Below the Moon

by Alexis Marie Chute

  This memory of his mother, so arresting that Archie’s skin tingles, fights the image of the face before him. His mother’s death is what changed him. It stole his innocence beneath the river’s ebb. It robbed him of his adventurous spirit, replacing it with fear and complacency. It changed everything to a life of mindless routine and a recliner so worn that its springs groaned out in welcome each time he plopped himself there, happy to escape through one sitcom or another beside dated floral wallpaper.

  “I am Laken,” the Steffanus answers, watching for Archie’s reaction. She tilts her head to the left, then the right, her blue-red eyes a battle between snow and fire as she digs into his mind with her own, probing for a crack.

  Archie resists being known. He is good at this, a trick he learned from Tessa. He had spent years, a lifetime, blocking out all he thought might cause him to feel, sitting so intently still that he could swear he watched life passing him by.

  Laken is no match for him. She shakes her head and smiles faintly, though her sculpted face twitches against the gesture. Archie senses Laken’s ability differs from Tessa’s telepathy; it’s more akin to Nameris and his gift of discernment.

  “I know the name Laken. Where have I heard it?” replies Archie finally. His eyes broaden with the spark of remembrance. “No, I read it. In the secret history of the Olearons! On the glass square I found—stole—from the Lord’s throne. You gave an oracle that terrified the red beings. I thought they had you executed.”

  “The Olearons write and rewrite history as if they are Naiu themselves. Bah, what do they know? What does anyone know? Our world, Jarr, is in flux, shifting in this way, warping in that. Tillastrions take us to places we never intend to visit, time folding and merging and breaking apart.”

  “Because of the Star?”

  “Yes, but that is only part of it, Archibald. Everything is connected. The life force at the center of it all is Naiu. Its mind is confused. It is everywhere, witnessing so much hate yet perceiving so little love.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I, in full. In part, yes. I see. There will be a great day of reckoning. Either all of us and everything we know and touch will be destroyed, or we will find new balance, a new peace. As hard as I strain, I cannot tell to which extreme all planets will finally come to rest.”

  “When are we, Laken? When in time? Is this the future?”

  “No, Archibald. This is my past where you are visiting me now. The Star has not yet come, nor has your ship crashed on the southern shore. Those events are many sunsets from now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “In your present, I am old and weary, Archibald. I hide within a tunnel of Baluurwa, too weak to protect the Star myself. This I can foresee.

  “The lifespan of a Steffanus is not fixed. We expend the Naiu in us, which removes sunsets from our lives, though they can be returned by generous bounty in the gift of another. Our generations of sisters are the turn of a wheel, not the line of a wrinkle.

  “Tanius, of whom you speak, will be of a seed birthed soon, the next generation of Steffanus sisters, who, in your present, must guard Baluurwa and the Star. I will be grateful not to fulfill that duty alone. I also foresee my sisters’ generosity with their sunsets, allowing my life to endure until your present, Archibald.”

  “Alone?” Archie feels like a child trying to form words as he struggles to piece together the timeline and implications of Laken’s story.

  “The Olearons burn all they do not understand and those they cannot control. I am the last, scathed but alive in the wake of the wild grief of Telmakus, the 29th Lord of Olearon. I was able to save the seed of our race by giving many years of my own life, gifting of myself so that others may grow. I planted the Steffanus seed here, within Baluurwa, and in as many worlds as I could travel.”

  Archie shakes his head in disbelief. Is this all a dream? he wonders. Then he remembers the warmth of Laken’s hand.

  “Tell me please, Laken: What did you mean when you said you saw me as a baby? I don’t remember.” Archie studies her silver skin and unruly tangle of gold-and-brown hair. Her gown’s subtly flowing fabrics depict abstracted swells of sea-foam bubbling over broken fragments of silver moon and patterns of churned auburn earth. Studded across her body, like a belt, are a rainbow of plastic buttons, shapes Archie recognizes from dress shirts and jackets, and pins of countries from Earth. France. Africa. Canada. China. Around Laken’s neck is a chain fastening a bent shield of tarnished gold over her shoulder and across one breast.

  “I knew your father—” Laken answers tenderly.

  “My father?” Archie’s chest deflates. He suddenly remembers the invisible something he crashed into. “I’m delusional! That explains it. This”—he gestures around himself, to Laken, the blue-bark forest below, the shadowy, sweltering mountain, and heavy sky—“this is all my imagination! I’ve been knocked out. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Oh my, Archibald, how you have entangled your mind in forgetfulness! Do you remember nothing of your father’s fierce love for you that flows through your veins? Your mother was too fragile for us to visit again; too much time had passed, and her wounds were covered in a beautiful blanket of new life like a field of orchids. We didn’t wish to upset everything she had come to know, all she had built up around herself. She would not have accepted that the derivative of Jarr, Earth, was not your true home.”

  Archie grabs his head and shakes himself. His mind feels as if it will be torn in two. As Laken’s words pierce him with bolts of electric revelation, he wonders, and the solid defenses he erected are chiseled away. A crack forms. What if ? The thought lasts only briefly. Archie chokes out his words, “Tell me. Tell me everything you know.”

  He follows Laken up a path, illuminated by moonlight, that winds and separates, snaking dangerously both up and down the mountain. She peers over her shoulder to keep watch on Archie as he patters along behind her. Her back is lined with two jagged scars, one on each shoulder blade—where Laken’s wings were crudely cut away. Her body is a story Archie wishes to read but also recoils at the sight of. He knows she must have survived brutality he cannot fathom.

  Laken rarely looks in the direction she is going, as if the way is deeply etched in her memory, until they reach the edge of a sharp bluff. She slips her wide hand, missing a few silver nails on her long fingers, into Archie’s and guides him forward.

  Together they step on floating mounds of earth just wide enough for one foot each. The mounds dip slightly under their weight. The land far below, slumbering Jarr-Wya in an earlier age, rests peacefully. The clouds pass through Archie like wandering ghosts as he and Laken take one measured step after another. Small flecks of dirt fall and tumble lazily each time their feet push off. Archie listens, anticipating the sound of the dislodged pieces of earth and stone rattling against the black rock of Baluurwa beneath them, but all is too quiet.

  Finally, after what seems like hours of night, they reach a small island floating off one tentacle vine of Baluurwa. “This is my home,” Laken says simply, pointing toward a wooden bed carved out of a still-growing tree, softened with layers of leaves. The bed sits low to the ground, and if you rolled over in your sleep, you would tumble over the edge of the tiny floating island. “Sit,” Laken says, and Archie obeys.

  “Now please, Laken, I need to know. Who is my father? I have so many questions.”

  Laken perches on a chiseled-rock chair shaped to her long spine. “You know this is the past we are in, Archibald? Much has transpired in the sunsets beyond this one. I cannot tell you what I have not seen in my future, in your past. All I know is what I know. Please, do not be angry.”

  “That’s fine. A part of me still believes this is a concussion.”

  “I had a strange friendship with Telmakus. Unlike those he ruled, he was not closed-minded and cruel. He was not like the 22nd Lord, Devi, who captured a Steffanus sister generations before me, tricked her into divulging our secre
ts, then threatening to and nearly killing her.

  “Telmakus, the 29th Lord, came up the mountain one night, startling me, inquiring where my sisters were hiding. I told him I was the last, that his kind had burned us to oblivion. Without so much as a sneer or taunting word, he told me he was sorry. He came humbly, begging. He was in search of his love. He knew her from his past life. In her absence, his love drove him in reckless desperation.

  “I asked the green birds to search all Jarr-Wya for the one Telmakus described as his Maiden from their previous incarnation. They returned the next day, weary and with no answers. In the meantime, we left my cave and Telmakus joined me here, where you are now sitting. We spoke of many things, the human world being one. He found my Tillastrion, given to me by an elder sister before she was scorched. She had left it with me for safekeeping till I was older, wiser, and ready to venture to our derivative dimension, which I did many times after her death. Telmakus asked about the Tillastrion. He said mine was the most beautiful he had ever seen. We decided to search for his love together, thinking that perhaps she had been displaced, for a reason we could not understand.

  “We operated the device and found ourselves in a sweltering African desert of the human world. And there she was. Telmakus’s desire was so great, it brought us to her shadow.

  “The woman was lovely, a part of nature herself, a wild soul, always traveling, as if she, too, was searching. I left the two of them alone in her mirage to spread my wings in flight and soar above your emerald-azure world. I expected your mother would return with us, but Telmakus worried the Olearons awaiting him on Jarr-Wya would be unwelcoming. That is to state it nicely.

  “He returned, bringing you with him within his very being, keeping your spark safe, but the Tillastrion did not ferry us smoothly, and Telmakus was confused. He returned to the glass city and was met with fear-mongering and anger at his poorly delivered story.

  “Telmakus sent me word by green bird to meet him in the blue forest. He begged me to help him return you to Earth, where you would be safe beyond the Olearons’ knowledge, and I accompanied him. He no longer believed his kin would allow you to live. He was heartbroken to leave you and his lover on Earth, and return to Jarr-Wya alone once more. Telmakus’s mind was shadowed in grief and rage, which, I fear, only grew. The Olearon warriors discovered me in a tunnel and attempted to murder me, but your father intervened. I lost my wings that day but won my life, thanks to him. That was the last time I saw him.

  “The Olearons refuse to see the light of Naiu in our sisters. That was not the first time they meant to burn away the memory of us. History tells of other ‘last Steffanus’ women, but our seed never lies dormant for long. Our love for this world, for all worlds, is undying.

  “On my own, I visited you. Your mother believed you were asleep. You awoke when I entered, kicking free of your blankets. You were a babe, not walking or speaking—but not one cry left your lips as you smiled at me. You remembered me then. I hoped you always would.

  “Your mother was the kiss of love, pure joy, though she was brokenhearted. Her strength of will stitched up the wound Telmakus left behind. She healed herself, though in doing so deceived her own heart, replacing her memory of Telmakus with a smokescreen of logic.

  “I knew then,” Laken says sadly, “that you would have to find the world of Jarr on your own.”

  Surrendering to what feels like a dream, to his unconscious mind, Archie accepts Laken’s words. “Thank you,” he replies.

  “Thank you?” The Steffanus is startled. The scars on her face twitch.

  “Yes,” Archie continues. “If it weren’t for you, I might never have been born.”

  “Ah, I see! The spark of Naiu still lives in you!” Two crystal tears fall from Laken’s eyes. She takes Archie’s hands—which look small and peach in comparison to hers—and gives him her warmth.

  “I read the story of the origin of your race told by a Steffanus sister to Devi. The secret history of the Olearons said she was deemed worthy of death—was that you, Laken?”

  “No, not I, though she told the 22nd Lord the truth. She escaped and informed the sisters of her testimony, warning them of the burning hatred in the west. She did not survive the attack that came next.”

  Laken grins kindly, “I am the last now, but not in our shared tomorrows, Archibald, as you have witnessed. Do not mourn for us. My sisters’ seeds grow in Baluurwa as we speak. I do not have count of the sunsets of my life, but for every one I am gifted, I am grateful for my unexpected friendship with a merciful Olearon.”

  “Telmakus.”

  “The corrupted fire-breathers interpreted my oracle for ill, but the words I spoke were meant for Telmakus, as a promise. ‘A half-blood Olearon will return to Jarr, and the race of Olearons will cease to be as they have been known since the first sunrise and their first spark.’ This prophecy is about you, Archibald.”

  “My father was Telmakus.” Archie lets the words settle in his mind like softly falling snow. “And I am the half-blood Olearon.” He shakes his head. His brow furrows. He struggles to reconcile his image of the Lord that Laken speaks of, kind and loving, with the wicked spirit that sliced through the sanity of his successor in the woods. That version of Telmakus would have killed him by a serpent of fire if Tessa hadn’t been quick with the stone. Archie wonders if his father’s nobler nature lives on too inside the 30th Lord’s body, but as much as he hopes it to be true, he knows no goodness endures in the 29th Lord.

  “Arden is in danger,” whispers Archie.

  “Arden?”

  “My son—”

  “A son?” Archie nods, and Laken drops his flushed hands and stands on bare silvery feet. “Please, Archibald, who is your son?”

  “His name is Arden, or at least that’s what we called him on Earth. Here on Jarr-Wya they call him Ardenal. He visited Rolace and was given a gift.”

  “To be of this world. I know what must have happened. Your blood, the blood of your father, is alive in him. Only one transformation would want so desperately to manifest itself.”

  “Arden’s skin, his eyes … they’re now red and black.”

  “Yes,” Laken answers, radiating like a shooting star. “The half-blood Olearon has come, and so has the one who will save us all from the end.”

  Chapter 17

  Ella

  The vineyard is alive past midnight with the sprites’ lively races. They keep track of: who is the fastest flyer; who can find the prize ohmi the quickest (which Queen Jeo hides in a new place at dusk); who can trace the vineyard from its start, near the Great Tree at the north, to its end by the northwestern sea—blindfolded; who can catch Queen Jeo herself. I’m told the ancient sprite is flown around in an ohmi crate. She once fluttered through the vineyard herself, but now her wings are frail with age.

  The sprites are a feather weight when they stand on my palms and shoulders, cheering for tonight’s racers. Moonlight kisses their emerald-silver arms, coiled in vines. The tiny creatures wear the velvety leaves they tend and swing on and curl up in each night. The sprites barely rest—not more than four hours of sleep—before their harried and happy routine begins again at dawn. They’re fluttering off now, their races finished, the quickest sprites congratulated and doused in ohmi ale.

  My brain is reeling. There’s so much to take in that I want to shoo away sleep and explore the vineyard on my own. The half of our company remaining here, though, has other ideas for me. Mom and Dad both coddle me, carrying my bedding and fetching me the dewy water the sprites collect from the Great Tree every morning. Regardless of magical changes and new worlds, my parents have stayed the same: overprotective, concerned, and oozing love.

  Others haven’t remained as constant.

  I’ve noticed the difference in myself and in certain others since being in Jarr. Grandpa, obviously, who seems to be growing more youthful by the day, but also Lady Sophia, whose change is less obvious.

  Lady Sophia’s songs, her deep-bellied melodies, once the
words of famous lyricists and singers, are now her own creations. She opens her mouth and original words slip out. She is still jolly and self-absorbed—plus obsessed with mothering everyone, which she attributes to lonely, misunderstood cruise director Valarie and her terrible demise—but she’s becoming an artist, not only a performer.

  Lady Sophia sings a lot about love. Love is a hard topic for me right now, on multiple fronts. First, there’s Luggie, my sweet and thoughtful Bangol. It’s strange to think I’ve fallen for a stone-headed creature, especially a member of the race that has caused so many problems for Jarr-Wya, the Olearons, and my family. Luggie is a part of the smaller company that heads to the Bangols’ northern fortress. He will lead them to the amphitheater, where they’ll plant the Steffanus antler. Why he’s falling in line with the Lord of Olearon is beyond me. I’m scared for him.

  This worry and so many others make me almost forget my other trouble with love, until the reminder smacks me squarely in the face. Mom and Captain Nate. It’s time for bed right now, and ugh! Everyone’s getting ready, and the two of them step to the side to talk quietly. Do they think I’m mute and blind? I’m not tired, thanks to my rest on Grandpa Archie’s back as we fled Baluurwa, plus my skin prickles like cactus bristles at the sight of Mom and Nate. Who can sleep when they feel annoyed? Not this girl!

  The way Nate says her name, Tessa, all cotton candy sweet yet deep as a bottomless ocean, as if it’s coming right from his heart—yuck! It makes me break into a cold sweat, even though the ohmi are warming me from the inside. Nate folds his hand around Mom’s when he thinks no one’s looking. They talk beneath the canopy of the vineyard. They assume I’m asleep.

  The ohmi I ate during the races prove to be not only warming, but rest inducing. I’m sleepy all of a sudden. Or, it could be the cancer. My eyelids grow cantankerous at my mission of staying awake to spy on Mom. As I begin to drift off, while the chattering sprites finish telling each other bedtime stories, I can sense that Mom is still awake. Our bond, the connection between our brains—or is it our hearts?—is like a river we can’t dam.