia, have been ­rounding up pets for consumption for the last few years. We ­haven’t come to that here yet, but pigeon and squirrel are the only affordable meats at the moment.

  “How’s Jasmine? Is she coming back soon?” Cassandra asks. I can detect the hesitation in her voice. Try as I might to hide it, she knows how angry I still am.

  “She’s fine now. The doctors don’t think there’s going to be any lasting damage,” I reply, trying to keep my voice as level as possible. “Which is lucky, considering she could be dead. Let’s face it, I could be dead too. And you. Thanks to the stupid move we made going to the beach that day.”

  Cassandra sighs. “I get it, Jade. Believe me, everyone here has already taken a strip off me, so you doing the same isn’t going to make a fraction of a difference.”

  Amara flips Vivienne onto her back, pins her to the mat, and then raises her fist in triumph, a wide smile spreading across her face.

  “Beautiful!” Mrs. Jackson says, jumping out of her seat. She turns around. “Cassandra and Jade, you’re up next.”

  I glare at Mrs. Jackson, hoping she’ll somehow sponta­neously combust as I slowly walk back onto the mat.

  JASMINE

  “Our first news conference will be on Wednesday ­evening, as we want to ensure that we get across the ­message that the Toronto Youth Committee will not interfere with studies for those involved,” Smith is ­saying to me as we approach the car. Her heels click along the sidewalk in front of City Hall. The sound is annoying. Everything about her is ­annoying. Everything is about appearance. This woman is the ­perfect example of smoke and mirrors. “The car will pick you up at six thirty p.m. sharp. It will pick up Jamil — Mr. Khan to you — just before that.”

  The driver opens the back door of the car for us. “There’s water in the back if you want it, miss,” he says. Though he shows little emotion, his brown eyes are kind, the skin around them deeply grooved, an indication that he’s spent a good part of his life smiling deeply. I wonder how he ended up with the very shitty luck to be working as Mayor Smith’s personal chauffeur.

  “What about Jade?” I ask, turning back to Smith. “Why is she not a part of this?”

  Smith, who is in the middle of slathering her lips with a shiny gloss, raises one well-manicured eyebrow at me. “Who said she isn’t? You’re going to recruit her for the committee, of course. However, we don’t want to raise questions by including loads of identical ­f­emale twins. With your other little Seer friends, you’ll need to be ­selective in terms of who you invite. Like I said ­earlier, you’re the one who has shown exceptional ­bravery over and over. Your sister has not risked her life to save ­another. Plus she becomes a gibbering idiot as soon as a camera is pointed in her direction.”

  “It’s not like she wouldn’t risk her life for someone,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest. I hate not having my pole with me; it feels unnatural, like a chain smoker without a cigarette.

  “Simply put, the reasons I mentioned earlier are why you were chosen. This first phase of the committee will focus on outreach work — things like taking food to the elderly, helping plant drought-resistant ­community ­gardens in inner-city neighbourhoods, talking up the infrastructure improvements the night workers are making. All good things.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re the boss,” I say, getting into my side of the car. Mr. Khan’s already in the other side, buckling his seatbelt and reaching for a bottle of water.

  Smith grabs me by the arm; her fingers pinch into my flesh. I flex to show her it’s a bad move. She squeezes harder in response and leans in close to me. Her breath is hot on my ear, and I can smell the minty scent of her newly applied gloss.

  “Remember, you need to be one hundred ­percent when you’re doing this. If you show the public that you don’t believe in this, or if your ­flippant sarcasm slips through, I’ll have you up for the ­manslaughter of Jamie Linnekar before you can blink an eye.” She lets go of my arm and smiles. “See you on Wednesday.”

  I slide onto the seat as the driver closes the door ­behind me.

  As soon as I’m buckled in, I turn to Mr. Khan. “Why didn’t you say anything? You just sat there most of the time like some sort of slug. Like an elective mute.” My face flares with anger. I’m not really that mad at him. It’s the ­situation. But he did choose to just sit there after Smith brought up his sister, not saying a word. And that was cowardly.

  “Not here, Jasmine,” Mr. Khan says, nodding toward the driver. “I know you’re upset, but …”

  “Upset? Me? Not at all. I love being someone’s ­puppet. Pull my strings and I’ll dance. Just watch me go.”

  “Can you please take us to Beaconsfield Secondary?” Mr. Khan says, leaning forward in his seat toward the driver. Drops of condensation fall from the bottle onto his pants, leaving little dark teardrops along the tops of his legs. “At 898 Crossfield Boulevard.”

  “Absolutely, sir,” the driver answers.

  We sit in silence the rest of the ride. I stare out the tinted windows, watching people shopping at small, makeshift stands set up in front of shops. Older people shuffle slowly along, most of them sporting ­oversized sun hats, their paper-thin skin being particularly ­vulnerable to the constant high heat and UV light that climate change has brought. The small selection of fruits and vegetables found in these shops is usually much less expensive than in the supermarkets, but more and more people are complaining that their gardens are being ­raided at night, the suspicion being that a lot of their ­produce is ending up in these stores. I guess that’s ­something the Youth Committee could help with. Maybe some of Smith’s new army of night workers could be put on shifts to patrol neighbourhoods where the raiding is a problem. There’s also been a huge spike in lost and stolen pets, which makes me wonder if some of them are ­ending up on grocery shelves or restaurant menus, also advertised as chicken or rabbit ­instead of dog or cat.

  As soon as we get through the doors of the school, Mr. Khan stops. “You really, really need to get your ­emotions under control,” he says. “How could you think I’d talk to you about any of what’s going on in Mayor Smith’s car, in front of her personal driver, no less? Even if he doesn’t tell her what was said, I’d bet she’s got the car as well as her offices fully wired.” He shakes his head. “I guess that’s why ­first-borns are known for their bravery and not necessarily their grey matter.”

  “W–what?” I stammer. “This is really not what I need after everything that’s happened today.”

  Mr. Khan leans in closer to me. “You don’t need this? Do you realize just how much Lola told this woman about us? Lola betrayed all Seers and Protectors when she gave up Jade to the dark forces. And she didn’t stop there. Mayor Smith knows so many things she shouldn’t. Does she know about the Place-in-Between? About demons? About demons being here with us? God only knows how much Lola told her ­power-hungry little friend before leaving this Earth.” He stops and stares at me, his brown cheeks flushed with emotion. “So, for just this once, can you stop thinking about yourself? Because if you are elegido, th
e Chosen One, we’re in bloody big trouble.”

  “I need my pole,” I say, turning on my heel and ­marching toward the office. I’m going straight to Ms. Samson. How can Mr. Khan speak to me this way? He’s supposed to be my Protector. “FYI, you’re not my ­father,” I spit back over my shoulder. “Or my mother.” It’s a low blow, and I regret the words as soon as they escape my lips. Mr. Khan transitioned from being a female years before I even met him.

  “Good thing, because no child of mine would be ­allowed to act like such a self-righteous brat,” Mr. Khan says. I can hear the hurt in his voice. “And the police have your pole, not me.”

  I enter the office. Desiree looks up from her work. “Jasmine!” she stands up. “How are you?”

  I rush around to her side of the desk to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I need to see Ms. Samson,” I say. “Without him.”

  “You’ll both see me right now, and Mr. Khan is very correct that you need to get a hold of yourself, young lady.”

  My heart jumps into my throat. I don’t even want to turn around. Ms. Samson is slowly making her way down the short hall from her office, leaning heavily on her walking stick. She nods toward Mr. Khan, her large silver earrings glinting in the sunlight streaming into the room from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the main office area.

  “You forgot to stop recording, Jamil,” she says, ­pointing at her wrist. “A bit careless, but perhaps it’s good, as I’ve been able to follow everything, ­including the conversation you two just had. And I’d expect your emotions got the better of you after Sandra Smith ­mentioned your sister. She hits low and hard, that one does.” She motions us to follow her down the hall.

  Once we’re inside Ms. Samson’s office, she closes the door and walks behind her desk. Dark, bruise-like ­circles frame her eyes. She looks beyond tired and seems uncomfortable lowering herself onto the leather chair.

  “Other than two of our Seers being attacked the other night when their dog was let out to relieve itself, there has been virtually no demon activity noted. Nothing. No disappearances, no bodies found. Considering many of these entities would be vampiric, this is highly unusual.”

  “Whose dog?” I ask.

  “Fiona and Jennifer’s. Isabelle. Poor thing. I’d like to say she didn’t know what hit her, but she did. Suffered quite some time after the initial attack while the girls tried to kill the demon. Fiona had to put her out of her misery.” She shakes her head. “The agony of the world is ­increasing sharply. I can feel it in these old bones. They don’t stop screaming in pain even when I sleep … if I sleep.”

  I feel sick. Isabelle was a beautiful, elderly chocolate Lab that wouldn’t hurt a soul.

  “What could be happening with the demons? Has the rift closed?” Mr. Khan asks.

  “Why are there no demons during the day?” I ask. “When we were in the Place-in-Between, there were loads around all the time. Night and day.”

  “I wish I had all the answers. We just don’t know. It’s not like we’ve dealt with anything like this in ­modern times. In the last century there were some spots of ­demonic activity and horrific experiments done on twins, some of whom were Seers, by the Nazi regime during the Second World War, but ­nothing worth ­noting happened in Toronto. I’m not sure why the ­demonic activity is so prevalent here and now. Perhaps because we’re relatively unscathed from ­climate change? Perhaps because your sister came back here from the ­Place-in-Between?” She sits back and curls her fingers around the top of her ­walking stick. The movement causes her swollen ­knuckles to bulge out like ­roasted chestnuts. “You’re very lucky to have Jade back. My sister and I were so close. We were like panthers when ­confronting demons back home … black, fast, and deadly, we were.” She laughs, but her laughter is tinged with a deep sadness.

  I think about what Smith said today and want to ask Ms. Samson about her sister, but I don’t dare. After all, I know how it feels to have a tragedy befall your twin, and how awful it is when people keep bringing it up.

  “My sister, Grace, is in a home,” Ms. Samson says, her chin quivering ever so slightly. “She was knocked down by a car filled with a group of very intoxicated ­sixteen-year-olds who were far too young and too ­stupid to be given a license to drive. She suffered immense brain damage and was left catatonic due to the injuries. That was over twenty years ago.”

  I stare down at my hands, at my chipped, violet-­varnished nails. She just read my mind, but I didn’t ­expect an answer, didn’t want her to go back to that ­painful event, because I know when you’ve lost your twin, being reminded of that fact is like ripping a ­Band-Aid off a wound that isn’t fully healed.

  She clears her throat. “I do think we need to take Sandra Smith’s threats very seriously. Jasmine, you have to play along with this, but keep trying to break into her thoughts and find out what you can when you’re around her. Listen in on any conversations you can. Smith will be guarded. She knows what you can do. What’s not clear is whether she knows about the demons or the ­Place-in-Between. Likely she just knows about Obeah from Lola. I have a feeling there’s a lot more happening here than meets the eye.”

  “Obeah?” I ask.

  “It’s complex,” Ms. Samson says. “Followers of Obeah believe that spells for healing, wealth, and much more can be performed by certain people … shamans of a sort. Likely that is what Lola thought she was doing when she gave up Jade in return for Femi’s healing. I can’t imagine she’d have knowingly condemned her to live eternally without a soul in the Place-in-Between.”

  “There’s nothing I wouldn’t put past her,” I say through gritted teeth.

  Ms. Samson shakes her head. “Leave your anger, Jasmine. It will only eat you up from the inside out. We need you to be wise, to reflect. Everything said to you or that you see must be meditated on. Now, I need you to get to class. You and all the Seers have a great deal to learn.”

  “Before I go, can I ask you something?” I say, biting my lip nervously. I’m not sure I want the answer to this quest­ion but feel the need to ask. “The demon told me I was elegido. Chosen. Do you know what that might mean?”

  Ms. Samson’s eyes widen for a moment, and she quickly looks over at Mr. Khan, then down at her hands. She’s clutching the top of her walking stick so tightly that her thin skin shines like plastic wrap.

  “In time, you will find out. But you’re not ready yet. However, it is the very reason we need you to be more careful and to begin to work on becoming wiser, less ­impetuous. You mustn’t take the risks you have been taking. The one thing I can tell you is that it’s absolutely ­essential you stay alive.”

  JADE

  It’s been three weeks since the Youth Action Committee was created, and somehow Lily, Vivienne, and I all got roped — I mean recruited — by Jasmine. We joke that it’s because we’re all ­second-borns and ­therefore the brains of the ­committee, but it’s ­likely ­because we’re not stubborn and ­impulsive, like so many first-borns. We’re not the only ones in the ­committee; in fact, there’s a ­waiting list of over a ­hundred ­fifteen-to-eighteen-year-olds who’ve ­expressed ­interest in joining. At the moment Mayor Smith’s capped us at thirty, which is good because it can be really hard ­coming to a consensus about things. Right now we’re ­focused on helping those who can’t help themselves and ­basically talking up the need for all Torontonians to cut back on water use by showering every second day and trying to eat foods that don’t need to be boiled or mixed with water, which means a huge decrease in grains in people’s diets, among other things. It seems to be going well, and Jasmine’s also asked Mayor Smith if some of the night crew can be out on ­patrol to help protect people’s private gardens from raids.

  “I can’t believe I’m up at this hour on a Saturday ­morning, let alone at a grocery store,” Lily sighs, ­pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. “It’s not even eight.”

 
“It’s that or delivering this stuff in over-forty-degree heat in a few hours. I’m more inclined to take a nap with my time later,” I say, picking up some fruit bars.

  Vivienne grabs a pack of the bars and turns it over to read the ingredients. “Seriously? Grasshopper protein powder?” She wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Desiccated apricots and powdered grasshopper? Ugh.”

  We’re buying food to take to elderly residents ­living in the condos that line the waterfront. Many of the buildings stop running their elevators for hours a day, ­rendering Torontonians with any kind of mobility or health issues virtual prisoners in their homes. Even though keys were supposed to be given to any ­resident needing an elevator because of health or ­mobility issues, in ­practice it hasn’t always happened, so the Youth Action Committee created a site where anyone ­needing ­grocery deliveries could sign up, and we’d deliver them. Hundreds of people signed up. It’s not really ­surprising, considering nearly all of the ­buildings are over twenty storeys high. For us Seers on the committee, it’s a great way to get in extra training, with all the stairs.

  “It’s not that bad. You can’t really taste it,” I say, ­shrugging. “Not everyone has generators when the power cuts happen. That means having meat or dairy in the fridge is too chancy. If you can even afford it in the first place.”

  Vivienne and Amara live with their parents in Rosedale, an expensive area of the city, and they have this massive generator that runs on propane and kicks in when the power cuts last for more than a couple of hours.

  “Jade,” Lily whispers, giving me a look that lets me know she thinks my comment was completely ­unnecessary.

  “Believe me, I’d trade in our generator to have my grandparents alive and my friends not left behind. My country has been destroyed by climate change and war. We were once the Rainbow Nation. If my father wasn’t a diplomat, we wouldn’t have been on that plane. We’d be in South Africa and likely dead, or on a boat trying to find refuge with everyone else,” Vivienne says. Her voice shakes. “You haven’t got a clue what it’s like to be a ­climate-change refugee, Jade.”