by Tamer Lorika
No one stood on the beach, nor hid in the peaks; everything was silent but for a faint, deep thrum, a humming like the pulse of the earth itself, beginning as a deep marrow ache. Gradually, over many hours that passed like seconds, the ache grew deeper and louder until it was grumbling through bones and sinew. The world was shaking apart, shaking, shaking, and the mountains themselves began to tremble. They shivered with some unknown, thumping energy, and then the largest simply crumbled, like cheese, softly and soundlessly crashing into the sea. There was nothing left behind but a crater in the ground; even its roots had dissolved into an ocean deep enough to hold it.
The second mountain followed shortly.
The third, then the next, and all up and down the shore the mountains crashed into the sea, b, b,ut again Jeanne stood so far, far away, and she wasn’t afraid, because those arms around her waist—
“Jeanne, for the last time, get off me! I’m getting numb!” Jedrick complained, shoving at her shoulder.
Jeanne blinked and giggled, sitting up to comb a hand through her now-dry curls. “Sorry, Jeddy,” she said with a laugh as she rose to her feet and pulled him up after her. Paris followed. “Are you ready to go back?”
“It’s getting late,” Paris pointed out. “Besides, I want to stop by Cello’s!”
Jedrick rolled his eyes. “Of course you do. Aren’t normal girls supposed to be focused on their figures or something equally strange?”
“I’m not a normal girl,” Paris bragged. “I’m extraordinary.”
“You’re right about the first bit,” Jedrick muttered. “You really aren’t normal.”
Jeanne smiled and grabbed his arm. “Don’t be mean. Let’s go, shall we?”
They set off, away from the willow-shaded streamlet they called a river. There wasn’t a path, exactly, just oft-tracked soft grass and a few scattered trees bordering the edge of the school athletic fields. It was still hot in the late afternoon, but the cool would come quickly. They walked leisurely back to what could be considered society, past the school entrance and the tiny library and the junk shop, and came to Cello’s in short order. The squat building, squished between a row of apartments and a clothing store, was puffing white smoke from the thin stack on the roof. It smelled of wheat and cream.
The white, idling supply truck was still outside, the overall-clad driver leaning against the passenger door as he munched on warm bread. He nodded politely to Jeanne and the others as they passed; they smiled at him and slipped into the shop.
It was warm inside, stuffy compared to outdoors, b, ,ut they were feeling the chill of dampness so none of them cared. Cello, craggy face all white with flour and steel-wool hair sticking straight out, looked up from his kneading, his features creasing into a smile. “Hello, there, little ones. You’ve got a sixth sense when it comes to sweets, don’t you? I just put a batch of sugar rolls in the oven.”
He set out a few thick, brown mugs from under the wooden counter, filling them from a pot of coffee he always seemed to have on the stove next to his huge ovens. Passing the mugs to Jeanne and Paris, he flapped a hand. “Go sit tight at one of the tables; the rolls will be out in a few minutes. You don’t have to be home too soon, do you?”
Paris shook her head. “Not until sundown or so. Thanks, Mr. Cello.” She fluttered her lashes and gave him her best ingratiating glance.
Jedrick rolled his eyes. Jeanne smiled, pulling out a penny for the rolls and putting it on the counter. They gathered around a heavy, circular, wrought-iron lattice table in the back of the room, scooting over a few of the collapsing chairs scattered in the shop. They sipped their coffee and laughed until the batch of little golden pastries was swept out on a wooden paddle. Cello sprinkled the rolls with cinnamon sugar from a metal decanter with holes in its lid, then whistled to get the children’s attention.
Jeanne rushed over to take the pastries. “Merci, Cello! Thanks a lot.” She smiled, juggling them as they gently steamed.
“They’re hot,” he warned her.
“Too little, too late,” Paris mumbled. She reached for her food, standing up and dragging Jedrick with her. She took a bite and scrunched up her face. “Ow!”
“They’re hot,” repeated Jedrick gleefully. “Thank you, Cello.”
“Always a pleasure, kids.”
With a jumble of elbows and hips they were out the door, burnt lips and sticky fingers spilling into the end of the afternoon.
* * * *
That night, the lamps were put out and the heavy blackout blinds were closed. Jeanne’s hair was loose and unbraided. She was lying still in the cavernous dark, unable to see walls or door or boundaries. Lightless, the only things that were solid and concrete were the things she touched at the moment.
Tonight the dreams would be different, she thought as her eyes closed.
Then she wasn’t alone. It was still dark but a grayish sort, as if the room were half-illuminated from a corner of window; shadows and depth still coated the room in draperies. Someone warm was lying next to her, smiling faintly as she faced Jeanne.
“Jericho!”
The cry was a clarion bell, echoing in that grey-green, obscured world. Jeanne surged forward and wrapped her arms around the neck of the creature in front of her. Her angel.
“Hello, little one,” the creature said, and Jeanne felt the curve of lips against her scalp, fingers running through her hair. “I missed you.”
“You came back,” Jeanne breathed. There was the sweet cinnamon-yeasty scent that had been haunting her for the last handful of lonely days.
The angel frowned—Jeanne could not see it, but she knew how Jericho would react. “Of course I came back.”
The creature’s skin was so warm under her chiton, Jeanne thought. She suddenly felt as if she were freezing in contrast.
Jericho tilted her head up so they were staring at each other, eyes locked. Jeanne had long gotten over being afraid of that stare.
Jericho wasn’t human. She appeared it, long of limb and unnaturally graceful, but her skin changed hue with every second glance, switching from white and milky to exotic olive or coffee-tan, indescribable but for one word—volatile, reminding Jeanne of girls’ eyes that were always labeled blue but changed when put in a different light. Long, ink black hair fell around Jericho’s shoulders and across her chest, and her eyes were glass-black, the color stretched corner to corner with no white space. It should have been frightening.
“Of course I came back,” Jericho repeated, entreating, searching Jeanne’s eyes.
Jeanne didn’t look away, didn’t hide anything; as if she could. “Of course you came back,” she answered in a whisper.
Jericho’s impossible eyes closed in frustration. “Why don’t you believe me?”
Somehow, the idea felt comical, this merry-go-round conversation that began their every encounter. So Jeanne let the laughter fill up inside her chest like honey and then it bubbled out, so she was giggling into sheets and warm skin, taking in gasping little breaths and causing Jericho to start, her brow to crease.
“I’m serious.”
Jeanne nodded. “I—ah—I know you are,” but she was laughing too hard for anything else to come out, a, nd it was a long time before she could calm, red-faced and wet-eyed and breathing headily, heavily.
“What was that?”
Jeanne smiled. “I’m happy,” she decided. “I’m happy to be here with you.”
Jericho blinked. “Good.”
“Good,” Jeanne replied.
“Good.”
“Good.” Jeanne laughed again, shortly, a breathy giggle.
This time Jericho allowed herself a tiny smile. “I missed you,” the creature repeated. “What has been important?”
Jericho never asked how Jeanne was, or what she was feeling. She never needed to. When they were together, they both just knew—if Jeanne was upset or angry, Jericho could tell, just as Jeanne could tell when the creature next to her was frustrated with her own lack of trust—still, Jeanne
couldn’t help the rush of relief flowing from her in waves now that Jericho was here, and safe, and everything she needed to be.
What was important? A much better question. Jericho knew emotions, not causes.
“Sweet bread,” Jeanne answered her. “Cotillion and red strings and unfortunate lima beans and the river.”
Jeanne did not ask if Jericho had received her letter. Jericho didn’t mention it and neither did she because she didn’t want her angel to say no. Instead, the question was: “What news?”
Jericho smiled, fully this time, something that could even be considered excited.
“A perfectly white calf was born in a tiny village in the rainforests of the Congo,” she said, her palm against Jeanne’s fingers. Jeanne nodded, eyes wide, listening to the words of the spell, a glimpse into worlds beyond her reach for now.
“An old woman who lives alone in Hokkaido found a two-headed snake in a barrel of flour,” Jericho continued. “And somewhere, floating along the Nile, is a beautiful lotus the color blue of the sky…”
Jeanne began to feel her eyelids grow heavy and she blinked, pawing at them. Jericho’s long fingers were around her wrists, her spell stopped for a moment.
“Sleep, little one,” Jericho urged.
“But—”
“I’ll come back soon. Trust me, I’m coming back for you. We were made for this, weren’t we?”
That was the first time Jericho questioned it. It was always a statement—You and I were made for this, little one, remember that.
“Weren’t we?” Jeanne echoed.
Jericho’s flat black eyes grew flinty and hard. “Yes, we were. Do not forget that.”
Jeanne’s eyelids drooped. “I don’t…wanna leave, yet…I want to be with you…” But she could never fight the sleep, the end of the dream, when it came.
“Sleep, little one…in a tunnel deep under the earth, a phoenix has begun to cry…” The spell continued, and Jeanne drifted quietly away, secure and safe and warm and in the arms of her angel-spectre-lover-guardian…
She awoke to the faint line of light under the heavy blinds, alone again under her grandmother’s quilt.
* * * *
Sundays had a different scent altogether, dominated as they were by the cloying incense burning quietly in the church. Jeanne sat obediently in the wooden pew, best skirt starched, sweater around her shoulders, hair tight and washed. Next to her, Maman and Gramaman fussed in a competing fashion over Suzette. Papa was on their other side, head bowed, eyes closed, presumably ignoring them.
It was crowded in church—it always was, these days. Parishioners stood on the edges and were packed into pews. Jeanne found herself pressed up against the wooden side of one pew, caught between her mother’s bony hip and the unyielding arm of the bench. Still, it didn’t matter much. She wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings, anyway.
The smell got to her quickly, made her eyes burn with the acidity of it, so she closed them and shut it all out. It hurt too much. The priest was young, or maybe he was old, but his voice was a monotone and she fell back into her own mind, her thoughts, memories of the night before, and vague hopes and recollections.
She was alone again, that was the first thing she thought about. She was so stifled with the cotton scratchiness of humanity, all packed into the little neighborhood chapel, but she was so alone—
Couldn’t think like that, no, because Jericho always came back. Even if the time between visitations grew steadily deeper and more cold, she always came back. So Jeanne had to trust.
What if Jericho were here? Jeanne wondered. What if…in these pews, close to her side…?
It was odd, imagining the creature in her world, in the daylight, but the thought was an incomparably pleasant one. What she would not give to be able to share more than just the dreaming world with Jericho. She could imagine sitting on the little stone bridge above the river with her, dangling bare feet in the water and skipping stones. She could imagine Jericho sitting in the kitchen while Jeanne fussed around the stove, fixing coffee or some kind of easy feast, when rationing was over and done with. Jericho seemed to fit in with whatever future Jeanne could imagine; perhaps what she had said before had been truth. They were made for this.
A question.
Jeanne could still hear the quirk at the end of Jericho’s voice. The first time the creature had ever questioned them. Jeanne never questioned. She worried and ached, but she trusted this strangeness that had been since the end of her thirteenth spring. There was no need to wonder where it had come from, only to be thankful it was there.
Thank you, God, thank you for giving her to me.
Was Jericho wavering? Was the world wavering? Every day, the sky outside grew just a slice of a shadow darker, every day her father grew thinner, more haunted from his day in the city. The little town, so far away from anything, felt like home, but outside there were vague threats that perhaps Papa had witnessed, which would explain him growing flatter. And every day the tension over radio wires grew a little more tight, a little more strained.
Keep us safe, she thought, remembering the twisted bodies in the rubble that had appeared on her landscape in school. Keep us all safe. Keep her safe.
That was all that needed to be said, really. A prayer of thanks, a prayer for safety—that was all she needed in the world.
The mass soon ended, and she squirmed out of the pew and off, searching the crowd for the white-blonde head of—ah!
“Jedrick!” she called.
He turned in her direction, standing still instead of scanning the crowd. He knew she would come to him and she did, putting a hand on his arm and smiling.
“Good morning,” Jeanne said. “Paris here?”
He rolled his milky eyes and pointed at the girl, who had managed to corner poor Louis against the back wall of the church and was talking to him in low, serious tones. Jeanne’s eyebrows flew up and she flicked her gaze back to Jedrick. “Should we go help?”
Jedrick shrugged. “I can’t tell from here whether or not the claws have come out yet. It’s only when she gets violent that we need to step in.”
Jeanne smacked him on the arm with little real force or reprove. “I’ll go rescue him, even if you’re content with causing trouble.”
Jedrick smiled. “That’s my job, after all.”
Jeanne made a face and dragged him with her as she walked over to Paris and her prey. “Paris, let’s go to the library,” she suggested.
Louis looked at Jeanne as if she were a knight in shining armor. Paris looked more like the dragon that wanted to devour her.
“That wasn’t an obvious distraction,” Jedrick muttered under his breath.
Jeanne flushed. “Then help me,” she whispered back.
“Library?” Paris demanded.
“Yes, I want to get a book,” Jedrick stepped in, and Paris was distracted long enough for Louis to escape.
She stared after him, pouting. “You guys did that on purpose.”
“Maybe,” Jedrick shrugged.
“I really do need a book…” Jeanne offered.
Nodding, Jedrick spun to leave, but promptly rammed into a large, solid object.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, narrowing his eyes as he looked up at his victim.
“Watch where you’re going,” the boy in front of him shot back.
Jeanne recognized the boy, tall and powerful with the body of a rugby player. He sat directly to her right in class.
“Hello, Charles,” she said politely.
His forehead had been creased and stormy, but it smoothed when he saw Jeanne.
“Hello, Ms. Dark,” he replied cordially.
She blinked. What was his last name…?
Paris stepped in. “Salut, nice to meet you. I’m Paris Orange, a, , nd this insufferably rude boy is Jedrick.” Paris took Charles’ hand.
“I really am sorry,” Jedrick mumbled, more to her than to Charles.
Charles shook Paris’ hand, face reflecting utter c
onfusion. “Charles Ancien. Oh, Jedrick, you’re the one who is half—ah, sorry. Never mind. Don’t worry about running into me.”
Jedrick nodded stiffly.
“Ah, Jeanne…” said Charles. Jeanne focused on his face. “You will be at Cotillion after school tomorrow, right?”
She nodded jerkily in response.
“I guess I’ll see you then.” Suddenly, he turned on his heel and walked away. Jeanne stared after him, frowning.
Paris began. “What…”
“Jeanne, it’s time to leave,” Maman called to her. “I need you to come home so you can watch Suzette.”
“All right, I will see you two tomorrow,” she told Paris and Jedrick cheerfully.
“Fine,” replied Jedrick.
Paris simply gaped at her. Jeanne wasn’t sure why. She figured she’d find out later.
* * * *
Monday bloomed bright and clear with a slight feeling of abandonment—no dreams. Jeanne ran out the front door to her father’s half-heard entreaties—”No close standing; don’t even talk close!”—before he returned to the radio news of pamphlet storms and falling bombs. Today was the day Cotillion began.
Jeanne had actually forgotten the time between Sunday evening and Monday morning, trapped as she was with little Suzette in the house when her parents left for an undisclosed errand.
At school though, the entire class buzzed. Paris immediately flitted off to find Louis as soon as they were in the classroom, and Jeanne realized it was to claim him as her dance partner that afternoon. Most of the girls and boys, she saw, had begun to pair off already.
She drifted to her cedar-scented desk and pulled out her notebook as she did every day. She was struck by the sudden need to draw a sunflower. She wasn’t sure why. Still, ever faithful to whims and fancies, she began, starting with the dark center and the strange Fibonacci spiral, then moving to the millions of petals—
“That’s a pretty good picture.”
Jeanne looked up into the earnest face of Charles Ancien. She started in surprise, knocking her head against the window. Charles didn’t appear to notice; his gaze was glued, in a cursory fashion, to her sketch.
“Um—thank you.”