Legacy (The Biodome Chronicles)
Page 23
Oaklee warmed with the compliment, the kindest words her brother had ever given her.
Clearing his throat, he continued, “Saturday will be a difficult day. No matter what transpires, I hope you shall remain steady for Laurel’s sake.”
“I shall try,” she said softly.
“On Sunday you will face the Last Ceremony as head of our home. Will you fare well?”
Oaklee blinked back tears, her eyes stinging from the swelling. “Yes, I shall represent our family and make you proud.”
“You already do.” Leaf gave her a tender smile, and then inhaled deeply, blinking back the surfacing emotion.
The held-back tears fell as she absorbed Leaf’s words. She made him proud? A warmth filled her chest as she memorized this moment between them.
Her brother shifted his eyes to the floor, and then said in a low voice, “I am permitted to take one person with me to The Door and I have chosen you, Willow.”
Too bothered and excited by his offer, Oaklee let the name correction slip by. She suddenly realized what he was gifting her. It was an opportunity to glimpse the real world for the first time, a moment they could share together in light of their father’s request and Leaf’s inability to take her and Laurel with him.
“Thank you.” Running over, she gave her brother a hug, and felt the tears fall once again. “You knew how much this would mean to me, even when I was cross with you.”
“Do you still prefer my company to a snake?”
“The odds are becoming more in your favor.” Oaklee giggled.
Ember and Laurel walked back into the room, ready to head over to the Great Hall for breakfast. Leaf opened up the large hewn wooden door and bowed to Oaklee before following Ember and Laurel into the morning light.
Unable to take the pain in her lower back, she stood up and began to pace, hoping to relax the spasms. Their home was modest, the white walls allowing their space to brighten in the daylight and reflect remnants of moonlight at night. Wooden beams embedded inside the walls and ceiling made patterns her eyes found appealing. Metal candle holders with wax drippings caught in the saucers hung on the far wall, Connor’s craftsmanship allowing illumination in their home. Next week she would need to scrape the wax and deliver the shavings to the candlemaker, gathering a fresh supply of candles for their dwelling.
Darkly stained high-back wooden chairs lined the wall, and her eyes followed the straight lines of the seat backs as she passed by. Oaklee bent over and picked up a pillow that had fallen on the floor, feeling her muscles protest and sigh with the stretching. On the verge of turning sixteen, she never imagined her body could feel such intensity, believing these were the aches of those growing into older ages. She was young, but Oaklee accepted that perhaps it was naught but a perception as her body continued to change and resemble womanhood more so every year.
Memories pricked her mind as her hands gently caressed the pillow, remembering when mother had taught her the fine art of embroidery. They had worked on this design together before Laurel was born. Her mother’s nimble fingers embroidered the large flowers and the hummingbird while Oaklee had added accent touches and small flowers. Normally, threads and yarns were left in their natural state as food and herbs are a necessary commodity for survival, their colorful properties rarely spared for dyes. However, her father would sneak home scraps from the kitchen for their mother to boil, steeping the threads to add color and beauty, denying the chickens and goats a few extra bites of food.
Picking up the sister pillow on a neighboring chair, she softly touched the dyed threads. Oaklee had wanted a pillow displaying a tree for father, and so she labored while he worked and managed the fields, calluses forming on the tips of her childish fingers. She was so proud of her tree, the dyed threads flourishing the pillow in rich shades of green and brown. Upon his birthday, she presented to him her gift, basking in the pride he felt for her budding skills.
Over the years she continued to apply her talent with embroidery in their home, her craft imprinted upon the bed drapes, their bedding, linens and additional pillows she had sewn for their living room. She had found that her fingers relished staying busy during the evening hours prior to retiring for bed. The only touch of forbidden color was found on the pillows, a tradition her home enjoyed and carried forward. Her brother and father on occasion brought home a small pocketful of something she could use to steep her threads and create splashes of nature’s brilliance inside their cob apartment home.
Dust motes enchanted her spinning wheel in the morning light, found in the corner of the main living area, and the wooden device whispered words of loneliness from across the room. The Code forbade work during a bereavement week which intensified every thought and feeling. Oaklee longed to sit and listen to the hum and lull of the wheel and treadle as she turned fibers and wool magically into yarn and thread. Her hands itched to be busy, engaging her mind with predictable movements and a visual measurement of progress. The floorboards creaked as she walked over to her wheel, and her fingers caressed the smooth wooden surface. The longing and urge in each brush and familiar touch made her sigh, the wistful breath forcing the dust motes to swirl in the golden light.
Although spinning would ease her heartache, Oaklee accepted that by working she would scandalize her family and the memory of her father during their week of bereavement.
Turning away, she resumed her walk, plodding pointless circles around the living room, and the despair she felt deepened.
“Heavenly Father, guide my steps and my heart,” she prayed to the silence. “I am lost.” She crossed herself and then looked up at the ceiling reflectively before continuing her walk once more.
The dark hallway that led toward her parents’ room opened up, and the shadows shifted as if their very ghosts attempted to write a message on the wall for their daughter who fumbled for meaning and purpose, directing her toward an answer. Her feet paused fearfully in the stone archway, and she stared into the narrow gray path while her heart and mind argued whether she should continue forward and peer in to see the empty room, confirming what she already knew—a made bed for no one, clothing hung on pegs, and a candle sitting beside a bed and no longer burning, extinguished, just like her parents. Her father was gone, never to walk the Earth again.
She felt herself beginning to slip away, and the free fall gained momentum as the last vestiges of her sanity tried desperately to find something to cling to in self-preservation. She turned away, not wanting to feel the refreshing release of detachment, knowing this was the final stage before crashing against the forgotten floor. Her body ached to her very bones, her body, mind, and soul bruised and beaten from too many crashes this week. She needed to keep walking, to keep her mind focused on the pain in her lower back, and not the pain in her heart.
Bored with the pattern her feet tread, she forged new walking paths around the living room, and her lower back eased with each step on the wooden floor. She walked along the edge while heading toward her parents’ room, a sudden decision she felt must be satiated when her wary feet jabbed against something abrasive, stubbing her little toe. Oaklee hissed as her head, lower back, and now foot throbbed in pain. What she would give for a dip in The Waters at this very moment!
When the sting dissipated, she looked down and spotted what had injured her toe. The lower wall was uneven, not an uncommon occurrence with cob structures, but it was strangely jutting out. Was this the message the ghosts of her parents had left upon the wall? Did Heavenly Father answer her prayer? On her hands and knees, she felt along the base and wondered why it was so jagged. Biting her lower lip, she jiggled the uneven area and pulled out a small chunk of cob, revealing a hole, and she inhaled sharply. Oaklee did not need to look inside to know what it was hiding.
“Thank you,” she whispered to Heavenly Father, and to her parents, as her fingers trembled with anticipation.
With careful movements, she pulled out the Scroll and hugged it against her body. The thrill of finding the hidden tec
hnology caused her heart to pump loudly in her ears. At first, she ran toward the door in search of Leaf and then halted mid-stride when her thoughts pushed through her excitement, declaring that she could not display the Scroll in public, identifying Leaf as The Aether. He would have to wait, but she did not.
Curious about the device, especially after Jeff allowed her to manipulate his machine, she tip-toed into her bedroom and quietly shut the door. Oaklee giggled at the silliness of her cautionary actions as she was home alone and the community was already pulsing with activity. She ensured the shutters were tightly shut, placing the strange portal device onto her bed, and then maneuvered her wood chair awkwardly beneath the door handle for extra precaution.
The Scroll’s smooth metal latch popped open with a light brush of her finger, and the portal unrolled with ease as she sat upon her bed. Oaklee found the crystal to turn it on, smiling as a light rewarded her finger’s efforts. What should she do next? A password question appeared and she frowned, not knowing the secret word or message. At least, she assumed this was the intent in such a single-word request. As a child, she often played a game where the players were only allowed to cross the bridge at the North Pond if they knew the secret word that would grant passage. The device was playing a similar game.
She placed her pointer finger onto the blank area beneath the word “password,” delighted by the magic as letters appeared. Was this the rush she felt pulsating through her body? Oaklee could not explain the technology, and concluded it must be a form of magic, her finger becoming a wand that cast spells. How else was this possible? Was this why The Elements did not want them to connect to the Outside world? Was it full of magic?
After a few slow breaths to calm the storm building inside of her, she wrote the word “Watson” by softly touching each letter in order, and then pressed a spell titled “Submit.” Miraculously, the password was accepted, such a simple and dull answer, and the portal opened up to reveal small squares with pictures. Oaklee studied each miniature picture, her mind drawn to the one of a bird carrying a rolled up note. With a shaky finger, she touched the bird and watched as another picture immediately popped up, displaying horizontal lines of dates, times, and letter titles. In the right-hand corner was a prompt to “Compose.” Her finger, a magic wand commanding the portal to obey her thoughts, touched the spell, and a blank page instantly appeared, ready for her to scribe a letter.
A sound similar to the quick ring of a bell resonated from the device right as she was about to touch the page. A fast-running note appeared at the bottom of the picture, and moved with speed to the right as the letters slowly faded away. Oaklee sucked in a breath, mesmerized as the portal spoke to her in a written language, as if sharing thoughts. Before the words disappeared, she read an “Alert” that a new message was delivered ten seconds ago and was available in an “Inbox.”
She looked up at the small pictures at the top of the portal and found a spell titled “Inbox,” touching the square gently with her finger. A line far bolder than the others, placed at the top titled “Checking in,” gained her attention. Her magic finger accepted the message, and a scribed letter appeared, asking a simple question, “Who is reporting for duty?”
Fear trickled down her spine as she looked at the author, wondering how Hanley Nichols, the “Sender,” knew she was in the portal, and how she was now to reply.
***
Jayne & Watson
Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Jayne of Monroe, Washington, are delighted to announce the engagement of their daughter, Della Jayne, to Joel Watson, the son of Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Watson of Snohomish, Washington. Della is a 2018 graduate of Monroe High School, 2022 graduate of the University of Washington, and currently in a graduate program in the School of Psychology. Joel attended Sky Valley Education Center, graduating in 2016 with an Associate of Science from Cascadia College through the Running Start Program, from Aspen Leaf Wilderness College in Monroe in 2018, and from the School of Environmental and Forest Sciences at the University of Washington in 2022. Joel is employed by New Eden Enterprises as a Senior Permaculture Design and Horticulture Restoration Specialist, working on local projects. An August 9th wedding in Seattle is planned.”
—“Joyous Occasions,” Seattle Times, February 27, 2025
***
Mercer Island, Washington State
On his bed, and bored completely out of his mind, Fillion decided to hack into Messenger Pigeon on a spare Cranium device he kept around. He was curious if he could find any old video footage of his mom and Joel before communication was cut off by New Eden Township seven years ago.
He felt safe, knowing his dad would not report him at this point. Despite Fillion’s known black-hat operations, the whole arrest and trial was simply a plot point in the game Hanley was weaving. Hanley knew Fillion would never go to New Eden on his own accord, so he had to force his hand, a betrayal Fillion would never forgive. One day he would reverse the tables. He would outmaneuver his dad. Until then, he was stuck on a path once again chosen for him, the resentment brewing and storming inside his chest.
Typically he was sleeping off a night of work and play at this hour, but his schedule was off. By Tuesday night, he had been awake around thirty-five hours. He crashed hard, but woke up early in the morning, his body’s internal alarm clock refusing to hit snooze. Last night, he went to bed around 11:30 p.m. after being up for nearly twenty hours. His body’s clock had stopped, finally allowing him to sleep through the night. Fillion’s brain felt fuzzy when he woke up, disoriented and out of place, especially as the dark walls of his room absorbed any light that seeped in around the black curtains.
Awake now for an hour, he sat up in his bed. A small chill blanketed his bare skin as he read through the archived notes attached to each video. Fingers swiped the air, stimulating his brain with something meaningful to do. God, he hated being under house arrest. Maybe working in the dungeon wasn’t so bad after all. At least there he could sort of escape his family and hang at The Crypt, unlike now. A new video screenshot appeared in the air, and his thoughts jumped from his present problem to a completely different one. He skimmed through the notes for any useful data to store in his brain’s hard drive, hoping his mind remained sharp should he need to recall any info while sealed inside an insane asylum full of space-age medieval LARPers.
A few minutes earlier, he received an alert that The Aether had signed into Messenger Pigeon and was available to chat. He knew the chat feature was too advanced for whomever sat opposite of him in cyber space, as the button was hidden compared to the email features. So, he chose to send a traditional email message instead, allowing the recipient to think he was Hanley. The alert ticker motioned that a new message appeared in his dad’s inbox, and Fillion swallowed back the nerves. Slowly exhaling, he readjusted his position to lie down on his pillow, and then selected the new message, reminding himself to keep breathing as he did so.
“9:24 a.m. – the aether’s sibling is reporting for duty.”
Fillion smiled. His morning just became exciting, boredom fading away into the black coffin of his room. Green eyes floated back into his memory as he thought of the mischievous look on her face when she reminded Leaf of her preferred name. She was a character, and Fillion decided he wanted to message with her as the Dungeon Master, to spar words and to get to know the ghost that was determined to haunt his life.
“9:27 a.m. – Is the sibling a Maiden?”
He pushed send, fingers tingling as he resisted another stupid smile in the dark. There was something about Willow, beyond his strange and ridiculous boyhood connection to her memory. Fillion found himself drawn to the empathy she expressed to him, her eyes and smile communicating an understanding that puzzled him. A message entered the inbox, and this time, he didn’t resist smiling.
“9:33 a.m. – am i speaking with hanley nichols?”
“9:34 a.m. – No, this is Master Fillion. I am intercepting messages today on Hanley’s behalf, daytime duties over communications.”
“9:40 a.m. – Your secret is safe with me.”
Fillion paused, trying to think of something to ask her, suddenly overwhelmed that Willow was exchanging emails with him. His thoughts spun in nauseating circles, and he felt a rush of adrenaline in this surreal moment as their words were held suspended into the air of his room, mere inches from his face. Did they have the Scroll all along, or did she just find it? He lifted his fingers reflexively to tuck his hair behind his ear before remembering that it was cut off. Incensed with the state of his hair, he swiped onto the touchable hologram the first question that came to his mind.
“9:43 a.m. – Are you the exchange?”
“9:44 a.m. – no, sir, i am not.”
He was unsure of how to read her last note, wishing he could see her face. Was she upset with his question? Or simply providing an answer? Regardless, Fillion felt relief. She would be in New Eden, and he would definitely meet her face to face, confirming her true existence. Another message popped through, grabbing his attention.
“9:50 a.m. – do you work around the clock, master fillion? i feel surprised at always connecting with you whenever i accidentally turn on a portal device. are you not on leave?”
“9:51 a.m. – No, Maiden. I never work days. This morning is a rare treat, because I should be on leave and here I am, conversing with you. I’ve thought of you often. Have you thought of me since Tuesday morning?”
He sent the message, knowing it sounded sappy, not exactly what he wanted to convey. Often? Did he really just say that he’d thought of her often? “God, I’m a cretin,” he muttered to the silence, rolling his eyes. Still, he was curious.
“9:57 a.m. – what shall i think of you, sir? everything about you is so vastly different than my own world. i fear that my thoughts never know where to begin, and therefore, have yet to embark on such a perilous journey.”