Solomon's Ring

by Mary Jennifer Payne

  “I’m Gabriel, Raphael’s brother.” The boy with the floppy hair steps forward and holds out his hand. He smiles widely at me.

  I raise an eyebrow and shake his hand. Is Gabriel an angel as well? I’m guessing he must be some sort of supernatural being. I look over at Raphael. He’s taken a seat on one of the stools with the others, where he’s ­staring intently at the floor as though something ­fascinating is stuck there.

  “We’ve brought you here tonight because Smith’s ­recent decision to execute Moore and to falsely identify him as a member of our organization means we need to move faster. As such, we felt that it would be very ­beneficial for you to be aware not only of our plans, but also of some of the things Smith’s got going on behind the scenes. The position you’re in is unique. You could help us greatly in our quest.”

  I’m confused. Why is Raphael here, amongst ­terrorists who bomb and kill innocent people? What kind of an angel supports murder? I look over at his brother. I ­assume Gabriel, with his floppy hair and puppy dog smile, is also an angel. Regardless, Noni has piqued my interest.

  “Okay,” I say. “But for the record, I am disgusted by terrorism, and you’re terrorists. You’ve bombed and killed people in this city and in other cities around the world. People just going about their business, even ­children. In fact, I just met a little girl who is ­permanently scarred from the bombing at Queen Station, so I have no idea what makes you think I’m going to want to help you. And if Moore wasn’t a member of the CCT, then who exactly was he working for?” I sit back and cross my arms over my chest.

  Noni nods. “You should be skeptical, Jasmine,” she says. “This is a world where questioning everything and everyone is necessary for survival. You’re right. Moore was working for someone. Well, working might not be the operative word. Perhaps associated with … but it wasn’t us. It was Sandra Smith.”

  We’re nowhere near Toronto, or any urban area as far as I can tell. I’m guessing we’re somewhere very north of the city. The stars glitter like chips of ice, and the trees are tall, towering over us like giants. The ones that have ­managed to remain somewhat healthy ­despite the drought ­provide us with a leafy canopy, while others sway unsteadily in the night breeze, their barren ­branches creaking arthritically. It’s weird that this ­abandoned industrial building is even here in this forest clearing, but maybe it was used for some kind of agricultural or lumber production at one time. Whatever its ­original use, it’s pretty evident, as we move away from the ­massive concrete walls and ­twisted metal that it’s been abandoned for decades, if not longer.

  We move silently through the forest with Harry at the front. We’re using only the faint glow from our video watches to illuminate our path. There’s six of us ­altogether: Harry, me, Raphael, Noni, Gabriel, and ­another woman named Sarah who is heavier-set but moves with the grace and fluidity of a panther. The path is fairly well worn, which helps because I can only see about two millimetres in front of my face. All I can make out are Noni’s shoulders and the back of her head, her tightly curled hair ­fanning out like an ­enormous halo. Before leaving, we were given metal bars and an axe. Harry’s holding the axe at the front, and both Gabriel and Raphael declined weapons, but the rest of us armed ourselves. I made sure to take the ­longest, slimmest metal pole of the bunch. It’s about three hand-lengths shorter than my pole and a lot ­heavier, but at least it gives me some sense of comfort. I grip it tightly and scan the forest on either side, though it would be impossible to detect a demon approaching until it was almost on top of us.

  Raphael’s directly behind Harry. I can’t see him at all. It’s not clear where we’re going, and it’s also not clear to me whether anyone other than Raphael (and likely Gabriel) knows about the demons.

  A sharp whistle sounds, and Harry drops into a crouch. Everyone else does the same and dims their video watches. I follow their lead, balancing on the balls of my feet, my calf muscles quickly protesting this new position by tightening up and cramping painfully.

  Noni turns to me and leans in close. “We’re nearly there. Harry’s whistle is the signal for our approach. If it’s safe for us to proceed, one of our people will let us know.” Her breath is hot on my ear, making me shiver. She smells of vanilla and freshly washed clothes.

  I place my right hand on the ground in front of me to help steady me, the dry grass stabbing into the fleshy pads of my fingers.

  After a few minutes, a low whistle that sounds like a bird call echoes, and we begin to inch forward, hunched and lower to the ground than before.

  The trees ahead thin, and light shines into the sky in the near distance beyond them. It’s now easy to ­follow Harry’s lead, as he’s fully silhouetted by the light. He dives onto his belly and begins to crawl, using his elbows to propel him, toward the border between the last of the trees and the light.

  We all do the same, and I gasp as I move up beside Raphael to stare out from the trees and down a steep embankment toward the source of the light.

  There’s a clearing below us, an almost perfect circle completely empty of trees. It’s occupied by what looks like a summer camp, the type kids used to get sent to. I count at least eight to ten small cabins and one large one. Thing is, I don’t think kids’ camps were surrounded by tall barbed-wire fences or lit up like a full moon at night. I’m also pretty sure they didn’t have guards, ­especially sunglass-wearing, ­semi-automatic-weapon-toting ones.

  The camp is being guarded by members of Sandra Smith’s night crew.

  I automatically reach out and touch Raphael’s arm, wanting to tell him about Smith’s crew, about the fact that I’m nearly one hundred percent sure they’re ­demonic, that they might be doing her bidding somehow.

  But Raphael jerks his arm away as though he’s just been jolted by about a million volts of electricity and then continues to stare, his eyes cold and emotionless, silently down at the camp. It’s like he’s trying to pretend I don’t exist, and maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can wish me away.

  Once more my face burns with embarrassment, and I’m grateful for the cover of darkness. Thankfully, everyone else’s attention is also firmly fixed on the camp below.

  Something rustles in the long, dry grass and ­bushes just below us, and I freeze, holding my breath and ­gripping the metal pole even tighter.

  A slender, hooded figure emerges. Judging by the ­silhouette of her chest, it’s a woman. She stays low to the ground, letting the overgrown weeds and bushes ­camouflage her until she’s nearly on top of us.

  “It’s safe,” she whispers. “We can go down into the ­detention centre via the east side and then to Cabin Five. That cabin did work duty today, so they’ve been given the night off. None of the guards will bother going inside there for at least a few hours. And we’re short on guards tonight, anyhow. Apparently something ­happened to the work crew that was supposed to join us. Usually they switch them up every couple of evenings, so these guys are beyond fatigued and pretty jittery. I guess they need their fix.”

  Or they need a feeding, I think. If I’m right and the night-crew members are actually demons, a few of them might be getting more than just a little hungry. The ring begins to pulsate again from deep within my pocket. I reach down and place my hand over it. The movement is ­definitely not my imagination, because the rhythmic beating ­coming from the little band of metal reverberates into my palm. What is this thing?

  I’d like to ask Raphael but am not feeling like being publicly rejected and humiliated again. I wish Mr. Khan were here. Even if he’d never heard of a ring that can do this, I know he’d be able to do the research to find out exactly what’s going on with it and where it’s come from.

  JADE

  “Where exactly is your sister, and who is this man?” Mom asks me, cocking her head toward Mr. Jakande. She stands in the doorway, hands on her hips, her dark eyes narrowing. Mr. Jakande just tried to explain that Jasmine is going to
be staying at his house overnight to work on a project with his daughter, Vivienne, who is her assignment partner. He didn’t get very far.

  “He’s Vivienne and Amara’s dad. They’re friends of ours. From Beaconsfield,” I say, shrugging to try to make the situation seem as normal and casual as possible. It doesn’t work.

  “So why is he driving you home alone? Where are these friends of yours? His daughters?” Mom asks.

  I open my mouth but can’t think of an answer. This is going exactly the way I knew it would — very badly.

  She turns to Mr. Jakande. “And what were you ­thinking driving only one of my daughters home in the dark? Why didn’t you call me to ask if it was okay for Jasmine, my daughter, to stay at your house? I have a good idea to call the police right now. You’ve got about thirty seconds to convince me why I shouldn’t.”

  I’ve got to admit, Mom’s right. If I were in her shoes, I’d be pretty suspicious of some grown man — a ­complete stranger at that — driving my teenaged daughter home at night. Mr. Jakande clearly didn’t prepare himself very well for this conversation.

  “Mom, you know how Jasmine is helping the mayor?” I begin. I’m not sure if what I’m about to do is the right thing, but I can’t see any other way to keep her from calling the police at this point. And really, ­having Mom know about Jasmine and I being Seers would make things so much easier. The one thing I’ll never tell her about is Lola’s part in my disappearance. That would break her heart and likely kill her. Literally.

  I look over at Mr. Jakande. He shoots me a warning look. He obviously doesn’t think this is a good idea, and I need to know why. I usually feel a bit like a perverted Peeping Tom when I read people’s minds, but knowing he’s letting me makes me feel better. And because he’s open to it, his thoughts are crystal clear: it’s as though he’s speaking directly to me. He feels that the more Mom knows, the more at risk she’ll be. He fears it may even put her life in danger. Most of all, he doesn’t want her to know about his involvement with the CCT.

  I bite at my lower lip, unsure of what to do.

  “What does your sister helping the mayor have to do with this situation?” Mom asks impatiently.

  “Well, the thing is …” My mind races. Improvisation has never been one of my strengths. “She’s ­actually there tonight. At City Hall. There’s an emergency meeting about a refugee boat from Turkey or Greece or ­somewhere like that … and it’s full of women and children and lots of teens our age that’s made it down the St. Lawrence to Lake Ontario. There are not enough ­resources on the ship, especially water, and, of course, Mayor Smith made that pledge about no more ­immigration into the Toronto area. So now they’re ­trying to decide what to do. Like if they should make the ship turn back. Jasmine suspects the meeting will go for hours and hours. All night.”

  Mom raises an eyebrow. She’s still dubious, but her face falls with sadness. “Those poor people,” she says. “I know my daughter will do the right thing and advocate for them to be let in. We can’t leave them just to die.”

  I feel terrible for lying. It’s an awful story to make up. I’d prefer to tell Mom everything about Beaconsfield, about being Seers, about Raphael and Michael, and the Place-in-Between, but I don’t want to put her in danger.

  Mom’s silence only lasts a few moments. “So why did you lie to me?’ she asks, turning her attention firmly back on Mr. Jakande. Her dark eyes snap with anger, though her voice is remarkably steady. “I get one story from you and another from my daughter. What is the real deal? Tell me before I call the police to come.”

  “Mr. —” I begin, but Mom cuts me off.

  “No, Jade. I want to hear from him.”

  The blood drains from my face. I can only hope that Mr. Jakande can think fast on his feet. Hopefully all that university training prepared him for situations like this.

  “No one, in terms of the public, is supposed to know about this meeting,” he begins. “However, I’m involved with a group that Mayor Smith is well aware of, and ­because we’re also working on some high-level, ­secret projects that will greatly impact local ­government policy, Jasmine felt it was okay to let me know. My daughters aren’t aware of Jasmine’s actual whereabouts tonight. They thought she was just going home earlier than Jade when she was actually being picked up by the mayor’s chauffeur to go to City Hall.” He pauses, letting Mom digest all of this for a moment. I have full respect for how he’s trying to avoid lying to her as much as ­possible, but am not sure Mom’s going to let Jasmine out of her sight overnight without more evidence. Not after losing me for years.

  “Okay,” Mom says. Her voice is slow and deliberate. “I know Jasmine sometimes works on things that need to be kept quiet from the public. I’ll just video message her to make sure she made it there safely. Don’t worry. I won’t let on that I know about the actual reason for the meeting.”

  Before either of us has the chance to protest, Mom speaks into her video watch. Mr. Jakande and I ­exchange worried glances as it lights up and begins ­calling through to Jasmine.

  JASMINE

  Only Noni and I are going down to the camp. The others are staying up at the top of the hill. We ­advance, ­keeping low to the ground and as quiet as we can ­behind the hooded woman. She moves carefully through the areas where the grass and brush are ­longest, slowly descending down the hill toward the high fencing that borders the camp.

  As we get closer to the periphery of the fence, I see a section of it has been cut and then carefully put back together so that the wire is flush. We drop onto our ­bellies again, even though the area is in the shadows ­behind one of the larger cabins and away from the glare of the lights.

  The hooded woman comes closer to me. I can smell her body odour. It’s a strong, cloying smell reminiscent of apple cider vinegar.

  “I’m Eva,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. She’s got an accent. “You’re Jasmine, right? We’ve been hoping to get you here … to show you what’s going on.” She ­pauses. “¿Habla usted español?”

  I shake my head. When we were much younger, both Mom and Dad spoke equal parts Spanish and English to Jade and me. After Dad’s death and then Jade’s ­disappearance, it stopped, though, and now I can barely speak the ­language at the level of a three-year-old.

  “Well, I’ve dreamed about you, about what needs to be done … about what’s going to happen in the near future. You have so much responsibility on your ­shoulders.”

  My heart freezes. Who the hell is this freaky chick?

  “I’m a Seer as well. I arrived here about four months ago. Left Cuba and then made my way up the eastern coast of the United States as a stowaway on various boats. Not ­something I’d recommend.” She lowers her hood, ­revealing a head that is partially bald. The skin of her scalp on one side is raised in ropey scars that remind me of the mountainous regions left behind after ­centuries of earthquakes. There’s also a raised, linear scar along her cheekbone on the same side of her face. It looks awful. She reads my mind. “Courtesy of a couple of ­assholes who thought I owed them a little something for ­hitching a ride and didn’t expect that I would fight like a ­super-strong Muhammad Ali.”

  I’m grateful that the darkness at least partially hides my shock at seeing her severe scarring. “What is this place?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

  “A detention camp for climate-change refugees. It’s been set up for those of us who risked our lives to make it to the shores of Canada, only to be captured, taken into custody, and immediately shipped here. And make no mistake, it is hell. However, I try to remind ­myself that there are hundreds of thousands of others that didn’t even make it this far. Some are still stuck on ships that no ­longer have enough food and water for ­everyone … and then there were those who didn’t make it at all.” She pauses. “Survivors from some of the ships have told ­stories about passengers who became sick or lost their minds due to fear, as well as
the elderly and disabled … all being thrown overboard in the dead of night by crew members worried about disease and ­discord. They’d strip them naked and then gag them with their own clothes in order to muffle the screams.”

  I stare at the razor wire running along the top of the high fence, then back at Eva. Just the thought of people being tossed overboard into the dark waters as if they were nothing more than excess baggage makes my stomach turn. “How can people just be put in here? In this camp? I mean, what have they done?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

  “That’s just it. We didn’t do anything except have the misfortune of being born in countries that were amongst the first to be completely decimated by climate change. I would never have left Cuba, but my beautiful island home is sinking and sinking fast due to the rising sea levels. Not only that, but the ferocious hurricanes never stop now. One hits right after another. The country couldn’t even catch its breath. There was no choice for many of us but to flee and try to make it somewhere that hadn’t hit the tipping point. The ­alternative was simply to stay and die.”

  Noni slides over to us. “A few night ago we gave video watches to several of the prisoners in Cabin Five. They’ve been documenting their experiences as much as they can since that time. We’re going to retrieve the footage and make sure it gets out to the general public.” She nods toward the fence. “We need to get in there. It’s not safe to be out here longer than we need to be.”

  “Just one thing before we go in,” I say. “Why hasn’t everyone just escaped through this cut in the fence?”

  “It took me over three weeks to do that,” Eva says. There’s more than a hint of pride in her voice. “The guards are pretty vigilant, so I could only get tiny bits done at a time. They’re also armed with ­semi-automatic weapons. Now that it’s complete, we need to find a way to safely get as many people as possible through it. Thing is, no one knows what might happen to those who don’t make it through. That’s the predicament we’re in. If we just take a few people out at a time, the guards will notice when they do their count the next morning. There might be severe repercussions for the ­prisoners who remain. And we can’t chance that.” She pauses. “Alternatively, if we try to make a massive break for it, there’s no way everyone will get out, the guards will ­discover the cuts in the fence immediately, and who knows what that will mean for those who don’t make it through to the other side.”