Below the Moon

by Alexis Marie Chute

  “You propose to know me,” says the Lord, cackling. “But I know you as well. A pathetic, powerless human!”

  Luggie speaks up. “I found the secret history glass in the sea when the Maiden took the life of the incarnation of the human cruise director, in the hive mind of the carakwas. I am sorry I didn’t tell you, Ella. I regret it with all my being. Through the enchanted glass, I read about what the 29th Lord wanted the Olearons to forget, and what—through the 30th Lord—he sought to destroy. But it wasn’t the 30th Lord at all. Telmakus has taken over the mind of Dunakkus, along with that of his Maiden, who bravely resisted.”

  The Lord slowly removes his gloves, revealing sickly orange skin beneath. His fingers are a patchwork of red and ill tangerine, with pale yellow lines dividing chunks of skin like stitches. “Well done, all. You have discovered the truth. I applaud you. It only required four hundred sunsets. Yet, what you have failed to recognize is that it does not matter. I am alive, the rightful 29th Lord of Olearon. The 30th Lord should never have been, nor his Maiden. And they are no more.” He rips the Maiden’s patch of vivid colors from his shoulder and grinds it into the earth beneath his boot.

  “No!” Lady Sophia covers her trembling lips.

  “It is done, you weak human. All of you—it is done. They are dead. My power is fed by them and all that is around me. My flesh is alive once more, thanks to an elder’s spell and Dunakkus’s foolishness in adorning himself in its treachery. I grow in strength with every the sunset. And now that I may speak freely, Ardenal, I have a matter to address with you.”

  “Lord?” Ardenal stutters suspiciously. He places Ella on her feet, and she rests her head against Tessa’s chest. He steps forward.

  “Arden, don’t,” Archie says, but the Lord advances on Ardenal.

  “There is an oracle that bothers me, which I must address here and now before we return to Jarr,” says the Lord with a snarl. He takes another casual step toward Ardenal. “And it has to do with you.” With an outstretched arm, he grabs Ardenal’s throat. The Lord’s grotesque flesh is reeking.

  “Arden!” screams Tessa.

  Telmakus glares. “The Steffanus, Laken, once my friend, proclaimed this: ‘A half-blood Olearon will return to Jarr and the race of Olearons will cease as they have been known since the first sunrise and their first spark.’

  “So, you can see, Ardenal, why I must disallow you to accompany us to Jarr. When I learned through the Maiden and Dunakkus of your transformation from human to Olearon, I knew what must be done. I will protect the purity of the Olearon race with the heat of a thousand suns.”

  “Put him down.” Archie says pointedly, his rage seeping out from his level tone.

  “And when I kill you, Ardenal, the power Rolace gave to you, his Naiu, will be mine. My reign will be restored, and peace, as I wish it to be, will govern Jarr-Wya.”

  “You can never rule hearts with hate.” Ardenal chokes on the words through the Lord’s unyielding grip.

  “Save your breath, Arden,” Archie says in a low voice.

  “Archie! Your eyes!” screams Tessa. She recoils with Ella, backing up behind Azkar and Junin.

  Archie feels the pulse of Naiu pump through his heart, drumming in his ears. He looks down at his hands. The age spots and wrinkles are gone, and through his veins flows red heat in branching lines beneath his skin. Archie cannot see himself, but he knows what Tessa witnessed, what all now see plainly. His eyes are a solid onyx hue, a bottomless black from corner to corner—Olearon eyes.

  Archie smelled something familiar in the scent of Zeno’s incense in Treasures. Back then, he was a hunched, nearly bald old man. He snuck off during the cruise, lying to Tessa, following the notes scribbled in Arden’s notebooks. He sought out the yellow-eyed, grey-skinned creature with stones growing from his head.

  The smell of that incense hinted at what he would slowly begin to understand—abstractly at first—after arriving on Jarr-Wya: The feeling of home. The strength he had long forgotten from his youth roofing in the hot Seattle sun. The part of himself, and of his mother, that had come so close to magic, that when he lost them both, he misplaced who he was—who he is.

  Ardenal’s face pales to a sickly orange as the wicked Lord’s grip tightens.

  “I said, put him down!” Archie yells, stepping forward. “It’s not Arden you want, Telmakus. It’s me.”

  “What are you yammering on about, Archibald?” The Lord breaks his gaze with Ardenal and meets Archie’s eyes. The mangled hand releases Ardenal to fall to the volcanic crust of Lanzarote. Luggie rushes to Ella’s side, braiding his fingers between hers, and allowing Tessa to race to Ardenal. She drags him to safety, the Olearon who was once human, once her husband, once the love of her life. Tessa places her lips against Ardenal’s and gives him her breath, forcing his chest to rise and fall. Archie notices the change when her lips turn from life-giving to loving.

  Archie takes a step closer to the Lord. “I spoke with Laken before she died, and she told me who you once were, Telmakus. You were a peace-loving Olearon, a lovesick Lord searching for your Maiden. And you did find her. Here, on Earth.”

  “So what?” says the Lord with scorn. “None of that matters. It is all past. What I am concerned with is the future.”

  Archie calms the fire in him, or more accurately, he thinks, channels it. “The past is our teacher and gives us the choice of who we wish to become.”

  The Lord snarls. “I have no time for platitudes!”

  Archie continues, undeterred. “I didn’t know my father, but Laken revealed to me the truth of my past. You, Telmakus, once loved a woman, a human. That woman was my mother.”

  “N-no,” stammers the Lord.

  “My mother was heat stricken and dehydrated from hiking, so your red skin didn’t disturb her in her delirium. You carried for her the child you conceived together—me—till she was well enough to do it herself. But she never saw you again. Laken checked in on me, but by that time, you were changed. I believe my mother knew, deep in her heart, who you were. She saw the red glint of the sun on a river and dove in. She died trying to find you.”

  “My son … is alive …” The words of Telmakus are bitter-sweet, tinged with resentment at the loss of his former self and his potential, and new hatred for the man standing before him with pale skin and Olearon eyes.

  Archie feels strength throb through his limbs. His mind is sharp and his reflexes heightened. In one split second, he can sense the cool of Callisto’s warning hand on his back, the tiny flecks of salt on the breeze, and the dormant lava beneath Lanzarote. All the hundreds of eyes of the Jarrwians and humans, who watch with bated breath, are focused on Archie and the Lord, and so it is only Archie who notices when Jarr-Wya—the eighth Canary Island—fades from the horizon.

  “I am the half-blood Olearon,” Archie says. Lady Sophia faints.

  “There can only be one Lord of Olearon,” says Telmakus, sneering. He ignites his hands into flaming embers and charges Archie.

  With the thrill of adrenaline and the power of Naiu, Archie moves swiftly, accelerating into double time. With one arm, he reaches back to grip the sheathed dagger of Callisto, who stands beside him. With his other, he retrieves the Banji from his trouser pocket, shaking the enchanted flowers free of the sock that hid them.

  Archie feels his veins burst open with fire, which burns through him, yet he is unscathed. He lunges toward the Lord. Their two flames—one burning sickly orange and the other a vibrant newborn red—collide in a deadly embrace. Before the Lord can choke the life out of him, burning him alive as Telmakus had done to his brother Dillmus, Archie smears the Banji across the seething red face.

  The Banji flowers take effect immediately. Though weakened from the days spent wilting in Archie’s pocket, they still possess enough hallucinogenic properties to disorient the Lord. Briefly. Archie finds his mark and digs Callisto’s dagger deep into the Lord’s heart.

  Slowly the red flame envelops and extinguishes the orange, and both f
ade to deep azure, a blue so hot that Jarrwians and humans alike—even Olearons—must back away. So bright is the light that all must turn and shield their eyes. These moments, unlike before, are long, half-speed, and measured—a time outside of the ticking clock of Earth or the sunsets of Jarr.

  When Archie emerges from the blaze, he is alone. The scene dims to moonlight. The Steffanus dagger and a mound of ash is all that remains of the 30th Lord’s body and the enchanted pieces of the 29th Lord. Telmakus, at last, is at rest. Archie pulls the fire back inside his veins, where his skin is unbroken, unblemished with a hint of rose, yet still pale.

  The first voice to shatter the near-reverent silence is Callisto’s. “What do you stand for, Archibald, half-blood Olearon? Do you seek power, like your father”—all eyes linger on the pile of ash and the metal dagger, on the cracked glass breastplate resting on the lava rock island—“or peace, like your family? Who do you choose to be?”

  “Peace loving,” answers Archie. “Always peace.”

  Azkar and Islo, rivals in all but this, approach Archie with the same expression. They each bend one knee and bow low before Archie.

  “Our 31st Lord of Olearon,” says Azkar.

  “Our 31st Lord,” repeats Islo.

  Junin approaches and also bows. She is followed by Ardenal, Kameelo, and Nameris, then by all Olearon warriors.

  Chapter 42

  Ella

  The silvery wryst drink that Junin poured down my throat has finally spread warmth and energy through me, if not a drunken giddiness. Grandpa Archie, Dad, Mom, and Luggie are alive! I’m beyond relieved.

  All the events with the evil Lord happened fast. I was confused when I read the secret history of the Olearons, which I now see is only part of a convoluted story spanning many decades and worlds. All the pieces have slid into place: Grandpa Archie—how he changed, inside and out—his mother’s bizarre love, and her tragic, mysterious death. It explains why Dad, inside Rolace’s web, was transformed by the power of Naiu into a red-skinned being who can fight with fire. Of course, he became an Olearon! Olearon blood flows through his veins, as it does through mine. Dad’s transformation was dramatic for me and Mom, especially Mom, but in fact is the most natural change in the world.

  Dad and Grandpa Archie are wrapped in a tight embrace, just beyond the mound of ash that was two Lords and a Maiden. The briny wind sweeps inland from the North Atlantic Ocean and picks up the white flecks of burnt skin and bone and carries them over Lanzarote and out to sea beyond.

  Grandpa cups Dad’s face in his hands. Their foreheads—one pale, the other red—touch in a smear of dirt and sweat. “I am so sorry you lost your father,” Dad says.

  “He made his choice,” is all Grandpa Archie replies.

  They whisper so quietly now that I can’t hear them. Their black eyes, however, sizzle with happy tears I recognize from home.

  The melodious sound of Lady Sophia, who has risen from the charred earth where she fainted, is carried on the curling breeze. She sings in Spanish, and I imagine I can understand. The melody is a drumming heartbeat: resilient, reflective, and enduring. The frazzled locals of Lanzarote and stunned tourists who huddle watching at our periphery hear Lady Sophia’s voice, and fear is washed from their horror-stricken faces. She lulls them like a mother; her aria places peace in their hearts, the confidence that the worst has passed and it’s safe to return to the places from where they came.

  I, too, am soothed, and I squeeze Luggie’s hand. He turns to me and apologizes, again. It’s easy for me to smile, forgiving him completely. In a gesture of trust, and of love, I place the key to all the worlds in his grey hands. I close his fingers around it. Soon I’ll explain, once we’ve returned to Jarr-Wya.

  Jarr-Wya! I nearly forgot! My eyes whip past the carnage of Lanzarote, which looks like burnt toast, and search for the magical island. Is my mind playing games with me? Have Duggie-Sky and Xlea been successful?

  It’s gone! Jarr-Wya has been wiped clean from the razor-sharp horizon, like a black ink drip on my pad of paper that is painted over with white. I forget myself and call out to Mom, Dad, and Grandpa Archie. A cluster of green birds are birthed from my lips. They flutter around me for a moment, hiding in my hair and stroking my cheek with their newborn wings.

  I point, and everyone sees. Callisto’s blue-red eyes burn and her skin shimmers in the moonlight.

  “We must go, now!” she urges. “There are not enough Steffanus sisters left guarding the Star in the belly of Baluurwa. If the Millia find their way through the tunnels—”

  “Ella’s cure!” Mom says aloud, but in her head adds: Don’t worry, Ell. I’ll find it. We’ll find it.

  “And the cure for Jarr. Olearons, prepare yourself,” commands Grandpa Archie. The red warriors cauterize wounds and secure their sacks over their shoulders, lining up. “Zeno, we need the Bangols in this fight. Please join with us in saving Jarr, Earth, all the worlds.”

  Zeno studies Grandpa Archie’s black eyes. “Tell me the truth, Archibald. Did you know the truth of who you are when we met in Treasures?”

  “No, Zeno, I had no inclining then of what I now can’t deny.”

  “And who do you support as Bangol king?” Zeno is sneering, yet his eyes betray his hope.

  “Zeno”—it’s Luggie who speaks—“I do not wish to be king, only that the Bangols live our sunsets in amity in our world, and not at the expense of any other.”

  Zeno considers Luggie’s conditions. For the length of one rumbling sigh, the stone-head regards Lanzarote with sentiment, as if saying goodbye to a dear friend.

  “Leave this place to rebuild itself,” Grandpa says. “They’ve endured volcanic eruptions and thrived in this black ash soil; they’ll survive this devastation. Be the king I know you are, Zeno. We need your help.”

  “Of course I’m coming with you,” says Lady Sophia. It’s both a question and a statement.

  Grandpa Archie, once annoyed by the plump singer, now grins and nods. “We’d have it no other way,” he answers.

  Lady Sophia appears relieved.

  Dad points and directs the last lingering humans toward Arrecife. They cower from him, but not from Lady Sophia, who shoos them along a dusty road. The singer brushes herself clean and joins the Olearons, who tower over her; she looks right at home among them with her round cheeks narrowing her eager eyes as she beams, ready to jump portals.

  I watch sadness flash across Dad’s features. He realizes, as do I, that he no longer belongs in this world. How can he ever rejoin our family? Things can never be as they were at home in Seattle, even with my cure.

  “Jarr-Wya is dying, Archibald,” says Zeno huffily. “You ask me to return to a world where my kin might never flourish, or even endure as these humans surely will.”

  The tall hunched Bangol, Borgin, shuffles up and whispers in his cousin’s ear. Zeno huffs in response and scratches his boots against the earth. He reaches deep beneath his hupper fur and retrieves a wooden box with a brass latch. Zeno places the Tillastrion in Grandpa Archie’s hands.

  “My dim-witted cousin has informed me that the Bangols had hoped I would lead differently from Tuggeron, who was bloodthirsty and hungry for new power and lands.” Zeno compresses his lips and takes another deep breath. “I do wish to rule justly, as you have taught me, Archibald. Perhaps you will allow us Bangols to build our bridges out over the western waters, to learn what lies beyond the Sea of Selfdom, where none have gone and returned.”

  “I think that can be arranged,” Grandpa says, chuckling. He clicks open the brass latch and strokes the shifting glass orb and simple clay bowl contained inside the wooden box. “But first we must unify—Olearon, Bangol, Steffanus, sprite, and human.”

  “The Millia cannot be destroyed,” adds Callisto, “until the Star fulfills its purpose.”

  “Then we know what we must do,” Grandpa says with the hint of a grin.

  Chapter 43

  Tessa

  Nate slips his hand inside Tessa’s. His
strength surrounds her, and her heart swells. She looks up at him. Nate’s shirt is ripped and stained with black ash and blood.

  “I see the way you look at him,” Nate begins. “Have you chosen him?” He looks at Ardenal, who crouches to Ella’s height, smiling and preparing her and Luggie for the portal jump to Jarr-Wya.

  Tessa searches Nate’s wide brown eyes. They are easy to read. Kindness. Protection. Love.

  She turns her gaze again to Ardenal. He leaves Ella and Luggie to assist an elderly Spanish man onto the shoulders of two local youths, who carry the senior inland toward a partially destroyed town. He checks in with his friends and fellow warriors—Azkar, Nameris, Kameelo, Junin, and Islo—then turns toward her.

  Tessa is startled by Ardenal, as he is by her. There is an unseen heat exchanged in their stares, a longing beyond words and worlds, and a hope, just a sliver of a hope, that refuses to die.

  Ardenal’s black eyes slip to Tessa’s hand, folded within Nate’s. His chin falls, and he turns away from them to join his father at the edge of Lanzarote, where the sprites flutter excitedly.

  “I haven’t decided.” Tessa is surprised by her words, spoken from lips wet with tears and trembling with fear.

  “Then I’ll follow you back to Jarr-Wya,” answers Nate. He squeezes her hand. “I’ll fight for the island, for Ella, for you, until you make your choice.”

  Chapter 44

  Ella

  Steffanus sisters, closer,” Callisto orders. The sprites, directed by Lillium, land on the winged women’s shoulders and tangled manes, bracing themselves with their legs bristled for the turbulent journey ahead. Lillium calls shrilly, and Pinne and Quillie fly out of the zucos field. The twin sprites still cradle the Life Ohmi. Lillium’s pet fly Gobo hides in the tangle of her copper-red hair. Jarrwians and humans embrace in one massive huddle, and Luggie slips me into his arms.