Pandora's Key

by Nancy Richardson Fischer

  Dr. Aali closed Malledy’s file. “You are clearly a thoughtful young man. I’m going to be straight with you because knowing what to expect will make this process easier. Your chorea will lead to weakened muscles until you’ll be unable to walk, talk, or swallow. At some point, the disease will attack your brain causing hallucinations, delusions, and violent outbursts.”

  Dr. Aali took off his glasses and folded them. “Malledy, you and your mother will need to prepare for the latter stages of this disease because you’ll require full-time care. There are also groups that can provide counseling and I’ll prescribe drugs to ease the process.”

  Ease the process—he means drugs to help me die. For a split-second Malledy imagined swinging his right fist and connecting with Dr. Aali’s stubby nose, watching the blood splatter across the exam room’s bright walls. This isn’t a violent outburst. This is a normal reaction to a horrific death sentence.

  “I don’t want to take any more drugs until I need them,” Malledy said with forced calm, trying to ignore the fact that Juliette was crying. “Can we increase the dosage of Paroxetine?” The doctor nodded.

  Kneeling beside Juliette’s chair, Malledy said gently, “It’s okay—it was a long shot. We’ll get through this together.” Don’t make this any worse. Please stop crying.

  Malledy stood and reached out to shake Dr. Aali’s hand, making sure his own grip was firm. “Thank you for your time,” he said, his throat tight with emotion.

  “I’m honored, young man. Now, I’d like to put you on a specific diet. Sometimes eliminating certain food groups can slow the course of the disease. We can monitor you—”

  “We’ll be going home now,” Juliette interrupted, wiping her tears and squaring her shoulders, once again all Archivist.

  “No,” Malledy said. “I want to stay in town and be treated as an out-patient by Dr. Aali. For once I’m going to choose how I live…and how I die.

  Chapter Four

  Evangeline and her best friend, Melia, walked down a tree-lined sidewalk. Bare branches covered with buds still hid tender leaves from the crisp spring air. Evangeline wore her usual school outfit—an oversized sweatshirt, loose Levis, and black Adidas with white stripes. No sense advertising the fact that I have no curves, right? Melia, on the other hand, was wearing a jean skirt, tight cashmere sweater that accentuated her 36C’s, and black leather knee-high boots.

  They passed Evangeline’s favorite house—a light-green cottage with pale-blue trim around the windows. The white fence surrounding the cottage was made from wooden slats in all widths and heights that looked like crooked teeth. Evangeline had always assumed an artist lived there because the mailbox was hand-painted. Last year the occupant had depicted Mount Hood, Mount Adams, and Mount Saint Helens on the dented metal. It was a view only the rich people who lived high in the hills of Portland could afford. A few months ago the scene on the mailbox changed. Now it depicted a dense forest of emerald-green ferns and an aquamarine waterfall cascading onto shiny stones.

  Evangeline paused to look at the scene on the mailbox—it seemed three-dimensional and so real she could actually see mist rising from the water tumbling over the edge of the rocks. And she could hear the sound of the rushing water pounding the receiving stones. Evangeline looked up at the sky—blue with fluffy clouds.

  “E, what’re you looking at?” Melia asked.

  “Um…I think I hear rain or something,” Evangeline said. She heard it again—a gurgling gush—and looked down. The toe of her sneaker was wet. Water-wet. Evangeline brushed her fingers over the waterfall, wondering if the clear finish the artist had used was dripping, but all she felt was dry paint.

  “It’s a sunny day! Quit daydreaming—we’re gonna miss the bus.”

  “Sorry.”

  The girls moved past an old brick clock tower connected to a crumbling rectangular building. The clock chimes began to play a song Evangeline knew she’d heard before, but couldn’t quite recall.

  “So,” Melia teased, “what about Raphe?”

  “We’re just friends,” Evangeline said for the millionth time. Melia had boyfriends on the brain. Evangeline was sixteen and had never been kissed because who’d want to kiss some big-footed giraffe? There were only a few boys in her class tall enough to reach her lips—she was already five-foot-ten and still growing. Her best guy friend, Raphe, always said she’d grow into herself, but she knew he was just being nice.

  Raphe’s awkward days were long past. He was almost six feet tall with amber-colored eyes framed by dark eyelashes and an olive complexion that flattered his dirty-blonde hair and dimples. Raphe wasn’t in any clique or on a sports team, but everyone liked him anyway because he was simply cool. Evangeline had a secret crush on Raphe that she hadn’t told Melia about because she knew, without a doubt, that Raphe wouldn’t be interested. Plus, there were very few people Evangeline wasn’t shy around and Raphe was one of them. Why make a friendship I cherish awkward by sharing my feelings?

  “Just friends,” Evangeline repeated.

  “Un-huh.” Melia shrugged, flipping her shiny dark-brown hair over one shoulder. Evangeline noticed her friend was toying with the silver bracelet she always wore now, the one with an oversized ruby in its center—probably made of plastic. At the core of the dark-pink stone were thin veins of purple in the shape of a starburst. Melia’s boyfriend, Tristin, had given it to her when they’d gone to the spring formal and she never took it off, even though the silver was leaving greenish tarnish marks on her wrist. “Well, I’m totally into Tristin—we’re not just friends.” Melia grinned like the cat that’d swallowed the canary.

  “Understandable,” Evangeline said, kicking a fallen branch off the sidewalk. Tristin Quin was a transfer kid from the Midwest. He was really good-looking—tall, wavy brown hair, and gorgeous hazel eyes. He hung out with the lacrosse jocks, fascinated with the sport (even though he didn’t know how to play), and he was really popular. He’d needed tutoring in math and Melia was a math whiz, so Mrs. Cranmar had asked her to tutor the kid. One thing had led to another. Melia said Tristin told her it was a turn-on that she was so smart. And it was obvious why her best friend liked Tristin. Who wouldn’t?

  Evangeline was the first to admit that she was more than a little jealous. Melia was super-cute with all the right curves. Boys loved her and although part of that was because she was a huge flirt, most of it was because she was pretty, funny, and smart. Evangeline and Melia had known each other since they were little kids; sometimes Evangeline wondered why Melia had ever stayed her best friend once they got older and Melia became so popular.

  “Hey!” Tristin called. Carrying a lacrosse stick one of his buddies had loaned him so he could learn the game, he loped across the street, and casually draped his arm around Melia’s waist, hand sliding into her jeans pocket. The trio continued to walk toward the bus that would take them to Jefferson High School.

  “It’s E’s sixteenth birthday,” Melia told Tristin.

  “Sweet—what’d you get from your folks?”

  “It’s just me and my mom,” Evangeline said. Tristin raised an eyebrow. Evangeline’s words began to tumble out before she could stop them because that’s what happened when you were bashful and you held all your words in—sometimes they just escaped in a messy, embarrassing jumble: “My mom got pregnant young and the guy split. I never knew him.” She finally paused, her cheeks burning.

  They reached the bus stop and Tristin flicked stones across the street with the lacrosse stick. “Don’t you ever want to try to find your dad?” he asked.

  “She asked her mom about him once,” Melia said, over sharing, “but she doesn’t know where he is.”

  Evangeline looked away. What Melia didn’t know was that her mom had looked so sad that she hadn’t had the heart to ask for any details. Her father’s name was Richard—that’s all she knew or was ever likely to know.

  “Dads are overrated,” Melia said.

  Easy to say when you have one, Evangeline thought
. Not only didn’t she know her father or his family, but there was no one left living in her mother’s line. Her mom’s own mother had been a famous prima ballerina named Cleo who’d died in a car accident when her mom was seventeen. It turned out that Cleo had spent much more than she’d ever made and owned none of the extravagant jewels she wore or mansions she lived in. The expensive boarding school Olivia was attending kicked her out when she couldn’t pay the tuition. The bank took Cleo’s clothes, furs, and cars to pay back some of what she owed them—although they generously allowed Olivia to keep her mom’s cat.

  All that was left to Evangeline’s mom from some distant and long-dead aunt was a small bungalow in Portland, Oregon, so she moved there right after her mother died—alone, and with only $9000.00 and a beat-up guitar to her name. A week later, she discovered that she was pregnant. She tried to contact her boyfriend (the owner of the guitar), but it seemed his dad had been transferred to Europe and the kid hadn’t even bothered to tell her he was leaving school or give her an address or telephone number or anything.

  It was pure luck that Samantha Harris, a local Portland art dealer, discovered Olivia at a Saturday Market where she was desperately trying to make some money to support herself and her new baby. She’d resorted to painting flowers on glass bottles she’d fished out of recycling bins. Olivia sold them as vases and people lined up to buy them. Samantha saw something unique and marketable in the young woman’s work and became her agent, providing Olivia with canvases and quickly selling several small pieces.

  Those early sales made it possible for Olivia to have the heat turned on in the bungalow and to buy necessities for the baby. For the next sixteen years Samantha had shepherded Olivia’s painting career, turning her into a sought-after artist whose work sold for a lot of money. Sam was also a big sister to Olivia and godmother to Evangeline; they both loved her fiercely.

  “So what’d you get?” Melia’s question snapped Evangeline back to reality. She unzipped her hoodie to show off the chain and key. Melia’s eyes widened. “No way! Your mom never takes that off.”

  “I know. But she said it’s a tradition in our family. Every daughter gets it when she turns sixteen.”

  Tristin looked up. “Why?”

  “She doesn’t know, but since we don’t have any relatives or other traditions it’s important,” Evangeline said, then felt idiotic for sounding so serious and added, “to her.”

  Tristin flicked a stone at a stunning gold and orange butterfly fluttering by and the insect dropped to the pavement by Evangeline’s sneaker, one wing torn. “Damn—I didn’t mean to hit it,” Tristin said, looking at the insect struggling on the concrete.

  Evangeline crouched by the butterfly, watching as it tried in vain to fly. Gently she picked it up and smoothed its delicate wing. Not that it would help any, but she needed to do something for the poor thing. Unconsciously, she found herself softly humming a snippet of a song she didn’t know the words to, and had never heard aloud, but that often floated through her mind. Suddenly the butterfly flew off.

  “Whoa,” Tristin muttered. “How’d you do that?”

  “Magic,” Melia said with a grin, leaning in to give Tristin a kiss that lasted longer than was comfortable for Evangeline.

  The bus arrived and they all got on. Raphe had saved Evangeline a seat. “Happy birthday!” He held up a frosted pink cupcake.

  Evangeline couldn’t help noticing that the morning light brought out the gold flecks in Raphe’s brown eyes. He smiled and the dimple in his left cheek winked at her. He’s nice to everyone, Evangeline reminded herself. Don’t take it personally cause it doesn’t mean anything.

  “You look different today,” Raphe said.

  Evangeline shrugged. “Same old me.” But she saw a few of the boys on the bus looking at her and self-consciously tried to smooth her wild curls.

  “Quit it,” Raphe said, pulling her hand down. “It looks cool—like a lion’s mane.”

  Evangeline took a bite of the cupcake. The frosting came off on her nose and they both laughed.

  “What’re you gonna do for your birthday?” Raphe’s hand still rested on Evangeline’s wrist. She knew it was just a coincidence that he was still touching her, but regardless, she didn’t want to move.

  “Mom’s making lasagna and we’ll have carrot cake for dessert. Then we’re going to watch “Talladega Nights” for the fifth time.” Evangeline rolled her eyes because she knew she sounded pathetic. If she was cool, she’d be having a big party to celebrate her sixteenth; if she was even cooler, someone would’ve thrown a party for her at a house where the parents were out of town and there was a keg.

  “Can I come over?”

  “You don’t have to do that,” Evangeline said. “Not even Melia wants to come over.”

  “I’ve only seen that movie seven times. I hear the eighth is the best.”

  Raphe finally moved his fingers off her wrist and Evangeline felt…disappointed. “Um, yeah, okay. I guess.”

  On a whim, Evangeline untied her right sneaker, even though she was certain she was imagining things, and pulled out her foot. Her sock was soaking wet.

  Chapter Five

  Malledy settled into a chair in the living room of the townhouse he and Juliette had rented in The Pearl District of Portland and opened his book. The letters swam out of focus. He rubbed his eyes, but the words remained slightly blurry. It was a side effect of the higher dose of Paroxetine, but worth it to still the tremors. He closed his eyes for a moment to rest them, thinking back to the past…

  • • •

  Malledy was ten years old and walking through a stone hallway on the lower level of Castle Aertz. His fingers brushed along the gorgeous silk tapestries lining the walls: hunts with horse and hound and smartly-garbed lords and ladies; the ancient Greek boy, Icarus, flying too close to the sun; various religious scenes including the Last Supper and Madonna and Child; the poet, Dante, his face fearful seeing the ferocious monster who guarded the gates of Hell. Stopping, Malledy stared into Dante’s face. “I know how you feel,” he told the terrified mortal, because he was afraid, too.

  Climbing carved stone steps Malledy passed stunning stained glass windows that filtered the last rays of sunlight and painted the walls amber, ruby, and sapphire. His footfalls were muted as he tread along Persian and Turkish carpets.

  “Where am I going?” he asked aloud. But he already knew the answer. He was going to the bonsai garden where his fate would be decided.

  Malledy noticed several things when he entered the garden. The ornate bonsai trees were dusted with a light snow. Juliette was standing in the front row of the gathering, her green eyes hopeful, and her breath making tiny puffs of white that evaporated in the cold air. Ninety-three Archivists ranging in age from twenty-eight to ninety-seven were gathered beneath the purple sky that preceded darkness, ready to rule on whether the ten-year-old would become one of them or be removed from the Order.

  Otto, the Elder who led the Archivists and Juliette’s former lover, nodded to Malledy. A reed-thin man with a perfectly manicured salt-and-pepper goatee, aquiline nose, and deep-set hazel eyes, Otto was known for his brilliance and his unwavering determination to fulfill a client’s desires at any cost. He gestured to the gathering. “It’s time to make your case, boy.”

  Malledy walked slowly into the circle of Archivists. Instead of telling them that he was fluent in nine languages, including Clickita, an all but lost African dialect he’d managed to teach himself, or that he could grasp advanced physics, calculus, chemistry, biology and philosophy, he pulled a small, intricately-stitched leather pouch from his pocket.

  It had taken Malledy the better part of a year to locate the artifact inside that pouch. After exhaustive research and countless dead-ends, he and Juliette had ended up on a boat through the frigid Pacific Ocean to Easter Island. Once on the island, Malledy had discovered the artifact by following a map chiseled into a flat rock owned by a Mapuche shaman who’d disappeared without a trace.
The map had led him to an enormous toppled stone head carved by ancient Polynesians. Inside the head, he’d discovered the leather pouch said in ancient lore to have been a gift from Zeus to his followers.

  The discovery should have been reported to the antiquities department of Chile, where it would be catalogued and end up on display in a dusty museum. But that was never going to happen because it now belonged to an Archivist and, ultimately, his paying client. Should anyone have disagreed, Juliette and the other Archivists would have changed their minds—permanently.

  Standing among the silent Archivists, Malledy withdrew from the pouch a perfectly smooth, oblong black rock. In its center was a jagged white-marble streak. Mouth dry, uncertain if this talisman would be enough to save his young life, Malledy had held it in his palm and spoken a phrase in ancient Greek. He repeated his words again and again, each time louder, until they began to tumble into each other with force.

  The white vein in the rock’s center pulsed and started to glow. Malledy looked up to the heavens. Suddenly a fierce lightning bolt ripped the cobalt sky in two. Long after the lightning faded, Malledy’s eyes still registered its intensity. Angling the rock in his hand, he boomed the words again. The iridescent silver lightning slashed across the sky like a knife and struck a large bonsai tree twenty yards away from the group, instantly incinerating it. The air filled with the stench of sulfur and burned wood.

  “The client,” Otto said, taking the rock from Malledy, “will be pleased. What did you learn from this talisman?”

  “That rock,” Malledy replied, “means there are real forces in the world—different Gods—and a piece of their power can be acquired.” What he didn’t say was that for a few moments, while he’d been speaking in Greek and felt the rock react to his words and summon a deadly lightning bolt, he’d experienced something he’d never felt before. To the Archivists, he was a mere child—a helpless orphan whose fate rested in their hands. But when Zeus’ lightning blazed across the sky, Malledy had been transformed… he’d been mightier than all of them.