The Wicked Awakening of Anne Merchant

by Joanna Wiebe

  So now, according to Ben, Mr. Watso has invited us, even me, to join him for some ice fishing this evening. I strongly doubt my name was on the guest list. But Ben insists.

  “His ice-fishing tent is probably too far off the shore,” I say to Ben. Half-frozen muck keeps sucking my boots into the ivy-spotted forest floor. “We’ll get more than a few feet away from the power of Wormwood, and we’ll end up on the shore again. Like when we jumped off the cliff and you reappeared on the island.”

  “His tent is practically on the hillside.”

  “This isn’t gonna work.”

  “You have to be a good ten feet from land to vanish and reappear on land again.”

  “More like five feet.”

  “More like ten. I know what you’re doing. And you’re not getting out of this that easily.”

  “Please go without me,” I say, pushing branches out of my way. I let a branch go too early, and it flings a wet leaf into my mouth. Ben doesn’t see it go in or get sputtered out. “Mr. Watso hates me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you. He’s dealing remarkably well with Molly’s death.”

  “Her murder, you mean. The murder for which I’m responsible.”

  “That was between the Watso family and Villicus. You weren’t involved.”

  “Mere technicality.”

  “Just be nice, and he’ll be nice. A bit of time has passed since Molly died. Six weeks. If he held something against you, I think he’s forgiven you.”

  I tug back on his hand. “I don’t know, Ben. I feel icky about this. Six weeks is no time at all. I’ve seen how long it takes people to mourn—”

  “Anne.” He stops and takes my gloved hands in his. He’s lovelier than ever with the cold ocean wind nipping his cheeks and the desperate need to convince me lighting his eyes. “Okay, you got me.”

  “I what?”

  “This was supposed to be a surprise. Tomorrow is our two-month anniversary, and I wanted to celebrate by having a proper dinner with you, me, my dad, and Mr. Watso.”

  “Wait, it’s our…what?”

  “A-a-and since Dad’s here tonight but leaving tomorrow, I thought you wouldn’t mind if I shifted the dates a bit.”

  “You’ve been keeping track of our anniversary?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  I haven’t been keeping track!

  “Of course,” he says, “we actually met five years ago, but that’s not the same.”

  I watch him in awe. “No wonder Garnet hates me so much.”

  “What do you mean by that?” But he’s blushing. He knows what I mean. He’s constantly catching me marveling at his profile, or ogling our blurring, entwined hands as we sit on the beach together, or admiring him when he spouts off some line from a book. He is a wonder. “I’m a cheese muffin, aren’t I?”

  “You’re a romantic, Mr. Zin.”

  “Is that better or worse than a cheese muffin?”

  “It’s lower fat.”

  “Anyway,” he says with a small smile and a sigh, “will you come with me now? My dad’s dying to get to know you. And Mr. Watso is honestly totally fine with you. He might even like you.”

  “I can’t believe you had this plan all cooked up.”

  “I love a surprise.”

  “I’ll have to pay you back one day.”

  He taps his lips. “I’ll take an advance payment.”

  “You are definitely a cheese muffin.” I kiss him. “Who even says that, ‘cheese muffin’?”

  “Chalk it up to my old age.”

  I kiss him again. And, when he doesn’t pull away, I take that as an invitation for more. Since the night he told me he wanted to take things slowly, we’ve been like a nun and her priest. Well, not totally. We hold hands and stuff. In fact, we hold hands so often, we’re becoming extensions of one another. But you could set a three-second stopwatch by our kisses. One, two, three, pull back! So it’s a major step that, at least ten seconds into this kiss—not that I’m counting—Ben’s not only failing to pull away, but he’s actually leaning into me, and his hands are exploring a little below the “safe zone” of my lower back. I feel his lips part, and I hear my name on his breath, and I dare to tug a little at his hair in response, just enough to raise his chin and expose his throat to my mouth.

  But then an owl hoots somewhere in the woods. And Ben, with an awkward laugh, pulls away. His skin is red with heat, and his eyes are luminescent; I know he doesn’t want to stop, but hell if I can convince him we can go slow without going at a snail’s pace.

  “So the thing of it is,” he says, taking my hand and turning us back on our path toward the small inlet where Mr. Watso lives, “my dad’s yacht is anchored just at the outskirts of the inlet.”

  “Oh?” As if my head is anywhere near this conversation. If I ever find that damn owl…

  “Yeah. He can basically jump off the boat, swim a few strokes, and climb up the shore.”

  “Not that he would, though.”

  “No, not that he would.”

  “ ’Course not.”

  “Yeah.”

  Oh, God, is this how it’s going to be for the next six months? The fake chatter to mask what we’re really thinking, what we’d rather be doing? I could honestly care less about his dad’s boat.

  “Here we go,” Ben says. “He lives right…about…there.”

  Ben and I push through the last of the woods and find ourselves on the top of a semi-circular hill surrounding Mr. Watso’s small, private enclave. The water is frozen-over here, and pale brown driftwood pops out of snow-dusted ice, creating the sense that we’re standing next to the world’s largest piece of almond bark, as if the ruler of this island is Willy Wonka and not a devil. A blue tent sits on the ice below, butted up against the snowy hill; it’s Mr. Watso’s ice-fishing shack—a good one, the kind money buys.

  Just beyond the opening of the inlet, the yacht Ben’s dad lives on bobs below a layer of fog. It’s at least ninety feet long and two stories high, and it can’t be more than a year or two old. Written on its side is Forever Tallulah. My stomach drops. Tallulah Josey’s parents must have surrendered that boat in exchange for her admission to Cania, and now she’s expelled, thanks to Harper.

  Ben catches me looking at the yacht.

  “The whole bottom of it is refrigerated,” he says. “To hold hundreds of vials our dads have collected, with plenty of room for more. They renovated it to make it hypothermic. Medical grade. So the blood won’t spoil.”

  “They’re storing backups of the vials in Valedictorian Hall?”

  “No,” he says, staring pensively at the boat. “Have you wondered why Hiltop would stick around if she’s not even allowed to run Cania anymore?”

  “Of course.”

  We start inching our way down the steep hill, which is thick with soggy snow; multiple sets of footprints have etched a path for us, a zigzagging line of green down a canvas of white.

  “The bottom of that yacht is filling up with the vials of people who haven’t died yet.”

  “Living people’s blood.”

  “Yup.”

  “So, let me get this straight—let me think with my Demon Hat on. If I were in the business of vivifying the dead, why would I start collecting the vials of living people?”

  “And keeping them close to shore,” Ben adds.

  Why would Dia do that?

  Damon Smith is why. I remember his vivification gone wrong. Too much time had passed between his death and their attempts to vivify him.

  “Your dad’s yacht is just far enough from shore to prevent accidental vivification…”

  “…And just close enough to get a vial onto the island without so much as a minute passing.”

  So the vials containing the blood of the living are like insurance policies. “Kids that haven’t died yet get to know their vial is just feet from shore. As soon as they die, they can be vivified here.”

  “Adults, too.”

  “Adults, too?”

  “If s
omeone pitched you on a new life for your kids, don’t you think you’d want one for yourself, too? At least as an option?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Well, the rest of the free world would.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You should read ‘The River Styx Runs Upstream,’” he says. “The market is limitless. Hiltop’s here because she—Mephisto— wants to expand. Cania was taken from her, but that’s just one small school on one large planet. Mephisto will expand. Cania College is just the beginning.”

  “But Cania College was Dia’s idea, not Mephisto’s.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve given up feeling sure about anything.”

  We’re standing at the zipped-up door of Mr. Watso’s ice tent. Ben takes off his glove and scratches his fingertips over the material in lieu of knocking, calls, “Knock, knock,” and we wait.

  “If I’ve learned anything about Mephistopheles in my years under his tyranny,” Ben whispers, “it’s that he is always a step or two ahead of the rest of us. If you ask me, I think Mephisto wanted Dia here. Sure, he got in trouble Downstairs, but he used that to his advantage. He lured Dia here to babysit us, which is giving him the time and freedom to expand.”

  “But Mephisto didn’t know Dia was coming. He didn’t know the disruption you and I would cause.”

  Ben shrugs. “I’m just saying. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mephisto gives Cania College to Dia to placate him, gets his baby, Cania Christy, back, and finds a new island where he can build an elementary school, a retirement home—hell, an entire town. Full-on expansion. In a world brimming with people who are terrified of death. Mephisto’s going to take all those vials my dad’s living with and, when their owners die, give people life all over the world. For a price, of course.”

  “Dia sent Teddy away to look for new locations.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I was there when it happened.”

  Ben rolls his eyes. “See?” He scratches the tent again. “Where’s Watso?”

  “Did we get the time wrong?”

  “Maybe. My dad’s not even here,” he says. “Come on. Let’s go throw rocks at the yacht. Make some noise. He’s gotta be in there— probably passed out drunk.”

  “Ben.” I hate when he makes light of his dad’s alcoholism.

  “Hey, if you can’t save yourself, might as well destroy yourself, right?”

  “I’m not much of a fan of your new philosophy. Especially when you can save yourself.”

  “Not tonight, Anne. Please give it a rest. Just once.”

  The hillside makes a C around the inlet, with Forever Tallulah anchored at the far right of the opening. We follow a path already etched in the snow until we arrive just at the edge. The island makes a short, rocky cliff here. The yacht is hooked to a huge tree by a 100- foot steel rope that must be a foot thick.

  “Speaking of our self-destructive powers.” Ben’s eyes are fiery with mischief. “Wanna try your trapeze skills out?”

  “Walk the rope? Funny.”

  “What’s the harm?” He picks up a small stone and hurls it at the yacht; it falls just short. He tries again. “We can’t actually die. If you fall, you’ll just end up standing right here again.”

  Vivified, we can’t live beyond the limits of the island.

  “When I fall.” I throw a rock, and it makes a tink on the side of the boat.

  “What happened to the fearless girl that broke into my house?”

  “That was Molly. I was terrified.”

  He smirks. “I wish you saw what I see in you. Fine, if you won’t do it, I will.”

  My arm stops him. “Challenge accepted, Zin.”

  I step toward the rope and tug the loop holding it to the tree. A part of what Ben’s saying is, I have to admit, interesting. We’re unbreakable. When have I let myself enjoy my immortality? Everyone else has an excuse for being on their best behavior: they care about winning the Big V. Ben and I don’t. So I hold the tree for balance as I position myself on the taut rope. It’s got a little give, but I’m hardly heavy enough to drag a whole yacht back to shore. Ben whistles through his teeth—“I was kidding, Anne!”—as I awkwardly turn, face the massive open ocean under the darkening night sky, and pretend I’m on the balance beam in some elementary school gymnastics class. Except this beam is rounded. And it’s wet with frosty mist from the Atlantic, over which it droops precariously. So, yeah, I’m doomed. But not to death.

  I put my arms out for balance. And take a step. The rope squeals. There’s still earth under the rope, though. A dozen small steps separate me from the really freaky part over the water. Those small steps go quickly, and soon the rocky ledge disappears from under me.

  “Anne, hun, sweetness, come on. Let’s go back and wait at Watso’s.”

  “What if,” I begin to distract myself from the icy ocean, over which I’m suspended, “Mr. Watso is just gone?”

  “Careful with that—it’s swinging a lot—come on—Anne, get down from there.”

  I take a tiny step. Thirty or so feet down, the white-edged black waves pound thin blocks of ice into a short, jagged, bluish-white ice floor at the base of the cliff. I squint to make out something attached to or stuck in—it’s hard to tell which—the ice. It’s a blurry object of some kind, and it’s about ten feet away from the rocks of the cliff.

  I wobble, catch my balance, and place one foot in front of the other.

  “What if he moved, Ben? What if his tent’s empty?”

  “Moved where? Come back right now. Enough.”

  “Off the island.”

  Ben growls as the rope swings. I drop to my knees, crossing my ankles over the rope, and I swear he goes into cardiac arrest.

  “Why would he move, Anne?”

  “Why would he stay?”

  “He’s the Abenaki shaman.”

  “Why wouldn’t a shaman follow his people? Especially now that the whole village is demoed.”

  “The island is spiritually his. The underworld is leasing it from him. He needs to invite them here every day. You know all this. Now get back here, or you’re going to vanish, and it’s not gonna feel great—trust me.”

  I inch out on my hands and knees. “But he could just—”

  All at once, the world goes gray. I hear nothing, see nothing, feel weightless. A woman’s voice whispers to me, and a flash of violet eyes disappears in a blink. I open my eyes to find I’m standing next to Ben again, on the hillside, facing the yacht I was crawling toward only moments ago. He shakes his head at me. Watching the movement is dizzying.

  “Just had to push it,” he says and helps me get my bearings. “You’re gonna feel groggy for a minute or two. This is why you should stay on the island.”

  “You’re the one who dared me to go.”

  “Well, now I’m daring you to come with me to Mr. Watso’s. We’ll wait there for them.”

  I glance back at the rope.

  He notices and shakes his head.

  “I saw something in the ice.”

  “What did you see?”

  “I need another look.”

  He tries to stop me. But I make my way back onto the rope, balancing again. My head’s still spinning from being “reborn.” I crouch for stability. This time, Ben’s right behind me.

  “Anne, you’re hardly the most coordinated person I’ve ever met.”

  I laugh, but softly, and brace myself against the rope. Inch out. And peer down. The lapping waters are dark below the ice floor, making the gray ice glow white. I can just make out the shape of the object embedded in there.

  “If you’re trying to give me a heart attack, it’s working.”

  “Yes, Ben, that’s what I’ve been trying to do all along. Kill you.”

  I lower myself until I’m flat against the rope, and I squint. “It’s a box,” I tell him. “Small. Square. Maybe metallic. There’s something written on it. A short word. Or some kind of jagged line.”

  “It�
�s probably just debris from an old ship or plane wreck. Mystery solved.”

  I glance back at him. “Oooh, do you think it might be?”

  “Aren’t you wondering where my dad and Watso are?”

  I have to get closer to the box. But I can’t risk getting too far away and vanishing again. Moving fast, I grip the rope. In one fluid movement, I swing down. I’m dangling a good twenty-something feet above sea level before Ben even knows what’s happened.

  “Did you fall?” he cries, rushing to the edge. I hear him scramble to help me—until he realizes I didn’t slip. “Are you nuts?”

  “I need—” I gasp “—to see.”

  “Then let’s go get binoculars. Come on.”

  He reaches to grab my hand, but I don’t want to go get binoculars. So I dangle by one hand. Ben swears. I tell myself it’ll only hurt for a second. And, counting down from three, I take a deep breath. And let go of the rope.

  I free-fall.

  I crash into the ice, landing hardest on my right knee.

  A fault line cuts through the ice, shooting over the box. The box is just far enough from land that I’d vanish before I got out to see what it is or what’s in it. It’s maybe eight or nine feet away. I shuffle closer to it, or try to. But I’ve definitely done a number on my knee. A darkening, growing splotch of red shines through my tights.

  “Oh, God, is that blood?” Ben shouts down.

  I’ll heal, I think as a cold wave washes the icy, breaking floor. I smile up at him—faking the smile, of course, through the intense pain of what may be a dislocated kneecap—and look out at the box. So close, but so far away. It’s at the end of a ten-foot-long bar that’s bolted to the rock face, just five or so inches below the water line, under the ice.

  “It’s bolted,” I shout.

  “Bolted? To the island?”

  “Why would someone bolt a box this far off the island?”

  “Maybe it’s something morbid,” Ben suggests, trying to scare me. “Like the vial of an ancient monster. Maybe they’re keeping it there in case they want to vivify it one day, like, to punish students that go snooping around.”