by S L Dearing
Alia nodded and smiled.
"I know. You're angry we didn’t come and get you for the hunt, aren't you?”
“Me?” He looked surprised. “No.”
She looked at him.
"After all," she started, "it was a late meeting last night and I do realize that you're getting older, so I thought…"
“Older?” He asked, feigning hurt. “I just figured after the last hunt, you all couldn't take being shown up again…”
They walked towards the castle arm in arm and laughing, unaware of the events the Gathering would bring.
2
The fall morning was beginning to warm, a welcome change from the cold of the night before. The wagons of St. Paul's moved steadily through the old San Fernando Valley towards the Santa Monica Mountains to Lia Fail.
Ian Turner kept his horse at a walk next to the lead wagon. He stared lazily at the back of the steed’s head, wondering if she was thinking about him. He could picture her long dark brown hair, straight and smooth, as she brushed it away from her cheek and set it behind her ear, the slight upturned corner of her mouth when she was about to smile. Wham! The sudden smack of the tomato stung Ian’s cheek as he grabbed his head and felt the juice running into his ear and down his face, bits of seed hanging from his long blond hair and dripping on to his shirt. He spun around and saw his younger sister, Hannah, and two cousins, Jerry and Liam, peeking out from the canvas of the wagon and laughing.
“Funny, huh? How old are you?”
"Fifteen," Hannah replied.
Jerry and Liam looked at one another.
"Thirteen."
"Eleven."
They all looked at each other and laughed. Ian urged his horse backward and grabbed a handful of boysenberries from a basket by the rear of the cart. He spun around and hurled them as hard as he could at the children, who screamed and ducked into the wagon for cover.
“So, how'd you like that?”
From behind the wagon cover, Ian’s mother emerged, covered from head to foot in boysenberry. Ian’s face dropped as he attempted to stammer out an apology. Ellen Turner was a quiet woman, and she merely put out her hand, shaking her head in frustration as she pulled the curtains shut. Ian hung his head down and pulled the bits of tomato from his hair. He moved his horse forward and looked sheepishly at his father, who had witnessed the entire event with a small smirk. Ian turned around to see his sister laughing at him from inside the wagon, with another tomato in hand, when… Wham! From inside the wagon, Ellen Turner had flung the handful of boysenberry she had just been doused with at her daughter. Hannah shrieked.
“Look at my dress, Mama.”
“You’re old enough to act like a lady, Hannah. Fifteen is old enough.”
“But…”
“Enough of this! Listen to your mother.”
The loud voice came from the front of the wagon.
“Get cleaned up. We’ll be there in a few hours.”
Grant Turner was a good man. Now in his early fifties, he had been a wrestler in college and retained the stocky, yet flexible build. His thinning hair was light brown and his eyes were the color of a London-blue topaz. He was the president of St. Paul’s, the reform Catholic's village. Grant and his wife had begun to build St. Paul's not long after Paul and Alia Stark had started to build Lia Fail. The Turners had started at Lia Fail before leaving to begin their own colony in the area that was once called Acton. The Grants and Starks had remained friends, via the ham radios each colony used to communicate, and since the two groups were only twenty odd miles from one another, they often referred settlers to each other's colonies.
The Turners had made this trek many times in the last thirteen years, but Grant found himself thinking about the visit three years before, when Paul Stark and his children had been murdered. They had brought Father McHugh, St. Paul's head priest, to preside over the funeral.
"You ok, Dad?"
Grant was shaken from his thoughts as his son rode along side of him, pushing his damp hair away from his face.
"I'm fine, Ian. I was just thinking about the Gathering. You seemed to be thinking as well, before your sister so rudely interrupted you."
Ian started to blush.
"Yeah… well, I guess I was thinking about someone."
"Someone? Who might this "someone" be?"
Ian looked away from his dad at nothing in particular.
"Just someone. Not important."
Grant smiled and nodded.
"Fair enough. Why don't you ride back and see how the other wagons are holding? Let McKay and Garrett know that we should be there in a few hours."
"Sure."
Ian stopped and turned his horse around, then rode towards the rear wagons. Grant was proud of his oldest child; he had a square head on his shoulders. Grant knew he would do well as president himself one day. He watched as the twenty-one-year-old rode off.
"A good boy," he thought. "No, not a boy, a man."
For Grant Turner knew exactly about whom his son had been thinking.
3
As Alia walked into the foyer of the castle she shared with her children and several aides, from the far door she heard a squeal. She looked up to see her four youngest children race around the corner. They all had large cups of water in their hands.
"What is this?!" Alia demanded.
The children spun around and tried in vain to hide the cups. A young man with light brown hair stepped forward and shrugged.
"Sorry, Mom."
Alia shook her head as several nannies came bustling through the doorway. They were soaked.
"Pardon me, Highness."
Helen, the senior nanny, stepped forward and pointed at the brood.
"Forgive the way we look, but we were ambushed in the hallway."
The young man, who was no more than twelve, shifted his feet and stared at the ground.
Alia moved forward.
"Brian Grant Stark!"
The boy moved forward, trying to avoid eye contact. Alia moved her head around trying to get him to look at her. She then stopped and looked at the other boy and girl. They were each about ten years old.
"Lisa? Brandon? Today?"
Alia then looked at the smallest, Amanda, and shrugged, throwing her hands in the air. She returned her gaze to Brian.
"Brian, take these cups back to the kitchen and help Helen and the other ladies get everyone into the baths… please. The Gathering starts today!"
Brian Stark started to gather the cups, when Alia grabbed his shoulder.
"And," she whispered, "apologize to the ladies for ruining their dresses."
"Yes, Ma'am," he whispered back.
"Please try to behave, alright?"
He nodded and moved towards the nannies with the other children and bowed his head as he apologized. The ladies just scowled after them and followed them slowly down the hall.
"Why do I have to take a bath? I'm already wet."
The little blond girl was now standing directly before Alia, staring up defiantly, her tiny arms crossed in front of her.
"Did you use soap?" Alia asked, her head cocked to one side.
"No, but I didn't ask to get wet either."
Amanda Stark was six years old and wise beyond her years.
"Bath, Amanda!"
Alia pointed in the direction of the baths. Amanda gave a big sigh, stomped her tiny foot and furrowed her brow, much like her mother was known to do, and began to walk.
"Alright, but I'm not going to like it!"
"That's fine, Sweetie, just as long as you're clean."
The little girl turned to see her mother giving her a big, mock smile. Amanda just shook her head and walked on.
Alia couldn't help but laugh; her children were her joy, but with every moment of bliss, Alia was reminded of the children she had lost. Gail and Steven, her first set of twins, had succumbed to influenza one year after the War had begun. They were only nine. She had thought she would die with them. The pain had been u
nbearable. Then Cassie had developed cancer two years after the war ended and had succumbed within eight months after the local doctor had diagnosed her. She was thirteen. Alia had been able to prepare for that, but the pain was exactly as she remembered, horrible and all consuming. She still missed them, but time had turned the torment to a dull ache. The last of her children to die were Frank and Colleen, who had been with their father when unknown attackers had ambushed them three years ago.
Alia could remember how alone she felt the day they brought their bodies home to rest. Colleen was eighteen and Frank had just turned nineteen. They had been tortured and her anguish was only dwarfed by her anger. She couldn't breathe as she touched their cold, lifeless bodies, hoping that it was all a dream, a horrible nightmare. But she never woke up and their bodies had been burned on Spirit Hill. She remembered how numb she had been, she didn't cry. Not until she had finally gone to the place where they were found.
The day had been warm and sunny, but she couldn't see anything but her dead husband and their dead children. It was then she had finally broken down. She remembered falling and Sean catching her, and she cried until she couldn't breathe, but he never let go of her and although she couldn't be sure, she thought she could remember him crying as well.
Alia now had eleven children. Her oldest, Kaley, was twenty. She loved her music and her family more than anything, but lately Alia could feel her getting restless.
Alisha was nineteen and headstrong. She was an accomplished hunter and archer, but she was ready for a new life as well. She had been seeing a young man in the village for several years. His name was Vance Worley. His father had been a Texas ranch hand and his mother a teacher and member of the Alabama Chautoma nation in East Texas. Vance had his mother's coloring and his father's rugged good looks. Despite their youth, Alia approved of the pair and their hand fasting would take place at the end of the Gathering.
Chris and Tanner were the second twins born to Alia and Paul, and at eighteen they had grown into fine young men. Great packs of giggling girls swooned over them, ever hoping to land one of the princes of Lia Fail. They were accomplished healers, musicians and athletes.
Then there were the three girls, Sara, Coeli and Rebecca; seventeen, sixteen and fifteen. Sara was stunning with long, white-blond hair and large blue eyes. She was also vivacious and bubbly and had young men following her wherever she went. Coeli was shy and quiet, and music was her passion, especially singing. She was wise and thoughtful. At fifteen, Rebecca was still trying to find her way. Awkward, but lovely, she was an amazing swimmer and rider, but still very much a little girl.
Brian was twelve and always finding trouble. The final set of twins, Brandon and Lisa, were ten and loved to read and learn more than anything, and lastly there was Amanda, who was the spitting image of her father in almost every way.
The palace they called home was large, but comfortable. There were always fires in the hearths and every room smelled of warm bread and cakes. Fabric hung from the stone walls and wooden beams, casting rich shadows of color throughout the cozy brightly lit rooms. At dusk, the red and gold made every thing feel warm, even on the coldest winter night. Oversized chairs and couches were laid about the main rooms, and a large, marble baby grand piano, which had been rescued from the war, stood in the corner of the main receiving room by the giant fireplace. Many instruments had been saved after the War, but the true musical treasure of Lia Fail had been the arrival of James Tippen.
James was a carpenter by trade, who just happened to adore music. When he came to the Fail, he was given the task of teaching woodworking; until one night while walking around the village, Paul and Alia heard beautiful music coming from a dwelling. It was James. He had fashioned a flute from a piece of pine and was blowing an amazing melody. It was then that he became the music keeper, as well as the crafter of all instruments. Alia believed he had been waiting his entire life to be given such a job.
It was important to Alia and Paul that the beauty of the past was kept alive, music being one of the loveliest things they could imagine. Alia climbed the stairs to her room. As she walked down the dimly lit halls, a song filled the air. She moved silently towards the door in the center of the hall.
The beauty of the notes hung in the air like honey on a spoon, delicately trailing away from the point of origin, sweetly lifting in the breeze. She looked in the slightly opened door. Kaley was playing a hammered dulcimer, her eyes closed as her nimble hands worked the delicate hammers over the strings. Alia recognized the melody; it was Paul's favorite song. Alia's eyes filled with tears.
"Hi."
Kaley had stopped playing and was looking over at her mother, smiling.
"Hi," Alia replied, smiling. "Don't stop on my account. You know I love that song."
"You look like you're crying."
Alia smiled.
"No, I'm fine. Help me out today, ok?"
Kaley tried to look put-upon, but a smile came through anyway.
"Ok. Are you sure you're okay, Mom?"
"Yeah, just a little tired, I guess."
Alia walked over to where Kaley was sitting, leaned over and kissed her daughter's forehead. Kaley smiled at her and then Alia walked to the door and left, closing it behind her as she moved out into the hall again.
"Three years since Paul was killed," she thought to herself. "Everything gets easier. Easier to function, easier to smile, easier to sleep. It all gets easier.”
But these feelings now took a back seat to new emotions. She placed her hand on the door and walked into her room. She looked around and turned to close the door.
"Sometimes I feel so alone."
4
Sean Lantry moved easily through the villagers as they ran between their homes and their stands, preparing for the week's festivities. He turned the corner and walked into the main quad, where he stopped and looked up at Paul Stark's memorial.
It was a stone column that rose thirty feet in the air. Carved into the column were reliefs of Paul's life. Sean himself had carved the third from the top. He felt the smile on his face melt as he looked to the top of the obelisk, and thought of his friend. Sean looked down and walked on towards the barracks. As he walked, he remembered.
Sean Lantry had been the CEO of Fortune Tide Productions before the War. He lived in a palace by the sea in the beautiful town of Malibu. He had a gorgeous girlfriend, who wanted nothing more than to please him in any way possible. He could remember the way her long blond hair smelled like fresh flowers. Her skin was golden and soft like velvet. He could remember the way she felt when he was inside of her, the arch of her back, the shuddering of her body and the noises she made when she came. He stopped for a minute and suddenly felt ashamed; he remembered that for all of her sacrifices, he had never loved her and now all these years later, he couldn't even remember her name. He had been a different man then.
When the rains began, he had known that they should leave, but she didn't want to go. It had been miraculous that the home hadn't been destroyed during the bombings and had been spared from the fires; she felt it was the safest place they could be. Sean knew they were on borrowed time. He had been raised in Los Angeles and knew that the next round of trouble was about to start.
He had been upstairs packing a bag, determined to get out and get to safety when he heard the crash. There was a horrible boom that was followed by a loud creaking, then the snapping of wood and tiny chinks of broken glass. Then he heard the scream. He could still hear that scream. He ran to the ledge of the balcony and looked down to see her clinging to the edge of the fireplace.
He heard her screaming his name and he rushed to the edge of the stairs, now submerged in water. Her eyes were desperate as she plead with him to save her. He couldn’t see the tears against her wet face, but he knew she was crying and he ran to her. They never saw the second wave coming. It crashed into the living room, up to the ceiling and knocked him back against the wall. He felt the water close over him and start to pull him off the
ledge. He reached out and grabbed for anything. His hands fell on the metal banister, cool and slick to the touch. His fingers closed around the slippery pole and he held on with every ounce of strength he had. The water twisted and pulled at him for what seemed like forever, until it felt as if his chest would explode. Finally, the water moved away and he felt the air rush into his lungs. As he gasped, he opened his eyes and looked at the fireplace. She was gone.
As he remembered how he had called out her name, he felt a twinge, as he still had no idea what it was. There had been silence, and as he looked out the window he saw another wave beginning to gather.
One benefit of living on the side of a cliff was having the majority of the house below the front door. He let go of the banister and ran back to where he had left the bag he had been packing, grabbed it and whatever else he could and ran out the front door. He jumped in his car and fled inland, to the mountains. As he drove, he turned and saw his house slide off the side of the hill and into the rising ocean.
Once he had reached the mountains, Sean had met Paul and Alia. They, their children and several of their friends had already begun building Lia Fail. They had taken him in and almost immediately Paul had become Sean's best friend. It had been Paul who had given Sean the ability to forgive himself for not being able to save the girl.
Sean remembered the feeling of isolation. The way he had begun to remove himself from everyone around him. One night, shortly before the winter solstice, Paul had confronted him, and he told Paul everything. When Sean had finished, Paul merely looked at him and smiled.
"How could it be your fault, Sean?"