Buried

by Emma Shelford

  CHAPTER IV

  Dreaming

  Abelin closes the door gently behind him. The group around me shudders at the clicking sound in the tight space of the attic. I walk softly toward him in socked feet, careful to avoid chalk marks on the floor that signify where the floorboards squeak.

  “Did you get it?” I whisper. Abelin nods.

  “There was a blockade that I had to avoid, then a convoy of Nazi officials stopped traffic for ages. But the truck is parked two blocks away. It’s as close as I can get it.”

  “Good. I’ll take this lot transformed.” I jab my thumb at the party of eight terrified-looking people behind me. “Then I’ll turn them back once they’re in the truck. I don’t see why I can’t go with you the whole way, though. We could keep them transformed until they reach Vichy, or beyond.”

  “And what if you died, or were captured? Who would release them then?” Abelin says in a tone that pleads for reason in an irrational situation. “And anyway, we need you to cover our tracks. You’re so good at confusing officials.”

  I sigh.

  “I suppose I am. Fine. But you’d better be damn careful. And I’m changing your looks, until we get to the truck. We don’t want you recognized.”

  Abelin nods, then turns to the huddled group.

  “I’m glad you’re ready. We will leave in a few minutes. The trip will not be pleasant but keep in your mind the reward at the end. Better times will come to our beautiful Dijon, but until then, we must find you a safe home. You have been told of the―” He glances at me briefly. “Unorthodox methods we use to bring Jews to safety. Please don’t be alarmed or cry out. We must maintain our quiet, so we remain hidden. Maël here will transform each of you into mice and hide you in his pocket while we walk the two blocks to the truck.”

  There are stifled gasps from the women, wide-eyed stares from the men, and open-mouthed wonder from a little boy at the front. I give him a wink.

  “We will drive over the border to Vichy,” Abelin continues. “It will be many hours, lying in a hidden compartment in the truck in very close quarters. Once in Vichy, we have a safe house where you can rest before your next journey. Any questions before we begin?”

  The little boy raises his hand, and Abelin nods gravely at him.

  “Can I be a white mouse, please, sir?” he whispers.

  His mother shushes him with a panicked look at us, as if we would deny them help because of the boy’s impertinence. I sit on my haunches to bring my eyes level with the boy.

  “White? With pink or black eyes?”

  “Pink,” he whispers inaudibly, but his mouth moves with the word. I smile and wink again.

  “It shall be done.” I stand and turn to Abelin. “I’ll change you first. Show them how it’s done.”

  Abelin submits to my lauvan-prodding, as he has many times before. A few moments later, a strapping young Aryan specimen stands before us, and everyone gasps. I beckon the boy and his mother forward.

  “Let’s begin.”

  Within minutes, seven brown mice and one tiny albino mouse wriggle in the specially reinforced pocket of my wool overcoat. It’s threadbare in places―there isn’t much new to be had at any price in Dijon these days―but it holds my passengers firmly. Abelin nods at me and we tread softly down the stairs. At the bottom, we tie on our shoes and open a hidden door into my clock repair shop. Time ticks on, regardless of who is in control, and the Nazis and the French alike need their clocks in working order. The French can’t pay much, but I inflate the German bills enough to get by.

  I was tempted to leave once the rumors of occupation started flying, but I had finally created a comfortable life here after many years of wandering. I had a store, an apartment, friends―I figured I could weather any storm.

  But this is a fierce storm, and when my good friend Abelin asked me to help smuggle persecuted Jews and grounded Allied airmen out of Dijon, I couldn’t refuse. I was in this mess too deep, and some of the persecuted were my friends and neighbors. Besides, my unique skills lend themselves to smuggling.

  The summer is unseasonably cool, although my wool coat is too much. I start to sweat from heat and nerves. The back street where my shop resides is quiet, since no one leaves their home unless necessary. Gone are the days of children playing in the square, women gossiping in the alleys, market stalls of fresh cheeses. I hope those days return, but as the months turn to years, I despair of this city ever seeing the light of freedom again.

  We walk briskly, our boots splashing in puddles left by the morning’s rainstorm. Around the corner, past Madame Rousselle’s bakery, a shiny gray car zooms past. It sprays a sheet of water at us, and we jump out of its reach just in time. Abelin glances darkly at me, his ruddy-cheeked face looking odd with the expression. He jerks his blond head down the street toward the truck.

  We’re so close. Despite our best efforts at nonchalance, our footsteps speed up. There is a startled squeak from my pocket.

  “Halt!”

  A commanding voice stops us cold. It is a voice used to authority. We turn to face our new obstacle.

  A bespectacled man stands before us. He wears a tightly belted uniform with an officer’s formed hat and a grim expression in his dark eyes. I place a warning hand over my pocketful of mice, and they grow still.

  “Can we help you?” I say in accented German. Most of my countrymen have picked up only a few broken phrases of German, and my grasp of the language always seems to provide relief to the Germans. Whatever advantage I can glean, I do.

  “Show me your papers,” he says with a grunt. We wordlessly extract identification out of our pockets. Abelin hands his over nervously, but I wrap my fingers around the man’s sand-colored lauvan and send my intentions his way. His eyes glaze, and he nods placidly.

  “Good day,” he says. Without a further word, he turns and marches down the empty street.

  Abelin sags beside me with relief. A tiny patch of unpleasant wetness spreads to my trousers from my pocket―one of my passengers must have been too terrified for control. I nudge Abelin and we take great strides to the truck.

  The back is empty, for the moment. Abelin will pick up cargo at our friend Germain’s shop, a few minutes’ drive away. I climb carefully into the back for the sake of the mice, and Abelin helps me open the secret compartment under the floor.

  It’s a tiny space, ridiculously small for the number of people we hope to cram in there, but this is not our first trip and I know they will fit. Every single one of them value their freedom over their comfort today.

  One by one, I gently lift each mouse out of my pocket and unpick the lauvan knots. The tiny albino mouse I save for last, and the little boy lies on top of his mother once transformed.

  “Good luck,” I whisper to them all, and give the boy a wink. Then Abelin and I place the false floor on top and spread burlap sacking for cover.

  Outside, I embrace Abelin.

  “Don’t take any more risks than you must,” I say.

  “Keep them off our scent,” he replies. “Give me a few days.”

  “Don’t keep us waiting.”

  He gives me a lopsided grin.

  “I’ll be back.”

  ***

  When I awake, I recall that Abelin never returned. He was caught and killed on his way back with the empty truck. I continued my efforts in his memory, but when the war ended, I fled my prison of grief to find a new life in Central America. The wheel spins again and again, and the cycle of my life repeats.

  CHAPTER V

  My morning class passes without incident, and Wayne’s knock on my office door is a welcome break from marking assignments. I push my rolling chair back.

  “Hungry?” Wayne pokes his head through the doorway.

  “Yes. This last paper was giving me a headache, it’s so poorly written. I need a break.”

  “I hear you. I hate plowing through half-assed attempts,” says Wayne with a roll of his eyes. “It takes forever.”

  “Oh, I don’
t bother reading them.” I sling my satchel over my shoulder. “It’s an immediate re-write. I have the time to read it, but certainly not the inclination. No, it’s the sheer fact that someone bothered to print out such rubbish that makes my head pound.”

  Wayne laughs and follows me to the rooftop door.

  “I like that strategy. I might implement it on the really terrible papers.”

  Wayne unlocks the door with a quick glance around to make sure nobody watches us―we’re not supposed to have the key to the roof―and I trail up the stairs after him. The roof is sunny but with a biting breeze that reminds me of autumn, despite it being mid-summer. The seasons pass me by like leaves in the wind.

  Wayne bites into a deli sandwich while I dig out a bun and hunk of cheese from my satchel. It’s all that I felt like wrangling together from my fridge this morning, although it’s not so different from thousands of midday meals I’ve consumed over the centuries. The bread is much whiter, though.

  “Coming to lunch club at the gym this week?” Wayne asks through a mouthful of sandwich. Wayne gave me a standing invitation to join his mixed martial arts fight club once a week. I’ve gone a few times, and it’s a great way to remind my body how to move again, after many years of peaceful disuse. Who knows when I might need my skills sharp once more? And I can’t deny that I enjoy a good fight. This way, I can make friends and punch them at the same time. Who could ask for more?

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “What’s the status on Potestas?” Wayne licks mustard off his thumb then swats away a curious wasp. “I heard about the stolen grail. How do we stop this ceremony from happening, now that March has it?”

  “I believe they have almost everything they need to proceed. And once they complete the ceremony, spirits will possess the members of Potestas, and I don’t know what will happen then.” My skin crawls at the thought of spirit possession, of not being in control of my own body. “These people have no idea what they’re getting into. The spirits have an agenda they’re not sharing with the organization, I’m certain of it. The best way to stop this is to take away the grail, which is easier said than done.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “I looked at headquarters but came up empty-handed. March must have it at her house, so I’ll have to dig deeper. If that doesn’t work, I might need backup. Are you in?”

  Wayne nods decisively.

  “Of course. Ready and waiting.”

  “Good. It might come to that.” I sigh and toss a crust to a waiting crow. “I hate saving people from themselves. I’d much rather smack sense into them instead.”

  We watch two crows fight each other for the crust. The first crow yanks it away from the second and flies to a nearby tree. The other caws with raucous indignation.

  “Have you felt the earthquakes lately?” Wayne asks after a pause. I shake my head.

  “Should I have?”

  “A friend of mine in the geology department mentioned that they’ve measured unusual earth tremors in the past few days. I haven’t felt anything either―they’re probably too deep for us surface-dwellers to sense. I wonder what’s going on down there.”

  “What comforting news, when my apartment was built before plate tectonic theory was proposed.” I raise an eyebrow at Wayne, who chuckles.

  “You should always be ready for the big one, Merry. You never know when it will come.”

  ***

  I have few classes in the summer, so by midafternoon I throw my satchel on my coffee table at home and flop onto the couch. There are a few moments of silence, silence so thick and still that traffic noise from outside sounds distant and tinny. It’s very quiet without Alejandro, and even quieter knowing that he won’t bang through the door at any moment.

  I release a deep sigh then lean forward and slide my old friend Braulio’s notebook toward me from its current place on the coffee table. My fingers idly flip through the pages. I’ve read it all before, but perhaps there is more to learn. What I’d really like to do is peruse Potestas’ library, but I’ll be stopped if I don’t have a disguise. March doesn’t trust me enough to allow me free rein of her books.

  The notebook, filled with findings that Braulio compiled over a lifetime of research into the spirit world, is organized by element. Fire is first, its pages illuminated by diagrams of orange flames and crucibles. The air section has stylized diagrams of a puffing north wind and misty apparitions. I’m impressed by Braulio’s artistic talents and saddened that I can’t tell him so anymore. It was only a few short months ago that he died, and the memory still smarts.

  The water pages contain illustrations of still lakes and bubbling pots, along with copious notes on naiads and sirens, mermaids and whirlpools, and the spells of protection that served me well when water spirits were aggressively attempting to communicate with me. I flip to the next section.

  I haven’t delved into the earth section with as much intensity as the other three, so I slowly flip the pages. Fragments of sentences enter my mind as I casually skim the text. Pictures of sacred mountains and altars in dripping caves abound. My stomach tightens at an illustration of a cleft in the earth, looking remarkably like the sinkhole I fell into the other day. Those spirits who contacted me were earth spirits, but I don’t feel the need to fight them. I’d rather hear what they have to say. They tease me with knowledge of my father and leave me wanting more, needing more.

  I don’t feel helpless against them, not the way I did against the water spirits from before. I managed to scare the earth spirit in that sinkhole, which felt good. I feel on firmer footing now. Perhaps it is because they aren’t the first spirits I’ve tackled, and my experience is helping. Whatever the reason, I’m more confident in my dealings.

  That doesn’t mean it isn’t smart to have a few tricks up my sleeve. I bend over the notebook to learn more and start reading at random.

  These philosophers debated the nature of the animus behind each tree, each mountain, each earthquake. Were they immortal or not? And if not, did they reproduce as do the animals of Earth, or perhaps are reborn as is the phoenix from the flame?

  From the rigid class system of their birth, the philosophers naturally examined the nature of classes of spirit and attempted to categorize them based on power. The smallest, weakest spirits were connected to the ephemeral flowers of the meadows and grains of sand on the beaches. Larger phenomena, such as mountains or destructive events like earthquakes or landslides, were credited to the ruling spirits. These, of course, are the most frequently worshiped in many cultures, a fact which was not lost upon our intrepid philosophers.

  I wonder how much truth lies in the rambling thought experiments of centuries ago. It’s irrelevant to my current goal of learning methods of defense, so I flip to the next page.

  After a few minutes of reading, I look at my watch. I have a chess game to win at Gary’s apartment next door, and he’s expecting me now. My reading will have to wait.

  ***

  Gary opens the door at my knock. His wrinkled face beams at me and his lauvan wave.

  “Merry, come in, come in. I’ve been reading about a few new tactics that I can’t wait to try on you. I might even win this game.”

  “You can keep trying, Gary,” I say with a smile. “But don’t beat yourself up about it. An old guy like you…”

  I leave the sentence dangling, and Gary laughs heartily. I’ve never known him to take offense to anything.

  “Don’t underestimate the elderly, my young friend. Experience counts for a lot.”

  “I suppose it does.” And that’s the reason I win. “I can’t have you winning easily. I’m here to keep your brain sharp.”

  “Sharp as a brass tack, all right.” Gary chuckles and shuffles into the kitchen. I settle onto a dining room chair in front of the chess board, and he comes back with a plate of cookies.

  “The missus baked these this morning before her bridge club.”

  “She’s a good woman,” I say.

&nb
sp; “The very best.”

  We set up the chess board, and Gary chats about what he and his wife did yesterday, and how his grandkids are. I let him chatter. It’s a welcome change from my silent apartment next door. When he pauses for a breath, I remember what Alejandro told me about Gary last week.

  “Did you used to skydive, Gary? Alejandro mentioned it to me.”

  Gary’s face lights up at my interest, and I understand the reaction Alejandro draws out of people, why they open up to him the way they do.

  “Yessir, I was an instructor for years. Oh, there’s nothing like leaping into thin air, nothing but a hope of a parachute on your back, the world almost too far away to see. It’s something else. Did you ever try?”

  “Once, years ago.” It was exhilarating, but I can achieve a more controlled effect as a falcon. “It was incredible, but not something I wished to repeat.”

  “I met plenty like you on the job,” Gary says with a faraway gleam in his eye. “I could get them to come back at least half the time. There was this one fellow…”

  While Gary recalls his storied past, I nod in the right places and observe his lauvan. The threads are still close to his body, unlike mine. He sloughs off strands frequently, as is common with the elderly, and he has many connections that splinter away from his body into transparency in different directions. Compared to my loose cloud, his lauvan are tightly coiled. What’s the difference between us? I have centuries on him, certainly, but why don’t his strands appear looser than my younger friends? I grow weary of mysteries that can never be solved, and tune into the conversation once more.