He slowed to a halt and peered out the window as he asked the fateful question: “Need a ride?” His words came out in a puff of steam that hung in the cold, morning air.
I shivered in the 5am chill and pulled my purple wool coat closer around me. It was February and I had just moved out of the city into the suburbs with my friends. I liked taking this particular bus - it got me closer to the office than the 15E or the 86B, and when we arrived the driver would set the flashers and the parking brake, turn up the heat, and pull his guitar from under the seat. I’d settle back into the seat and relax as a few other passengers and the driver jammed for 30 minutes, until their day began. This alone was worth leaving more than an hour early.
This morning, though. It was bitter cold, -19 said the radio - and windy. Already I couldn’t feel the two inches of leg that weren’t covered by the long coat. I weighed my options. He didn’t look dangerous, didn’t give off creeper vibes. He felt like a nice, middle -aged man looking to help someone out. I’d had my share of creepers, as every girl does. I glanced at my watch - the bus was late, no surprise given the icy conditions. It would likely be along any minute, I should wait. Just then a blast of arctic air stung my face. I reached for the door handle and stepped up into the cab of his pickup.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s really cold this morning.” I settled into the warm seat gratefully as he pulled into light traffic, headed to the city.
We drove in silence for a mile or more. I glanced covertly at him a couple of times but his face was impassive. I watched as the sky lightened and traffic thickened.
“You take this bus every morning?” he asked, eyes on the road.
“No, I usually take the 6:15 but I have to go in early this morning to help my boss with something.”
He was silent again, but this time I was uncomfortable. He seemed to be stewing about something. His jaw clenched and unclenched a couple of times, his brows crept closer together, and his face began to darken. “Pretty girl like you, seems like it might not be the safest thing, hitching a ride with a total stranger.” I stiffened. HIs tone was suddenly unfriendly.
“I don’t usually take rides from strangers,” I managed. “But if I do, usually it’s someone with a daughter my age who stops, like you did. Safe. I’ve not had any trouble.” I kept my tone light, careful to keep my growing alarm to myself. I smiled to show him I wasn’t afraid. Even though I was. Like dogs, predatory men can smell fear.
We were at a stop light. The light turned green and we began to roll. After a few hundred yards, he glanced in the rear view then took a sudden sharp right turn onto a gravel road that disappeared into some woods. When we were well-hidden from the road, he parked the truck and turned toward me. I shrank back against the door and looked back at him steadily. Well, this has taken a sudden turn for the weird, I thought. Did I misjudge this situation? Now I felt menace emanating from him. He leaned toward me; I shrank back.
“I could just…have my way with you,” he said quietly, spreading his hands and shrugging as if to say, Why not, who would stop me? “Or I could take you somewhere, share you with my friends.” His eyes were intense. They burned into mine. “I could do whatever I want. Do you think you could stop me? I bet you do, I bet you think you can do anything, but you’re wrong.” He was almost whispering by now. His words made me shiver but…just the words. HIs demeanor had changed from menacing to earnest. He sat back in his seat. “You’re no match for someone like me.
“Get out.” He flipped a switch and the door locks sprang up. I didn’t move, unsure of what he was doing. “Go on, OUT!” He roared, and lunged toward me. My hand fumbled for the door handle behind me, found it, and pushed up with force. The door swung open and I tumbled out, my purse tangled in the seat belt. I landed on my back in soft, musty-smelling leaf litter with a ‘Whoof”, the air knocked out of me. He tossed my purse on top of me, slammed my door shut, and, as he peeled out, spraying gravel like tiny bullets, he yelled, “Maybe you’ll think twice now before taking a ride from just ANYONE!”
I lay there shivering with cold and adrenaline for a few minutes before clambering to my feet and brushing myself off. I gathered the spilled contents of my purse, zipped my coat, tied the hood tight and set off for the main road, turning the incident over in my mind, looking for a silver lining. I found two.
The first was that by the time I got to the main road, I wasn’t cold anymore. The next bus came along shortly, so I didn’t have to get cold again, waiting.
The second was that I didn’t have to use my gun. I patted my purse and smiled as I boarded the bus, at last, for work.
It was inevitable, I suppose. Silly to think my new friends would never find out. All the girls at school are crazy about bowling. There isn’t much else to do in this small town we’d moved to after Dad died. They kept inviting me, even after I’d turned them down countless times. I always had a good excuse - at first, I had to “fix up” my room on weekends, or had extra homework to catch up on after school. I binge-watched Harry Potter movies in my darkest hours when sleep walked off without me and went looking for my Dad. The idea of Magic smooths my bumpy reality. Then, I did all the other things there were to do with my sister, Laura. It took about a week before I was bored to tears with the Arcade at the “mall” - three abandoned chain stores and an nearly-empty JC Penney. We worked through the 3 flavors at the sorry-looking Baskin Robbins in an afternoon - the 1 fell off their sign years ago and they had decided to go with it. For a week we haunted the mini golf place that only had 6 balls, all the same color, so you had to share with your party and the party ahead of you. Most players brought their own. There was no movie theater. Still, I resisted the frequent bowling invitations, until I couldn’t anymore. Laura, gracious through my increasingly frantic attempts at avoidance, finally broke.
“Jenny, enough. It’s time to grow up. It didn’t matter before. You could avoid them no problem. But here, Jeez, Jenny, bowling is, like, a profession to aspire to. You don’t have to love it, but you have to at least look at it.”
She’s right, I only have two choices: Be alone or go bowling with my friends. I haven’t been near a bowling alley since I was 6. If I don’t get over this phobia now, I’ll never be able to go near one for the rest of my life, I thought. Sigh. Dad loved bowling.
“Jenny, we’re going bowling next Saturday! Wanna come with us?” “Let me check - Saturday? Um…” I pretend to look at the calendar on my phone. “Aw, I can’t. I have to get new glasses.” “Again?!”
I steeled myself. Here goes…”Oh, hey, I was looking at the wrong Saturday. Next NEXT Saturday is my glasses. Haha, boy, I really do need new glasses, though, looking at the wrong …” I trailed off. “OK.” I said in a small voice. “”I can go.”
“Alright!” Carolina pumped her fist in the air. “It’ll be a blast! I don’t guess you have your own ball?”
I waved my hands in front of me. Just the thought of a bowling ball in my own home made my heart race. “No!” I said quickly. “I’ll rent one.”
Despite my fervent prayers, Saturday morning arrived with no complications. I nearly went home twice, got all the way up to the heavy double doors and turned around, fled back to the safety of my car, where I hyperventilated then gave myself a pep talk. And argued with myself.
“Silly, bowling balls are not going to hurt you. Look at all these happy people coming out. They don’t look scared, or hurt.”
“Dummy, you saw it with your own eyes! That man…”
“Dad explained it, remember? It was a gas leak. That poor man, he was just unlucky, in the wrong place. It could never in a million years happen again.”
That awful night, so long ago, is knotted up in my memories of Dad. Driving home from Grandma’s house late one Saturday night, we were at the red light across the highway from the darkened Starlight Bowl. Mom and Laura were sound asleep in the backseat. I’m a night owl like Dad. It was a treat to sit in Mom’s seat up front. Sleepy, sitting in companionable silence, we were jolted by a violent explosion from the low cinder block building. Flames shot into the sky, higher than I could see from my seat, and the car shook from the blast. As I watched in horror, a man who had been stumbling, drunk, down the street in front of the building had been hit by flying debris. Dad tried to turn my head away, but I saw the bowling ball, as if shot from a cannon, split his head in two. I wailed and wailed. It had taken months of therapy to get the image out of my mind, and years before I could tuck the memory away where it didn’t bother me every day. I had worked hard toward this day, then avoided it for long enough. Time to confront the demon.
I paused at the doors, girded my loins, lifted my chin and walked into the bowling alley where my friends were waiting.
Ah, good. The Young Master has returned. It has been a burden not knowing if he would survive his Masters’ Quest. See how happy the Old Master is. There is much to do in this, his last winter of rule, and much for the Young Master to learn, even if he thinks he already knows it all, as young Toms tend to do.
The leaves have begun to turn, soon it will snow. Old Master says the harvest was good this year. At harvest end each family brings a bag of grain or bushel of fruit to deposit in the Palace stores, along with a kitten to join the Old Master’s Grain Guardians. At the storehouse they are given scraps of reed on which is scribbled their contribution. At the accounting house they hand in the reed scraps and a kitten and receive bowls of rice and a dried fish for that day’s meal in return. The account books must be accurate, deposits properly credited to the family who brought them. The Old Master once could track a mouse through a field as well as I, but his eyes are not what they once were. The accounts are tedious work and need a young man’s eyes. It is time.
Young Master will feel restless, no doubt, and wish to be hunting or defending the outposts, but his attention will soon be occupied elsewhere. Do you see the young miss hanging out the storeroom window? She is a sweet-tempered, obedient child, very pretty; but her spitfire sister, a rare beauty from all accounts, has been promised to the Young Master in marriage. She pretends to be displeased with this arrangement but secretly has been dreaming of the Young Master since first she saw him at Temple, according to house cat gossip. She is rumored to be bringing with her a cat of incredible beauty: sleek, ivory-white with a brown mask, boots and ears. I look forward to that.
Few humans think to hold their tongues lest we hear their secrets when cats lounge in their presence; more should. Still fewer humans think to learn our language, as the Old Master has done; more should. It is why he has successfully held this kingdom in the sky; we are his secret army, unnoticed as we slip in and out among the bustle and hum of daily life, detecting unrest, overhearing plots, and parsing murmurings so the Old Master may quell them before they become raging fires.
I will tell you something that may save your life some day. If ever you are about to impart an important secret to another, check around you carefully before you speak. If you see a cat, hold your tongue.
At first light She yawns and stretches, shakes off the fog From the night before. Beneath her bridges Dark seas tumble, The traffic rivers Begin to flow.
On her blocks Bakers brew their coffee Sweet smells wafting Through the chilly air. Front doors thrown open, Stoops swept clean Her sleepy children Stroll off to school.
Tinny songs As electric buses Strain to climb mountains Hoisting heavy loads. Wharf rat scramble, peregrine screech Waves softly lapping Under the pier.
Sidewalks full Of busy people Heels tip tapping On their way to work. Vendors hawk paintings, cheap toys, bodies Taxis pull over At yellow curbs.
Sirens blurt warnings unheeded By drivers intent On blaring their horns Wild parrots winging Kites flying Foghorn’s deep wailing Ships afloat.
The sun dips Her energy flags In rolls the fog Like the night before Beneath her bridges Dark seas rumble Rivers of traffic ebb and slow.
I had a vision You were in it You wanted starlight So you made it In your image. Tiny pricks, Just like you.
I had a nightmare With you the star Your fangs were red, Blood from a jar, Scaring no one. Real fakes, Just like you.
I want a lover Not Narcissus I’m not your mirror Not your mythos Don’t you get it? I’m not Just like you.
I tell you no You think I’m kidding I don’t want you You keep hitting Like a hydra. It’s poison, Just like you.
I will admit You pout’s adorbs Got a brother Not self-absorbed? A kind soul who Is not Just like you?
Billy’s up highest, kinda snugged up in a crevice overlooking the road from Desolation. He found these binoculars, well, ‘ceptin ’ one lens was smashed so I reckon they were monoculars, musta been tossed by the army when they evacuated everyone outta town. We hid but they didn’t look for us very hard like they did for the special ones, the ones with money, the ones who could pay the bastards not to kill them when they got to Desolation Camp. Pastor Warren told us they figured we were too trod on or something to be worth the extra search, we’d be, like, too hungry and sick to be good workers anyway. Silver Lining, boys, he’d say to keep our spirits up when one of us would slump into despair in the early days, before the army bosses realized what a hell-hole this county is, so hot you can barely drag yourself from shade to shade most days, I mean, think about it, a whole county called Desolation and if that don’t convince you, they got a county seat with the same name. So much desolation.
The army left a while back, couldn’t hack all the desolation any more and neither could the guards they left behind; one day last week those guards looked at each other and shrugged and just left, walked away down the dusty road without so much as a goodbye; at least they had the grace to unlock the gates.
Every few hours now we take up sentry on the road, looking out for the former prisoners who figured out they ain’t prisoners no more and have walked for two days to see if any of what once was, still is. Billy has point today and me and KevKev are waiting just around the bend to escort them home. There ain’t nothing in the world like seeing their faces when they get it that they’re home again.
After the Family council had discussed the matter every which way (a slow process, indeed, now that there were 215 of them) ; after The Order had weighed in with a judgement Kate found sorely lacking; after her Father and Grandmother had advocated for her to stay in a power sharing arrangement with her mother, Caffee, the decision had come down to this: The Seven Sisters.
The rules of 7ths apply equally to the men and women: the mother must also be a 7th daughter, there must be 6 living sisters at the time of the 7ths birth. Occasionally, more often with females than males, an identical twin situation crops up. If 6 and 7, birth order determines who will be queen. The firstborn in this case has the same powers but in diminished strength. From the ranks of these first-born twins comes the sub council known as The SEven sisters. They are tie-breakers in any Family council impasses, and assist their own 7th daughter sisters with a support team from HQ in major operations.
And most of them are resentful.
Because of the delicacy of this particular proceeding, The Seven Sisters were chosen from outside Kate’s Family. Angeline, Caffee’s mother and Kate’s grandmother, had been one of the most powerful 7ths ever. Her feats are legendary. Young girls dress as her for historical pageants and when they have children, name them after her children (naming them after her is forbidden). Caffee was on her way to taking her place, pregnant with Kate, when Shadow somehow slipped by the Family compound’s security
————————-
Kate faced the Seven Sisters Council with outward calm, chin up, shoulders back. Inside she was still fighting to gain control over her thoughts and emotions. So what if she was the most powerful 7th Daughter in four generations? Who cares if her grandmother, Angeline, a legend within The Order, had taught her everything she knows? She was only 15, after all, practically an infant given their lifespan. She was truly scared, worried that the end of this hearing would find her cast out of her Family Council. She was only 15, for gods’ sake, the most powerful 7th in four generations, her education incomplete, cast out by her mother, she must be a complete wildling. Who would want her? She schooled her face.
Gram had helped her prepare for each appearance before the council, and now, as they sat regally before her, holding control over her future, she heard Gram’s voice dictating the pattern for weaving self-control and a protection against mind probing techniques. Weaving always calmed her. She constructed protective cocoons in her mind and waited for them to speak. Green over green under blue over beige under turquoise…
These women, sent by The Order to adjudicate the dispute, strangers to their Family, each of them as near to a 7th as anyone but a 7th can get*, would decide if she stayed in the compound, the only home she’d ever known. In all these years, she had never left the shelter of Savage Mountain. She searched their minds and impassive faces for a clue to her fate but they had schooled themselves well, as she was struggling to do now. Not a whisp of thought or sigh of emotion escaped the group. They were locked down tight. She closed her eyes and took a deep, centering breath. When she opened them she was staring intently into the eyes of the Sister who was speaking.
“Katherine of Family Savage, we are prepared to hand down our decision in this matter. Will you accept the sentence, no matter how it falls?”
Kate gave a single firm nod. “I will.” Her voice was strong, a hint of maturity beyond her years in its timbre.
The Sister cleared her throat. “After discussion and prayer, studying the archives, and consultation with other Sister Councils, we have decided this most difficult matter thusly.” She cleared her throat again and glanced at Kate before proceeding.
“There is no doubt about who is the greater transgressor in breaking the rules not only of our society but of the society we are sworn to protect. The facts are crystal clear and undisputed by Caffee, as we have heard over the course of our hearing. Caffe broke as many rules as she felt she had to to achieve her goal…she broke rules of motherhood, of The Order, of humanity in general. In every charge, she is the guilty party. But considering the statements she has made to this council and to others, which tell us that she is beyond redemption as we understand it, and has no means of stopping her efforts to remove Kate from the lists of the living, we have no choice but to order her kept under guard in your most secure area, bound tightly by every sister of spell-weaving ability, no matter how frail or depleted. She will not put aside consorting with Shadow; in fact, she has told some few of us of her desire to “educate” other disaffected 7ths* as to the many “Grave Mistakes” of our interpretations of The Book. We cannot let that or anything like that happen. She is a danger to all. “
Kate’s face remained still. She could hear her shattered thoughts so loudly - No, they can’t! This is not fair! Where will I go? - that she was afraid they’d leaked through. Even though she had given this outcome a 75% possibility of prevailing in her planning, she found she had been clinging to the 25% hope of true justice. Punishment for the guilty one, not her target.
A tear slipped down her cheek, not unnoticed by the council. None of them were happy with their decision but all of them were used to making difficult, life or death decisions for The Order, under whose umbrella they all labored. Their training was thorough. Compassion and empathy were encouraged but weighted no higher or lower than any other value. Clearly they had made the right decision. The safety of millions in exchange for the shunning of one. Kate also knew better than anyone how broken Caffee was, how her encounter with Shadow had left her with only a piece of her soul. The rest had been subsumed by Shadow and controlled her now. Caffee hated Kate with a burning, unthinking intensity, Well, at least living with that hell was over. For now.
“Katherine, it us with heavy heart but clear conscience that we sentence you to exile from Savage Mountain. In addition, no Family member is to contact you until the Council gives clearance. To that end, there will be cast from HQ a blocking spell upon the compound. You, however, will be allowed to remain clear to continue your training however you can. We will leave that to you. You may not attempt to contact the Family. We will take care of that. You have 24 hours, Kate.”
In spite of her best efforts, Kate gasped. Gram hadn’t said a word about this. Thoughts in turmoil, she almost missed Gram’s hiss in her inner ear. “Kate. Steel up.” That voice, that command she knew. She’d heard it all her life when things looked grim and Kate felt hopeless. It meant “Put the emotions on the back burner. Focus on what’s in front of you. Be fluid.”
So she did. She mentally constructed a boat out of silver and copper thread, lovingly escorted her emotions below deck one by one, acknowledging each one with a kiss and a promise, and tucked the boat behind her in her mental wake where it bobbed gently, waiting.
All the while she gazed coolly at the Sisters.
“Sisters, I accept your judgement with a heavy heart, in the spirit in which it is given. Only my mother, in her madness, has abandoned her vows to The Order and the gods we all love and serve. I will work hard to complete my training and become worthy of the pain this decision has cost you.” Tears streamed silently down her ashen cheeks, splashing onto her best dress, spattering onto the dusty wooden floor.
The Sisters abandoned their stony objectivity now the decision was made. A few spilled their tears, but most caught them just at the edge of their lower lids and let them glisten there as they watched Kate gather her things and turn to leave, unsure of her next step, let alone her future, heartsick yet eager for the opportunity to say a proper goodbye to her loved ones.
The stone-colored map that suddenly appeared in front of her looked so real she stopped dead in her tracks, lest she bang her head on it. She put out her hand; it went through the map as through a mist. Feeling a bit foolish she realized it was her vision alone, no one else could see it even though everyone was watching. As she walked out of the room, footprints appeared on the map before her. Far in the distance, in the third row of an enormous mountain range, shimmered a red X.
yes, dear reader, there are more than a few
twin sorted by birth order into the “almost” category
I was late, as usual. “Jeez, Connie,” I wheezed to myself at step 35 of the interminable stairs to her door. “At least put a bench halfway so a girl can rest.”
My sister’s house sat far above the street, steep banks on 3 sides, lightly manicured back yard giving way at the fence line to the tangled chaparral of the national park . No sign of Choco, their bouncy golden doodle.
I trudged to the front porch and sat on the top step to catch my breath. There was a strong breeze coming from the east and I turned my head toward it, eyes closed. Mmm. Jasmine. Connie’s signature scent.
A bang. I turned to see the front door had blown open. A ruckus rose and fell from inside. Jimmy dashed by to the right, on his way down the hall. He was giggling, his arms outstretched toward whatever he was chasing. Choco bounded behind. I was halfway to my feet when there was a loud crash and the sound of glass breaking, followed by another crash and the sound of metal rolling. A nanosecond of silence was split by two loud shrieks, one from Connie, the other from Dongle the parrot who, since I’d last seen him, had incorporated a whole new string of curses into his repertoire. And then the babies, almost but not quite in sync, chimed in. “Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh. No Oh, no.” I sprinted to the kitchen and stopped in the doorway, gaping.
Connie’s freakishly neat kitchen was coated in fine white powder. Dongle’s enormous cage lay on its side, half in the laundry room, half in the kitchen, the shape of its wire bars outlined neatly in white beneath it on the floor. Dongle was fluttering and shrieking curses above his cage. Bird seed was scattered everywhere. A bag of flour, a mixing bowl, a measuring cup full of milk, and wooden spoons lay on the island counter; a larger bowl overturned at the edge. Connie looked at me, eyes wide. Flour streaked her face and hair. In one hand was a partly unwrapped stick of butter; in the other, the bottom half of a medium-sized iguana, dripping blood onto her new linoleum.
“Holy crap, Connie.”
She blinked and looked down at her hands, unseeing. When it finally registered what she was holding she shrieked again and dropped the lizard’s body on the floor where it writhed like a mechanical toy. She stared at it for a moment, then her body gave an involuntary shudder. Moaning softly, sat suddenly on the floor, as if her legs just couldn’t support her any more. She buried her face in her hands, realized what was on her hands, and shrieked again, rubbing them frantically on her apron. The twins crawled a few feet away from her and began finger painting in the blood-streaked flour on the floor. Connie didn’t notice. Down the hall, Choco barked from Jimmy’s room. Jimmy was laughing so I returned my attention to the scene in front of me.
“Connie, what happened?”
From the floor, Connie drew a shaky breath. “Oh, God, Trish. We were just making cookies,” she said in a dazed voice. “Well…Jimmy had Dongle out, just finished cleaning his cage. Next he was gonna do the hamster’s cage.” She started to rub her eyes, remembered just in time, and withdrew them. “ I guess Jack forgot to put Scooter back in her cage when he left for school this morning. Normally that’s not a big deal, she just wanders around looking for flies…” she trailed off, looking around, her eyes lighting on Dongle. They narrowed speculatively. “I always thought parrots were seed-eaters.”
I blanched as I got her drift.
“We dropped some chocolate chips and I guess Scooter thought they were flies. I don’t know what Dongle thought Scooter was. Next thing I know…” she looked at me with tears in her eyes. “At least Jimmy wasn’t in the room when…” she gestured at Scooter, still writhing but you could tell it was almost done. ““Oh, dear God, where’s the other half?” Her voice rose. “Where’s Jimmy?” There was a hint of panic in her voice.
“Jimmy’s in his room with Choco, I heard them laughing a minute ago.”
She turned to look behind her and finally noticed what the twins were playing with.
“OH, gross!!” she grabbed a twin in each arm and turned to leave the room just as Dongle launched himself from his perch and flew down the hall toward Jimmy’s room. I set off after him, calling over my shoulder. ”Don’t worry, parrots don’t eat hamsters.”
Suddenly, Jimmy shrieked.
