The Soultakers (The Treemakers Trilogy Book 2)

by Christina L. Rozelle

  Benches dot a long, winding path, where couples dressed in white garments sit, hand in hand. Red sashes cross diagonally over the men’s white button-down shirts, while the women wear plain white dresses. All have light features, and some have those white helmets that stretch the length of their necks, down to their shoulders.

  Two couples we pass bow in polite greeting. “Good day,” one man says.

  “Good day.” Suellen bows in return.

  On each man’s sash is a gold pin identical to the scar on my wrist. The women’s lips curl into perfect white smiles framed by blood red lips, but there’s no kindness behind them. In fact, the atrium’s ethereal beauty and perfection is a sharp contrast to the overwhelming strangeness, artificiality, and dread. Perhaps this really is all a bad dream.

  I draw in the heady fragrance of the flowers and trees. A piercing pain—not in my body, but in my heart—follows the breath. A memory . . . something . . . tragic . . . something I can’t . . . quite . . . comprehend. I sense it, though, in these trees and flowers. Such darkness lies within this unknowing. The urge to weep comes on so strong I can’t contain it, and tears slide down my cheeks.

  “Why am I so sad?” I ask. “Something’s very wrong. Will you please tell me what it is?”

  At first, she glances away, then looks back at me. “We think we know who pushed you.” She inspects her fingernails, then the air around us before continuing. “You were in a fight, right before it happened. You were devastated. He . . . he couldn’t handle the truth. You told him you still wanted to be friends, but he couldn’t cope with your impending marriage, said you were too young. His rage was uncontrollable. He claimed he only desired what was best for you, but it was obvious he was jealous—”

  “Who?”

  “Your best friend. Well . . . your old best friend, Jack.”

  “Sister!” a voice calls out from behind us.

  Suellen rolls me around until I face a girl running toward me, long, curly, reddish-blonde hair fluttering behind her. Her grin, so bright and wide and beautiful, makes me both happy and rips my heart out at the same time. I don’t even remember my sister. Aby, they said her name is.

  She kneels down, takes my hands into hers, then wraps my arms around her neck with hers around mine. “I’m so glad you’re okay!” She squeezes me, bottom lip quivering, then backs away to gaze at me with her own blue eyes.

  “I . . . don’t—”

  “Remember me, I know. They’ve warned me already. But they say it’s probably temporary, so there’s hope!” She rubs my hand between hers, where I find a matching circular scar on her wrist. “I came by yesterday.” She pets my hand, tears glistening. “I washed and brushed your hair for you, like when we were little.”

  “How did I not wake up?”

  “You were still under the induced coma during the repair process. It blocks the pain while everything’s fused back together.”

  “Oh. So, when will I be . . . fully healed?”

  “Well, you’re tons better now than you were, and I expect you’ll be healed in no time at all. I think they’ve planned a couple more sessions in the repair pod, then you should be good as new.” My sister smiles. “The big day is coming up. Less than two weeks, now. So you’ll have to get well ASAP.”

  “Oh? What big day?”

  Aby stoops down, takes my hands in her own. “The day every Pure Alzaneian woman wishes she could have as her own. But you”—she squeezes my fingers, leans in closer—“he chose you, and I’m so happy for you! Soon, you’ll be Lady Lily Daumier, the first wife of our lord.”

  I repeat the words “Lady Lily Daumier” in my head, and every aching cell inside of me screams no. “But . . . I don’t even remember any of this,” I tell Aby.

  “You will.” She pats my hands. “I’m staying optimistic. After all of these years purging the impurities, keeping our minds virtuous, this blessing is due. You will get your memory back, my sister.” She gives me a peck on the tip of my nose. “And you’ll get it back soon. I have a good sense about it.”

  A flurry of questions whirl in my head, followed by an outpouring of nameless emotions. The impulse to scream is crushed by the want to crawl away and hide from all of this. I double over, clutch my stomach.

  “I’m sorry.” Aby frowns. “I’ve put too much on you all at once. Do you want to go lie down?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “More medicine and rest would do you good for sure.” Suellen goes for the handles of my wheeled chair, but Aby steps in front of her with a grin. “May I?”

  “Fine with me.” Suellen gestures for her to go ahead.

  Aby wheels me down the path, past more strange couples clad in white and red. Suellen holds the netting aside, and we pass through the entrance to the atrium. A storm swirls inside me, invisible demons shred my soul with savage blades. Fear is the only thing I can name. The others show themselves through physical sensations: a clenching of my fists, like there’s something I should be holding or fighting for; my heavy heart holds a colossal rage, alien on the surface, but so familiar at my core. These are dark days, no matter how “pure” I am, or how “blessed” to be marrying a stranger. This. This is true.

  These people can’t be trusted. You’re in danger.

  Get out of here.

  These thoughts come from somewhere familiar, a place I trust. They’re hands that hold me, keep me safe; a voice, warning me to stay on guard, although I can’t pinpoint why or from where.

  Back over the bridge and toward the multi-level building we came from, the charred bodies have been removed. People crowd the paths and grassy patches, chatting and milling about as if it never happened. The two men still sit at the edge of the stream with their poles. One of them yanks and winds a lever, and out flops something attached to the end of its line.

  “Fish,” I say. “He has a . . . a fish.”

  “Yep, that’s right, sister.” Aby strokes my hair. “See, some things are still there. You love to fish. Father used to take us to Wholesome Pond behind the Monastery every Sunday. You’re actually very good at it.”

  “I am?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Suellen strolls beside us, shoes dangling from her fingers held behind her back. “Ah, spring.” With a deep inhale, her lips curve into a half-smile, revealing stark white teeth. “A lovely time of year. And a lovely time for a wedding.”

  I haven’t the strength, nor the desire, to pretend to be happy about something that brings such dread. I rest my throbbing head in my hands.

  “Headache?” Aby asks.

  We round the corner toward my room, across the slated pathway over more water. I nod, cringe.

  “Well, we’ll get you into a nice, warm bed.” Suellen pats my shoulder. “The most important thing now is rest, medicine, and time. A couple more repair sessions and a little fresh air every day, and hopefully, your memory will return soon.”

  Once inside the repair room, Suellen mixes more of that steamy liquid and brings it to me. Within seconds of downing the citrus-flavored drink, the throbbing stops and euphoria engulfs me. Too bad it doesn’t last long.

  “Will I have to go back in there?” I point to the long compartment.

  “Yes, we still have some internal strengthening and healing to do. But we’ll give you something to help you sleep through it. I’m sorry you woke up in there this time. That . . . rarely happens. It alarms most patients, so we usually move them to their beds first.” She takes my chair from Aby and wheels me over to a bed by a small window. “Aby, will you help me lift her?”

  “Sure, Sue.”

  Together, they ease me out of the chair, and Suellen peels back the blanket. I slip beneath the covers and melt into the wonderful softness.

  “Suellen, would you mind getting my sister another pillow?” Aby bats her eyelashes.

  “No, I’m fine,” I say.
“I don’t need—”

  “Nonsense.” She pokes my current pillow. “This old, worn-out thing is hardly comfortable, nor suitable for future royalty.” She exaggerates a wink. “Suellen, please . . .”

  “Of course.” Suellen rinses the mug in the sink, dries her hands on a towel, then disappears through the doorway again.

  “I missed you so much, sister!” Aby grabs me into a hug, and a pinch to my arm makes me wince. She leans into my ear. “Whatever you do, don’t drink anymore of that medicine.”

  “Okay, here we are.” Suellen returns to the room, swatting at a fluffy, pristine white pillow.

  Aby steps aside to let Suellen tuck the pillow in behind me, and I scrutinize her. There’s a sadness that resonates with these storm clouds in my mind. And her odd words . . . Something is definitely wrong.

  “Won’t you be late?” Suellen asks Aby.

  Aby glances at the wall clock. “Oh, wow, yes. I’d better go.” She gives me a kiss on the cheek, and a good rub on the spot where I felt the pinch. “Rest now and heal up, sister. I love you.”

  “Thank you. I . . . love you, too.” The words are true. I may not remember my sister, but I know I love her; I can trust her. But why did she pinch me? Was it an accident . . . ?

  She waves, I return it, and she steps outside. I hate for her to go.

  “Time to rest, dear.” Suellen pours a cup of water into a lush green plant on the bedside table. “And if you need anything at all, please, don’t hesitate to page me. Push that little blue button right there”—she points to the wall by the window, at a row of buttons—“and I’ll be with you as soon as possible. I’ll be down the way in Lab B, right next to Repair Room One, so not too far.” Something sinister lurks behind that sweetness. Aby’s words tell me I’m right.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  With the flick of her hair, she’s gone, tapping at a black device in her palm. I roll onto my side facing the window, breath labored with deep unease. Why would Aby tell me not to drink the medicine?

  Because it will erase your memories permanently in two days.

  I shoot upright in my bed. These aren’t my thoughts speaking to me. This is a real voice inside my head.

  Please, don’t panic. I implanted a device into your arm. This is Aby. We can now speak telepathically. Try it. Picture me in your mind, and think something you want to say.

  Um, okay . . .

  It worked! I heard you!

  Aby, what’s going on? How can we speak this way?

  I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you everything yet. The memories have to come back on their own, and until that time, you have to stay safe. They can’t know that you know.

  Know what? What’s the truth, Aby?

  You’ll find everything out soon enough. But for now, you have to go along with everything. Even when your memories come back, you still have to, no matter how much every part of you screams otherwise. Play along until we devise a plan.

  My head explodes with sudden pain, making me curl into a ball. My head, it hurts so bad.

  We’ll do short intervals for now. Your brain’s been under a lot of stress over the past five days. I promise you’ll remember everything soon, and I’ll help you make it right again. Don’t drink the medicine, Joy. Stay on guard. Trust no one. They’ll be probing your mind for information, but don’t tell them anything. I’ll be checking on you soon. Signing off.

  Wait . . . I grip my head and rock; the pain is so intense. I want to ask her what she’s talking about, but forming a clear thought through the pounding is difficult. After a few minutes, the throbbing dies down and I relax in my bed some. I try to recall her exact words and what they could mean. She called me Joy. That must be my real name.

  I gaze out at the picturesque yet foreign world. The weather fan kicks on, blowing air throughout the enormous, domed city, while a lavender cloud drifts past the sun. Far off, past the chasm, people work—digging, planting, and hauling. A group of women wash clothes in a small pool. Past the clusters of broken shacks, animal stalls, and odd-shaped buildings, the dark violet horizon glitters—the ocean—rippling from some faraway, majestic place no human hand has touched. I’m not sure how I know this, but I do. So far, so untouchable, yet more familiar than anything in this room. I don’t know who I am, or where I am, but I’m positive I don’t belong here. Out there, beyond the violet horizon . . . maybe that’s where I belong.

  The rise alarm sounds, startling me from a strange dream I can’t remember. I tuck my knees to my chest, hiding beneath the blanket in my lumpy bed. I don’t want to make trees today. Maybe the Superiors will let me lie here, find someone else to work the chopper.

  Ha. That’d be the day.

  I sigh, resigning to rise before Mona Superior vomits her atrocious voice into my ear.

  “Aby, you awake?” I tug my blanket down and peer over to her bed. Empty. “Aby?” I bolt upright. My eyes dart to Baby Lou’s crib—empty!—and I leap out, stumble from my bed. All of the other beds are empty, too. “Hello?”

  Where is everyone?

  The wall clock reads 3:22. Whether it’s the middle of the night or mid-afternoon, there’s no explanation for my being the only one here, asleep. I try to remember what happened before I dozed off, but the memory’s blurred or smudged; nothing’s clear. I remember . . . learning how to use the chopper and not having calluses in the right spots quite yet. Baby Lou toddled her first steps not too long before that. And I remember . . . Toby . . . outside the window. Seems so long ago, yet I can’t grasp anything else between now and then.

  A tapping on the wall beside the hole makes me jump. I run to it, unhook the latch, and slide the metal sheet aside. “Jax!”

  “Hey, what the hell’s going on?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “I just woke up and . . . everyone else is gone.” He tucks his hair behind his ears.

  “Same here. Can you remember what happened before you got in there?”

  He shakes his head, wraps his fingers onto the lip of the hole, and I link mine around them.

  “Well . . . what do we do?” I ask.

  “No clue. You tried to open your door yet?”

  “No, let’s try.”

  We each turn away from the hole. I pad across the cold concrete floor toward my door and reach for the handle with a shiver. To my surprise, it clicks open. I exit with caution and meet Jax in the corridor.

  “This keeps getting weirder and weirder,” he says.

  “Yeah, where’s Baby Lou? And Aby? Why don’t we re—?”

  “They took them.” A voice from the catwalk makes us both jump.

  “Miguel, what’s going on?” Jax heads toward him and I follow.

  “Who took them?” I ask. “Took them where?”

  Miguel hops down the catwalk stairs and meets us at the bottom. “The Superiors took them to the Other Side.”

  “What—why?” Panic rises in my chest. “What about us?”

  “There wasn’t any room. You volunteered to stay behind, Joy. Then Jax did, then me . . . because I’m not going over there until I find my brother.”

  Jax crosses his arms over his chest. “Why don’t we remember any of this?”

  “You told them you wanted to forget, so they took three weeks’ worth of memories from you two. You said it would be easier this way.” Miguel inspects the ground at his feet. “It was bad.”

  “Why do you remember?” I ask.

  “I tried to tell you two not to take those damn pills, man!” Miguel shakes his head, kicks a broken bolt across the main room. It clanks against the sun torch, echoing into the eerie stillness. “I knew something wasn’t right, so I pretended to swallow it, but spat it out when they turned around. Then, you two passed out, so I went along with it and pretended I was passed out, too. They put us on these tables and wheeled us d
own the corridor to the Superior’s bunker and into this weird room with blue lights. And it had this odor of . . . I dunno, fruit or something. I overheard them talking about searching through our memories for some kinda key. Either of you have any idea what they might’ve been searching for?”

  I’m struck with a wave of sadness, followed by terror when an image of his blood on my hands flashes through my mind, then vanishes, leaving a residual sorrow, confusion, an intuitive panic that things are not what they seem.

  “No.” I hug my middle. “And I need to lie down.”

  Jax glares at our brother, shakes his head, and Miguel smirks. The evil in his expression sends a chill through me. Jax takes my hand and yanks me away, dragging me through the main room toward the bunker door. The lights flicker and go out in a flash of temporary darkness before flickering back on. Behind us, Miguel is gone.

  “Jax, wait.” I plant my feet. “Where’d he go?”

  But he continues to tug me toward the bunker. “He told me this would happen, but I didn’t believe him.”

  “Who? Miguel?”

  “No, my dad.”

  We stop at the shelf that blocks the bunker door, and Jax hurls it away, spilling its random contents all over the floor. “I thought he was paranoid, crazy.” He opens the bunker door, then reaches into his pocket to remove a light stick. He cracks and shakes it, then we disappear into the familiar space, and Jax closes the door behind us.

  “Okay . . . ?” I grab my spear, which still leans against the wall in its usual spot. “What about him? And doesn’t this all seem so strange? Miguel—”

  “My dad once worked for some questionable people.” Jax leans against the wall, props a foot on it. “Guys who devoted their lives to getting to the Other Side. He’d come back drunk and crazy, spilling these stories of science miracles and some kinda . . . keys. The Seeker’s Keys, he called them. Said they would unlock some sort of secret passageway through The Wall. And it was the only way through, he said. Right before he died, he confessed to me and Mom that he stole one from someone and hid it in a safe place down here.”