Avisha

by Vi Lily

  The big guy finally admitted to me why he sat for so long on top of his fortress. He'd broken a direct order from the Creator when he sought vengeance for some people he had watched over and had come to care about. He had lost it and wiped out an entire village of Romans.

  I knew enough about history to know that the Romans were pretty ruthless and vicious, so I had a pretty good idea of just what it was that they did to make Avisha snap.

  He also told me why he'd been tossed out of Heaven in the first place…he had refused to follow the Creator's orders in destroying a whole village. It sounded good to me, that he'd spared all those people, especially the kids. But then he told me he'd later found out that those kids—and their kids—would eventually become some seriously awful human beings. Like some of the worst in history.

  Eek.

  Kind of funny, though. Not funny haha, but funny, strange. Ironic. Punished first because he didn't destroy a village; then again when he did. But even I know better than to guess the why's of the Creator. He's in charge and not me.

  Avisha has a really soft heart, if you ask me. I can see that he cares deeply about the people he's in charge of. I don't like being lumped into that category, of having him in charge of Carlie and me, but considering he saved us, brought us to his home—a freaking fortress, no less—and we're under his protection…well, yeah, guess he's large and in charge.

  He does a good job of it, though. Not one single time has he gotten bossy or demanding. He just gives us freedom—as much as is safe in these Dark Ages anyway—and quietly hangs back and watches over us.

  Like when Carlie and I went for a walk around the fortress grounds as soon as I could get out of bed. Avisha didn't insist on going with us, but just told us to stick to the inner walls. And that turned out to be more than enough for a long walk. What's inside the "inner walls" is a village all in itself.

  We met the few people who make stuff for the fortress, but don't actually live there—like the tanner, the blacksmith and the chicken plucker. Okay, that's not her real title, but I have no idea what it is. She's in charge of plucking feathers off of the birds that are going to the butcher. They use the feathers for mattresses and pillows.

  When we were walking back after leaving the Dick the Boner—okay, the guy's name is Richard, but he makes stuff out of leftover bones, like sewing needles, and once Middle School Me thought of that name, it stuck. Too bad the joke is lost on the sixth century peeps, cuz seriously, it's funny—I looked up and saw Avisha on the fortress. And by that, I mean he was perched on the fortress, on the top, looking down at us, watching. Protecting.

  He's super generous too. He gave Carlie her own bedroom—"chambers" he calls them—and shockingly, the three-year-old is fine with sleeping by herself. But I'm not. Fine, I mean. Once I was conscious and among the living again, I insisted that she be brought into my room with me. I can't sleep without her behind me, I guess. It's stupid, I know, since the DEE-men absolutely can't come get us, but old habits die a hard death.

  And then there are the times that I've awakened in the middle of the night and I've found Avisha there with his giant body squished into the little chair next to my bed, watching over Carlie and me.

  But honestly, the fact that he feels the need to watch over us even in his own fortress makes me a little nervous.

  I tried asking him about that, about why he felt the need to protect us in his own home, among his own people, but the big guy just sort of blew me off, making some excuse like "ye never know."

  I'm pretty sure it isn't his staff though, that he's worried about. They've all been mostly nice—at least, to Carlie. Not unfriendly with me, but maybe a little distant. That's probably because they know that I'm not "normal," not with my weird eyes that I can't exactly explain with contacts in this day and age.

  But it doesn't explain why they just accept Carlie, especially when her eyes are even weirder than mine. Guess cuteness trumps weirdness.

  I do wonder what they think of us, if they have that medieval idea of "I can't explain it, it must be witchcraft," or something. But hey, their paycheck is signed by a freaking gargoyle, so to speak, so maybe they're okay with "not normal."

  Avisha asked me about our eyes. He said that he knew we were human, but our eyes "were no' normal human eyes." It was then I'd admitted that I had some special abilities. He already knew I could run fast, but when I told him I could sense emotions and feelings, the big guy's gray gargoyle cheeks had actually turned red.

  Which made me laugh so hard I peed a little.

  He wanted to know how we "came to be" the way we are, with the freaky eyes and special talents. Take a guess at how difficult it is to explain genetic modification and DNA to a sixth century gargoyle. I finally just said that the DEE people had done some things to mess with creation, which of course made Avisha angry on our behalf. And the Creator's.

  Avisha said the Creator would punish "those men"—I didn't bother trying to explain that there are a lot of women scientists in my day—but that Carlie and I in no way should think we were different, or odd.

  Well, we are, but it was a nice sentiment.

  I'd also asked him about his accent. I told him I thought it was kind of strange that a former angel would have such a thick Scottish accent. He just shrugged his big ol' gargoyle shoulders and explained that the Fallen Moral picked up the "habits o' the culture" they lived in.

  He also told me that the Fallen Moral tend to stick to places where the Fallen Immoral congregate. At this time, in the sixth century, he said most of them are in an area he described that I would guess is the United Kingdom and Ireland in my time.

  Which figures, given that it's called the Dark Ages and all. Well, in our time we call it that. Now, they just call it…now.

  But apparently, demons are responsible for the "dark" part of the Dark Ages.

  Avisha has given us run of the fortress and grounds, but he said we can't leave the walls, because, "The nasties are outside, lass." Good enough for me. No need for further warnings. I don't really want to meet the "nasties."

  Yep, perfectly happy to be nasty-free.

  So having nothing better to do and being free to roam, I've been pretty much everywhere. I've met everyone at the mall—that's what I call the row of huts where the fortress's service providers do their thing—and I've explored just about every section of the fortress. Not the dungeon, though. I have no desire to be underground. Like ever.

  The kitchen is my destination today. I'm seriously wanting some fries and I'm pretty sure there isn't a Mickey D's anywhere nearby. The craving is so bad I'm willing to go back to the future just to get some.

  I'm thinking it would really be easier to just go to the future to get the greasy little strips of heaven than to try to make them in the fortress kitchen. Because dealing with "Mistress Kate" is no easy task.

  Don't get me wrong—she's a sweet lady and I'm sure I'd really like her, if I could understand more than three words she says. I'm pretty sure she feels the same way about me. We spend a whole lot of time staring at each other with confused looks on our faces.

  Avisha had sent Kate to my room to meet me the day I'd awakened. She'd come bursting in, chubby red cheeks and a big grin on her face—a grin that had some suspiciously brown teeth, I might add, and I had made a mental note to teach the staff about dental hygiene—with a giggling Carlie in tow.

  The two had been holding hands and it frankly shocked me to see that. I'd taught Carlie to never, ever talk to strangers and she'd never been around any, other than the few people we might have encountered while we constantly traveled. I always tried to keep her away from everyone.

  But there my little sister was, skipping, laughing, acting like Kate was her long-lost grandmother. I was happy to see Carlie so well-adjusted, but there was this ugly part of me that was jealous and wanted to keep her all to myself.

  I know, I suck. What can I say? Call me Jellie Gwen, the selfish bee-atch.

  When Carlie jumped up on my bed—
well, it's technically Avisha's bed, but he's letting me sleep in it, insists on it actually, and I'm trying not to think too hard on the why of that—Kate came over and started asking me all kinds of questions.

  I knew I had a head injury and I still have moments of confusion, but I understood Avisha just fine, despite his thick accent. And Carlie had been coming through loud and clear with her recounting of all the adventures she'd had in "Avi's magic fortress."

  Kate stood next to the bed, her big ol' grin fading from her face as she waited for me to answer her.

  "Uh, could you please repeat what you said? I got nothing from that."

  The look on the woman's face and the way she tilted her head to the side told me she had no clue what I'd just said either. Avisha had come into the room just then and I asked him to translate.

  "Translate? Whyever fer, lass? Kate speaks yer language just fine. In fact, she's a native o' York."

  York? Like New York? I knew that wasn't right, obviously. America in this time was still happily unaware that white man even existed. But then I remembered something about New York being named after the original York…in England.

  "She's English? Then what the heck language is she speaking?"

  Avisha frowned, then turned to Kate and asked her…something. I couldn't understand a thing he said either just then.

  "Okay, hold on. What language were you just speaking? Cuz I got nothing from that either."

  His gargoyle-y face scrunched up then. It was kind of funny to see and I snickered. He had cocked an eyebrow at me…well, he would have, if he had eyebrows.

  "I spoke in yer language, lass. Could ye no' understand me?"

  I shook my head. I remember thinking then that this was getting weird. Kate asked him a question then and his frown scrunched his face up even more.

  Avisha had sighed and folded his arms over his chest. "Seems the language ye two are speakin' isnae the same, even though it seems to me I be speakin' the same to the both o' ye. Mayhaps yer tongue has changed o'er the centuries?"

  "Umm, tongue? Oh, you mean language." I had shrugged. "Yeah, probably. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's the case, cuz my mom made me read some books from the nineteenth century and even those were kinda hard to understand."

  I guess that made sense—Kate was speaking Old English, and me, well, American. I laughed to myself when I remembered that even in my own time, I'd had to tone down the slang to be understood in England and Scotland. I had "American teen" down pat…weird, since I've never even stepped foot in my parents' homeland. But my friends and I were big on American teen movies and we made sure to practice all the slang so we'd sound cool. Or whatever.

  Don't judge…it was something to pass the time at DEE.

  Avisha had still been frowning. "But I cannae fathom why it is ye can understand me and Kate can understand me, but the two o' ye cannae understand me when I talk to the other, when I be speakin' the same language to the both o' ye."

  Carlie had piped up then, not even looking up from where she was dressing Maisy. "I can understand all of you," she informed us, sounding a bit proud of that fact.

  There are no answers for it, but Avisha said the Creator must have given him—and Carlie—a "gift o' tongues." I just wish I would have been given the gift too. Kinda feeling left out.

  But I have my little Carlie Bug to interpret Dark Ages, so I'm dragging her along with me to the kitchen this afternoon, to see if we can get Kate to help us make some fries. It's that time of the month when I need my salt and grease fix. I shudder to think what will happen when the chocolate cravings come.

  We walk through the open doorway to the kitchen and discover that we're alone. Cool, works for me. The only problem is I have no clue where anything is.

  "Hmmm," I say as I stand inside the door of the big and surprisingly clean room. I figured the Dark Ages would be infested with rats and other equally disgusting things, but Kate keeps the place spotless. That gives me more hope for Carlie and me surviving this time period without getting salmonella or tapeworms.

  Gross.

  "Wonder where they keep all the food," I wonder as I plant my hands on my hips and turn in a slow circle.

  "The larder," Carlie says as she skips toward a cloth on the back wall, apparently a medieval version of a swinging pantry door. Carlie disappears behind the cloth and I rush forward to catch her. I still hate for her to be out of my sight. Not sure I'll ever get over that. I'll probably have to go on dates with her when she's old enough.

  I move the cloth back. It's stiff and has a waxy feel to it. It sort of smells like the candles around the castle, which Avisha said were made of tallow. It's kind of stinky. I then move into the dark space.

  "Where are you, Bug?"

  "Here," she says from my right and I turn in time to see a spark in the darkness. In just seconds, a small flame grows enough that I can see that she's holding some sort of oil lamp. I don't see any matches in her hands and then I think, Duh, Gwen, they didn't have matches in this time. But I also don't see a flint or anything else she could have used to light the lamp.

  Weird.

  I rush forward to take the lamp out of her hand. "You know better than to play with fire," I scold her as I hang the thing on a hook—out of her reach.

  Carlie—my darling, sweet baby sister that I'd give my life for a thousand times over—huffs, rolls her eyes at me and plants her fists on her hips.

  "I wasn't playing with fire; I was lighting the lamp," she explains, her voice sounding like she thinks I'm an idiot.

  Okay, so Carlie is pretty smart for her age. Well, seriously smart, actually. And way advanced. She was talking by six months, walking by seven, and her vocabulary is probably better than mine, even though her grammar kind of stinks. But then mine is worse, so that's probably on me.

  Maybe she's advanced enough that she's now going through the "tween" stage. Which would suck, because I remember me at that age and my mom saying she wished she could lock me in a soundproof room and not let me out until I hit fifteen.

  "Anywayyyyy," I drawl as I give her a look, "do you know where we might find some potatoes?" I paste on a totally fake grin, showing all my teeth.

  Carlie shrugs. "I don't think they gots any," she announces as she plops down on a sack of what's probably flour, judging by the white dust that poofs out of it.

  No taters? Ugh. I move to the back wall where there are shelves loaded with sacks and jars. Nothing looks familiar at all. There are some dried herbs that smell familiar like maybe thyme and sage, but others I have no clue about. I haven't cooked—or even been in a kitchen—since we left Norway.

  The sacks have different things I can't identify either, except maybe for beets, which I hate. There isn't one single thing that looks like a potato, though. I'm starting to seriously consider bugging the crap out of Avisha until he agrees to take me back to like nineteen eighty.

  I jump when Kate walks through the door and shrieks at the sight of us. Guess we startled her as much as she startled us.

  Carlie starts giggling and I do too, especially when Kate, hand over her heart and face turning as red as those nasty beets in the sack, starts laughing. And I mean, really laughing, like "rolling on the floor laughing my ass off" laughing.

  When we're done nearly peeing our pants, Kate asks Carlie something that I assume is along the lines of, "Do you need something?" or "Can I help you find something?"

  It's weird hearing my baby sister speaking like a little Shakespearean actress, except even less understandable than that. I'm not kidding—there is no way a modern English-speaking person can understand an Old English speaker. They are seriously two different languages. I'm only able to catch a few words in their entire conversation.

  Carlie turns to me after a few minutes. "She wants to know where you find potatoes. Where do they grow?"

  Really? She wants me—who has mostly only had freeze-dried, canned or restaurant food—to explain where potatoes come from?

  Ugh.

  "
Um, tell her they grow in the ground. They're a, uh, root vegetable." I watch Kate's face as Carlie translates. She looks a little shocked and stares at me as she answers.

  Carlie shrugs again, clearly very bored with this conversation. "She says that the no—" she looks back at Kate and asks something else, then turns back to me.

  "—no-bill-itty," she sounds out carefully, "don't eat things that come from the dirt."

  Huh?

  I roll my eyes. Every freaking vegetable "comes from the dirt." People in the Dark Ages have some strange ideas.

  "Okay, well tell her we aren't nobility and I don't care about all that, anyway. I just want some potatoes."

  Carlie and Kate speak for a few minutes and then Kate shoots me a look that says she either thinks I'm the coolest person she's ever come across, or that I'm the craziest.

  Probably door number two.

  But she walks to the back of the larder and kneels on the ground, then pulls out a box I didn't see earlier. She digs through it and then pulls out a handful of things that look like yellow carrots. I think I saw those once at the grower's market in Tromsø, but I can't tell you what they are. Not potatoes, for sure.

  Kate says something and Carlie translates. "She says she gots carrots, beets or parsnips," she says with a scrunched-up nose. Carlie hates vegetables. "That's all she gots."

  I move forward to take the albino carrots—which must be the parsnips—from Kate. They look the most like a potato of my three choices. I hold them to my nose and sniff, but they just smell like the dirt they're grown in. Tentatively, I take a small bite, ignoring Kate's gasp.

  "Hmmm, they're kinda sweet," I say as I chew. Carlie translates and Kate nods.

  "She says they use the parsnips to make desserts," Carlie chimes in and sticks out her tongue. "Yuck."

  I laugh at her and look back at the vegetable in my hand. "Huh, weird. Guess they haven't discovered sugar yet," I tell her, then shrug.

  "Well, let's fry them up and see what we get." Pretty much everything tastes good fried.