by J. S. Bailey
Shortly after the path veered to the right, the trees thinned and Rochelle crossed the wooden bridge spanning the width of the Sparkling River. Rochelle would never grow tired of the scenery for as long as she lived: dozens upon dozens of log houses and barns, the expanse of fields to the south nestled between the mountains that boxed the valley in on all sides, the cattle, the sheep, the gardens, the people.
As she came up to the general store, she passed Litchfield, Sparkling Falls’ former deity, carrying a bucket of horse manure and a flat-edged shovel. He was a short, wispy little man with a goatee and gray hair who was older than any human being ever deserved to be due to the cybernetic implants keeping his body going. In another few centuries, he’d end up older than Methuselah, and that was saying something.
“Afternoon!” she said, giving him a cheery wave.
His wrinkled face warped into a scowl and he slunk away muttering to himself. He’d never gotten over the fact that he’d been demoted from god to poop-scooper, and Rochelle couldn’t really blame him for being disgruntled about it.
She turned her attention to the four-foot by six-foot piece of slate that now hung on the outside wall next to the general store’s front door. The store used to be called Litchfield’s S.F., but when Litchfield fell from power, Frank Yelton, the proprietor, took the sign down so everyone in town had simply called it “the general store” ever since.
Litchfield said that four portals had been constructed here in the valley—the remains of an ancient science experiment called Project Nightcrawler—but currently only two had been pinpointed, though many efforts had been made to find the others. The one Rochelle passed through on her way here had never been found again, which was fine with her, because what would she possibly return to? A life devoid of family and friends? At least here she had the Owens family and others she’d become close to in the years she’d lived in Sparkling Falls.
The words “Guard Schedule” had been painted at the top of the board in white block letters, and beneath it were painted “North Portal” and “South Portal,” the latter being the one of greater interest to her since it was that portal which Laura Owens had come through. Situated in a forest clearing some distance behind Lord Arcturus’s house, it wasn’t that far of a walk from here.
Two names, Max Marsh and Henry Lee (both of whom happened to be two of Yvonne Harding’s cousins) had been chalked in beneath the South Portal heading for the day shift and two of Adalbert and Louise Wang’s adult children were scheduled for the night shift.
Hmm. This might be tricky.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting funny ideas in your head.”
Rochelle’s heart nearly went into orbit and she whirled to see a man with a short beard and sideburns who had both hands planted on his hips standing just a few feet away eyeing her with suspicion.
She pasted on an innocent smile. “Andrew, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
Andrew Walker, one of Lord Arcturus’s good friends and one of the few people Rochelle fully trusted in this town, raised an auburn eyebrow. “How long have I known you?”
“Not long enough for you to have developed the ability to read my mind. I was simply…” She raced to come up with a decent excuse for looking at the board. “Thinking about bringing an early dinner to Max and Henry. It makes for hungry work, sitting out there all day doing nothing.”
“It certainly does.” Andrew gave a thoughtful nod. “I’ve heard Henry’s a bit fond of nut bread. You’ll have to see if the bakery has any left.”
Her innocent smile warped into a grin. “Andrew Walker, are you conspiring with me?”
“Now I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” But his left eye briefly closed in a wink.
ROCHELLE was in luck: the bakery two doors down from the general store did have a few loaves of nut bread left for sale. She paid for them with a handful of coins, took them under her arm, and carried them up the slope to the great stone House of Owens, where she’d lived as their housekeeper for six years. Tabitha and Spica, the two Owens girls, squatted out front pulling weeds from the flowerbed and from around the stone sundial marking the time. In the north field behind the house Rochelle could see tiny specks that were most likely Lord Arcturus and two of his sons, Rotanev and Alcor, doing sheep stuff that Rochelle had no interest in.
She let herself inside and heard eighteen-month-old Regulus burbling something out in the living room. She poked her head through the doorway and saw dark-haired Lady Capella sitting in her usual spot crocheting a new scarf with spun wool from the sheep while Regulus sat on the rug pounding two building blocks together with glee.
Lady Capella paused in her crocheting and sniffed the air. “Nut bread?”
“It’s for Max and Henry. They’re on guard duty today.”
“I thought I saw them shuffling by this morning. With the way they were acting, you’d think they were serving a prison sentence. Doesn’t Max like cinnamon rolls?”
“Does he?”
Lady Capella leveled her gaze at her, and Rochelle could see the spark of approval behind it. “There’s a few left over from breakfast. You should send him some as a token of appreciation for—ahem—protecting our village.”
“Yes,” Rochelle said with a nod. “I probably should.”
She ducked back into the kitchen and laid the paper-wrapped loaves of bread on the countertop while she fished a basket out of a cabinet. She lined it with a checkered cloth, stacked the loaves inside with care, added in the three cinnamon rolls she found in the breadbox, and as a final touch included two wooden cups and a flask of Lord Arcturus’s favorite brandy.
“Father, let this work,” she whispered as her heart gave a nervous flutter.
Basket packed, Rochelle strode out the door with purpose in her step and turned right once she reached the road. The dirt road narrowed shortly after it passed the House of Owens, and then Rochelle turned onto a footpath that had been worn through the trees by countless feet coming from and going to the clearing where the South Portal awaited her.
She clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent a laugh from escaping it when she saw that on the closer side of the clearing Max and Henry sat in wooden folding chairs on either side of a barrel covered in a square board, holding playing cards. Stacks of poker chips sat close to each of them (Max had about twice the amount of Henry, Rochelle noted), and on the ground beside them lay a folded-up checkerboard and a flask of something that probably wasn’t water.
Both men were in their early twenties and had coal-black hair, tan skin, and the almond-shaped eyes that many of the villagers possessed, though Henry was several inches taller than his companion. “Hey Rochelle,” Max said glumly as she approached. “What do you want?”
She lifted the basket for them to see. “I brought you some bread and rolls. I figured you’d be hungry after sitting out here all day.”
His eyes narrowed. “You never cared before.”
“Well, maybe I was just feeling extra generous. Oh, and there’s brandy, too.”
Henry looked up from his cards to glare at her. “Go away, Rochelle. We know what you’re here for.”
“Oh? And what might that be?”
“You want to go back through there—” He jerked his head toward the center of the clearing— “so you can visit that friend of yours.”
Rochelle pretended to have been taken aback. “Do you think I would really be that willing to break the law? I don’t want to spend a week down in the prison. That place smells worse than a port-o-potty.”
Henry’s brow creased in confusion. “What’s a port-o-potty?”
“It’s like an outhouse without the pit underneath it and people like to write vulgar poetry on the walls. Nasty stuff. Are you going to take this or not?” She shook the basket as if she were enticing two clueless dogs with treats.
“You probably drugged it.”
Rochelle rolled her eyes and uncovered the loaves of bread. “You just watch.” S
he tore the end off of one of the loaves, popped it into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “See?” she said, savoring the bite even though the bread no longer held any heat from its time in the oven. “Not drugged.”
“Hmph.” Max laid his hand of cards facedown on the table. “Hand it over, then.”
Rochelle thunked the basket down between the two men. “Have at it, boys.”
Max plucked out one of the cinnamon rolls and gave it a tentative sniff. “You didn’t taste any of these.”
“Do you honestly think I would drug you? I thought I had a better reputation than that.”
“You live with the Owenses. Laura and Procyon live on the other side of that thing.” Henry shivered as if the thought of traveling through the portal was the most terrifying scenario he could think of. “The Owenses want the family whole again just as much as you do. I’ll even bet Lord Arcturus put you up to this.”
Rochelle couldn’t help but laugh. “Why wouldn’t he just do it himself?”
“Because it would look bad.” Henry picked up the loaf of nut bread Rochelle had sampled and bit into it. “Hey. This is pretty good.”
“What did you think it would taste like? Dirt?”
“Go away, Rochelle.”
“Why? Aren’t you enjoying my company? It has to be boring sitting here from sunup to sundown. I mean, it can’t be as boring as the night shift, but still. Don’t they even pay you for your time?”
Rochelle knew full well that the mandatory guard duty did not compensate the guards. She herself had been scheduled for guard duty at the North Portal a total of four times. She wasn’t sure which year it currently connected to, and her co-guard was always Yvonne Harding (who kind of hated her now, which made for a highly uncomfortable waste of four days), so she didn’t dare slip through that portal to see what she might find on the other side.
Max and Henry exchanged glances. “Yeah, it’s boring. Why do you think we brought games?”
“But they have to get boring too after a while. I’m sure you’d much rather be out weeding crops on a beautiful day like this.”
“More like spending time in the tavern,” Max muttered.
“You should try some of the brandy. Lord Arcturus loves it.”
“Didn’t we tell you to go away?”
Think, Rochelle. Think! “I didn’t know such nice young men could be so rude to a lady. I’ve offered you food and company, and all I’ve received in return is blatant rejection. For shame!”
“That’s it.” Henry heaved himself out of the chair. “I’m going to talk to Adalbert about this. If we can’t get you to leave, maybe he can.”
With that, he snatched up another loaf of bread and strode away into the trees.
Rochelle wasn’t afraid of Henry’s threat. She wasn’t really afraid of anything—at least not anymore. But she would have to work quickly on Max before Henry came back with reinforcements. It was easier to deal with one man than with three.
When Henry disappeared from view among the trunks of hundreds of trees, she slid into his vacant chair and placed her hands on the table. “Max,” she said, “what it is that you want out of life?”
His almond-shaped eyes shot daggers at her. “I want you to get out of here and let me do my job in peace.”
“It isn’t a job if you don’t get paid. It’s slavery.”
“Slavery?”
“Of course you wouldn’t know. See, a long time ago people would take other people prisoner and force them to do work for them without pay. Those people could be bought and sold like cattle and they had no rights as human beings. It was horrible. You don’t want that to start happening here, do you? First it’s guard duty, then it’s tending the fields without compensation, and before you know it someone won’t like what you’re doing and beat you senseless before selling you to some buffoon up in Upton.”
Max blinked at her like she’d just uttered a soliloquy in a foreign language. “What in Litchfield’s name are you talking about?”
Rochelle gave a dramatic eye-roll that was sure to irritate him even further. “Litchfield’s name. Ha. He doesn’t have much of a name for himself anymore, does he? But Max, what I’m saying is that it isn’t fair for the village to make everyone guard the portals for free. It would be different if it was all volunteer work or if we got paid, but we don’t. It’s a travesty.”
“The village voted. The measure was approved. Stop complaining and go home.”
“Did you vote yes for it?”
She caught a flicker of indecision in his eyes. “No.”
“Why not?”
Max shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. It is what it is. Now will you please leave me alone?”
Sensing defeat, Rochelle sighed, but as she did so, her stomach let out another plaintive rumble. She would have to come up with another tactic, and soon. “Very well. But I’m taking the basket and cloth back with me. Oh, and I can’t leave Lord Arcturus’s brandy here, either. Enjoy the rest of your bread and rolls.” She dumped the remaining baked goods out on the table and jammed the cloth, cups, and flask back inside the basket.
Then she hitched up the skirt of her dress and retreated through the trees in the direction from which she’d come.
After several minutes of walking, she glanced back and found that Max and the table and chairs had vanished from view. Then she veered off to the left, estimating that if she continued in a wide arc, her new trajectory would take her around to the other side of the clearing, opposite from where the men had set up their table.
She stepped as lightly as a cat through the undergrowth, praying Max wouldn’t hear her and come barreling through the woods like an angry bear to chase her away. And maybe she was being silly about this whole thing. Had she really expected to incite rebellion in Max’s heart? More likely she’d just added a name to the long list of villagers who didn’t trust her since she had not been born among their number and had also aided in Litchfield’s downfall.
Once she judged that she’d traveled the proper distance around the edge of the clearing she couldn’t see, she made a sharp left turn and set the basket down on the ground beside a tree so large that two or three people could have concealed themselves behind it without much difficulty. Then she slowed her pace and kept her eyes peeled, wincing when a poorly-placed footfall cracked a stick in half and sent a pair of birds flapping away from a nearby branch.
Maybe Max would just think she was a deer—because deer wore gray dresses and had dark hair in ponytails growing halfway down their backs.
Rochelle gave herself a mental high-five when she caught sight of a splash of color through the suddenly thinning trees. After another fifteen or so steps she saw that the splash of color was Max, who remained alone and had put his head down on the makeshift table as if to take a nap.
Rochelle glided to the edge of the clearing to calculate her next move.
There was no sign or structure indicating the precise location of the portal. Knee-high grass swayed in a light breeze that riffled Max’s hair, and the sound of the gust swelled through the treetops in a chorus of rustling leaves.
If it kept up like this, it might mask the sound of her approach.
Her attention was drawn to a monarch butterfly flitting between some yellow wildflowers that sprang up among the grass. While she watched, it disappeared.
She blinked.
Five seconds later, it reappeared midair a foot from where she’d last seen it.
Her expression twisted into a grin. Bingo.
Keeping her gaze fixed on the approximate point where the most likely very confused butterfly had vanished, she proceeded in that direction one small step at a time.
Max kept his head down. Just go to sleep, Max. Nothing to see here but a housekeeper who has a bad case of the munchies.
She was about six feet from the portal when a booming voice said, “Rochelle Peltier, what in Litchfield’s name do you think you’re doing?”
Her feet rooted themselves to the ground
as Henry and Adalbert Wang emerged from the trees opposite her, the latter carrying a giant bow and a quiver of arrows slung across his back.
As usual, Adalbert had his long hair tied back out of his face. Today he was dressed from head to foot in black as if he intended to show he meant business.
“Afternoon, Adalbert,” she said. “Didn’t Henry tell you? I’m here chasing butterflies.”
Adalbert stepped forward past a scowling Max, pulled an arrow from the quiver, and notched it. “Step away from the portal, Peltier.”
“What if I don’t?”
He let the arrow fly. Rochelle felt the air ripple as it whizzed past her head with barely half a foot to spare.
She’d always thought of Adalbert as something of a dunce who was all surface and no depth, but she knew he wasn’t stupid enough to kill anyone.
To prove she wasn’t afraid of him, she boldly took another step forward. Max rose from his chair and squared his shoulders. “Don’t you have any sense inside that pretty head of yours? You’re breaking the law.”
“What can I say, Max? I’m a desperate woman.”
“You said you don’t want to go to prison because it smells.”
“And I don’t plan for a moment on going there.”
She started to break into a run, but Henry and Max anticipated her action and dashed toward her a split second before she moved. They each seized one of her arms, and when she tried to jerk out of their grip, she stumbled, and then…
Static electricity raised all the hairs on her arms and head, and her vision filled with a white light so bright it hurt, and suddenly she was standing in a cold, damp place that she couldn’t see because her eyes had yet to adjust to the abrupt change in lighting.
Two voices started swearing behind her.
It would seem she had not made this journey alone.
“Gah! What is this? I can’t see!”
“Where are we?”
Rochelle tried to imagine the fear that was likely pasted on the men’s faces and laughed. “Relax, boys. We’re in a basement. The basement in Laura’s grandparents’ house, if I remember right.” Because before the ban had been placed on portal travel, Laura and her family had returned and visited the valley several times—just not with any pizza for Rochelle, because they always seemed to forget amid all the excitement of coming back. “But to be technical, we’re in the same place we were just a moment ago. Weird, isn’t it?”