The White Renegade (Viral Airwaves)

by Claudie Arseneault

  Seraphin settled next to Alex, and they smiled at him, as though they were sharing some sort of secret, then began their explanation on the different parts of the solar panel. Alex must have known Seraphin didn’t care that much, because after a while they dropped the pretext and made small talk about other topics. The conversation lasted hours, and Seraphin’s skin began to hurt and itch. He knew he should go home, or cover it before it burned more thoroughly, but he didn’t want to leave. Alex noticed him scratching his arms and frowned.

  “Are you okay?”

  Seraphin pressed his lips together. Should he tell them? He didn’t like to admit how little it took for him to get horrible sunburns—he wasn’t some fragile flower to fret over. Alex was to spend the summer here, however. They would learn sooner or later.

  “It’s the albinism.” His voice was a hesitant whisper. Why did it always have this hint of shame? It wasn’t his fault. “No pigments to counter the sun or something. I burn really fast.”

  Alex’s eyes widened a little. “Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t think of that. Here.”

  They shed their light coat in one smooth movement, and offered it to Seraphin. It hung between the two teenagers for a moment, before Seraphin grinned and snatched it. Relief spread through his body as he slipped it on. The sleeves stopped a little short, so Seraphin dug his hands into the pockets, then he shifted around to keep the sun from falling directly on his face.

  “Thanks.”

  His gaze fell upon the intricate sleeve tattoo running up Alex’s arm, in pale white ink. He stared at the pattern, entranced by the myriad curvy lines crisscrossing one another. They might have looked like thin scars if not for the complex design.

  “It’s nice, huh?” Alex asked, raising their arm to let Seraphin see better. “Drew it myself.”

  “Wow.”

  Seraphin wished something more intelligent had come out of his mouth. It wasn’t fair. Here was Alex—who couldn’t be much older than him, if at all—with a bright smile and weird laugh, incredible knowledge of solar panels and their functions, rock-solid confidence in who they were, and now a talent for art on top of all that? Seraphin couldn’t help but be intimidated. In comparison, he had nothing going for him. He spent most of his days hiding from the sun or the villagers, and he could drive good bargains thanks to his father.

  “When did you learn to do that?” he asked.

  Alex shrugged. “Truth is, I’ve always doodled patterns like these. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t do all the electricity stuff. But my mom can’t walk anymore, and someone’s got to help pay the bills. There’s a lot of money in the solar business for a technician. All the roofs installed in a hurry when the oil went missing are starting to give out. One day, though, I’ll go back to tattoos. This one’s a reminder of my real dream—when these designs will be my job.”

  “Why not bring her here? Your mom, I mean. We’d help her through the winter.”

  Iswood might not always be kind to him, but solidarity ran strong among the rest of the villagers. If one of them was down on their luck, the others picked up the slack, covering for food and other essentials. They’d treat Alex’s mom well, and then maybe Seraphin’s new friend wouldn’t have to leave when summer ended.

  “Can’t.” Alex sighed, pinched their nose. “Moving her is … complicated. Besides, cold is bad for her health, and the winter is a lot easier down south.”

  “Did the Threstle Plague kill her lungs?”

  The virus had taken many lives in Iswood, and they’d had it easier than most. Seraphin had heard almost half of Altaer had caught it. Those who’d survived owed their thanks to Galen Clarin’s vaccine, but many still had trouble breathing.

  “No, it’s … every movement hurts her. Something is wrong with her muscles. She’d never make it all the way here.”

  Seraphin found no counter argument, to his great sadness. “That’s too bad,” he said. “The tattoo is really nice, though.”

  Alex’s thanks brought the topic to an end, and after a few seconds of awkward silence, they went back to work on the solar panels. Seraphin studied their actions, repeating the steps Alex had taught him earlier, glad he understood some of it now. Their conversation picked back up again, and as the sun slowly began its way down across the sky, Seraphin found himself thanking his ancestors for bringing Alex to Iswood, even if just for a few months.

  *

  Seraphin spent the entire summer with Alex. At first they stayed in Iswood, sitting against the disused well in the center of the village, watching who entered the Wet Lizard pub and taking bets as to when they’d leave, and in what state. Iswood’s residents were creatures of habit. Men and women finished their tasks at the same hour every day, and converged on the old pub almost right away. In theory, Alex and Seraphin could’ve gone in—teens received watered ale—but they preferred to be alone outside. Old Walt glared at them whenever he walked past. Alex usually waved back with a large grin, as though they weren’t bothered in the least, and then wished the grumpy old man a good drink.

  One evening as Old Walt slammed the Wet Lizard’s door as an answer, Alex leaned towards Seraphin.

  “So why is it called the ‘Wet Lizard’? Do you guys keep an iguana inside and splash it with alcohol or something?”

  Seraphin imagined Old Walt and his father dumping precious ale on a placid iguana, and he burst out laughing. Only an outsider would ask something like that. He patted Alex’s shoulder and shook his head.

  “Nothing as fantastic, I’m afraid. Local legend has it the first owner was called Lee Izzard, and was drunker than his patrons at any given time of day. Spilled more beer on himself than in the mugs. One day he slipped on a puddle and cracked his skull on the counter, or so the story says. They renamed the pub in his honor.”

  “So there’s no lizard,” Alex said. “That’s just his name, mashed up.”

  “Afraid so.”

  “I’m disappointed. Lizards are cool.”

  Seraphin chuckled, then stood up. “I know somewhere a bunch of them hang out. Wanna see?”

  Alex jumped to their feet, and that marked their first expedition into the conifer forest surrounding Iswood. Seraphin knew the pinewoods by heart. He’d fled into them countless times before, sometimes to avoid chores, sometimes to avoid insult. He felt more at home between the thick tree trunks, protected from the glaring sun by a sea of tiny needles above his head, and as they moved through the forest, he finally dared a question he’d held back since their first meeting.

  “Since I cleared up that one mystery for you, maybe you could do the same for me?”

  Alex gave him a confused look. “Sure?”

  “You’re not a girl. I get that. Except you never talk like you’re a boy either, and I don’t know what to make of that.”

  “I’m not asking you to ‘make’ anything of it, Seraphin.” Alex ran a hand through their hair and tightened their ponytail. “I’m neither. There’s really no way to explain it. It always seemed wrong to be called a girl, but it didn’t feel like I was a boy either. I just …” They paused, shrugged. “I don’t have a gender. I’m me, and when I stopped trying to be something else, that’s when things started to feel right.”

  Seraphin let the words sink in. He might need time to get used to the idea, but if it made Alex happy, then it must be a good one. Seraphin certainly hadn’t reached that sort of self-confidence. He cracked a smile at Alex, to reassure them.

  “Well, my no-gender friend, I hope you’re ready for some very cool lizards.”

  Seraphin first showed Alex the lizard pool, but through the summer they explored all of his favorite spots. They would sit and talk late into the night, sometimes all the way to sunrise, alternating between serious topics and silly stories. They returned to the lizard pool quite often, but as the hot season drew to an end, Seraphin brought Alex to his favorite hideout.

  At the top of a small crest about an hour out of town was a lone tree, half-dead and twisted on itself. Its needles had fal
len years ago, never to grow back, and its bark had turned a pale, sickly gray. The branches stooped and turned instead of extending straight out, almost as if the tree had tried to retract them from pain. It stood alone, battered by the wind, a little higher than the rest of the forest. On the day they visited, deep clouds painted the sky gray and strong gusts pulled at their clothes. Seraphin put his hand on the tree’s trunk. The rough bark under his fingers always reassured him.

  “No one knows what happened to this tree,” Seraphin said. “No one remembers it ever being green. All of Iswood avoids coming here. They think the tree is cursed.”

  Alex came up the slope behind him. They didn’t answer right away, instead studying the gray tree with a frown. The forests near their hometown in the south were smaller, and they’d spent a good deal of the summer marveling at the massive pines.

  “A bug probably did that to him,” they said. “Nothing fancy like a curse.”

  “I know. It seems obvious, but that doesn’t change the town’s opinion.” Seraphin looked at the twisted branches and sketched a smile. Every winter, he wondered if the tree would hold up against the snowstorms. Every summer, he found it clinging to life atop its small crest. “I like to think that what they call a curse is actually a blessing. I mean, look at it. It stands here all alone, half-broken, and yet nothing has managed to knock it down yet.”

  Alex touched his forearm and stepped next to him. They were so close, Seraphin could feel their warmth despite the strong winds. He leaned a little towards them, seeking more.

  “The tree is you, isn’t it?” they asked.

  Seraphin scoffed a little. “I wish. The tree’s rooted deep. It has a hidden strength to keep it standing.” He turned to face Alex, his fingers tracing the skeptar at his wrist. “I don’t have anything to rely on.”

  “You have me.”

  “You leave next week.”

  “I’ll be back. Every summer if I can.” Alex met his gaze without flinching. “I talked it out with Old Walt. He grumbled and swore, but there’s too much to do for him to say no. So … you just hold on through winter, white boy, and I’ll be right here with you.”

  Right here with him. Seraphin’s breath caught in his throat. Alex would come all the way back to this minuscule town, where people gave them weird looks more often than hellos, for the sake of being with him. What else? It seemed impossible that Alex—funny, confident, talented Alex—would go to such lengths for him. Seraphin tried to think of something to say and found the words had escaped, leaving his mind empty. He was also very hot, despite the wind slipping through his jacket and pushing his hair about. They remained there, unmoving, Alex still holding Seraphin’s gaze. After several long seconds, Alex’s eyebrows shot up.

  “You know, if you meant to kiss me, that was the exact moment you should have.”

  An embarrassed flush rose to Seraphin’s cheeks. He fumbled for words, failed again, and Alex laughed. They rolled their eyes, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him down. Before his muddled brain could quite follow the sequence of events, Alex’s lips were pressed against his, and Seraphin’s discomfiture gave way to a very different warmth. It snuggled in the pit of his belly, throbbing. The kiss didn’t last, however.

  When Alex stepped back, Seraphin grinned.

  “That wasn’t exactly romantic.”

  “I don’t do romance. I …” Alex trailed off, and for the first time since Seraphin had known them, they seemed to hesitate. Doubts weren’t something they often displayed. “Look, don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t love-love you, that’s just not me. But you’re cute, and important. Really important, just not in that way? So I’ll be coming back.”

  At first Seraphin only stared, confused. Alex had just kissed him. They’d promised to come back every summer and said he was really important. All actions that intensified the warmth in Seraphin’s body, and made him crave more. He wanted to ask what Alex meant by ‘not love-love’, to have them explain away the sharp pain the words had brought. When he noticed Alex tugging at the corners of their open red jacket, lips pressed and gaze down at the ground, Seraphin bit back his question. Another day, perhaps. Despite the early explanation, it had taken the whole summer for Seraphin to wrap his head around Alex’s lack of gender. If they came back, Seraphin would have time to wrap his head around this second anomaly, too.

  “O-okay, then. I’ll remember.” Better to change the subject. He managed a smirk and added, “It took the whole summer, but I finally got you to admit I was cute.”

  Alex returned his smile and pushed him back a little. “Well played.”

  After that, Alex seemed to relax. Their conversation turned away from the twisted tree, to the long travel that awaited Seraphin’s friend. Iswood was way farther north than their hometown, and it sounded like the cross-country hike was quite the pain. As Alex retold some of the misadventures on their way up to Iswood, Seraphin realized just how much trouble Alex would be going through for the sake of spending another summer with him. Suddenly it didn’t quite matter as much, whether or not they loved him. He had been blessed with the truest of friends, and he would forever thank his ancestors for it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Three years had passed since Alex’s first summer in Iswood, and as Seraphin’s squad stopped on the plateau overlooking his hometown, he prayed his friend had left town early this year. The hot season was drawing to a close, and there was a chance Alex hadn’t stuck around since Seraphin wasn’t there. It might help ease his nerves to know they wouldn’t see whatever was coming. Seraphin had no idea what it’d be, but he already sensed it wouldn’t be good.

  Two weeks ago, General Vermen had given orders to march on this miniscule town, this little hamlet lost in Regaria’s tall pine forests, declaring he would make an example of it. What kind of example, no one could tell. The weight in Seraphin’s stomach had grown with every passing day, until he could no longer eat anything. He didn’t want to know. Vermen’s ruthless reputation conjured the worst fears to his mind. Sergeant Dresden had noticed and been kind enough to call this whole enterprise a routine operation, but Seraphin couldn’t shake the horror creeping up his spine whenever he thought about it.

  Routine operations involved crackdowns on rebellious cells. At best, they meant a slew of violent arrests. Seraphin stared at his hometown, small houses huddled together, half hidden by the giant conifers, and his thumb rubbed against his skeptar. In Iswood, everyone knew everyone, and they all knew who was involved in the network of guerrilla fights against the Union army.

  They all knew Damian Holt, Seraphin’s father, led them.

  Seraphin turned away from the vista of his hometown. With every step, the red string around his wrist scratched him a little, a constant reminder of whose name he bore. He tried to ignore the nagging heirloom as he walked back to their military camp. The latter wasn’t all that big: five squads had converged in the area and set up tents. Seraphin’s squad was to take care of Iswood tonight, then the group would move to a bigger target under General Vermen’s orders. They had a few solar motorcycles at the edge, tied to a makeshift fence, ready to use for couriers. Then the soldiers’ tents rose on the left, all across the small plateau. On his right were the mess tent, the general’s bigger quarters, a command area, and part of the field that had been left empty for morning exercises. Seraphin tried to focus on the bustling soldiers still raising tents, but the scratchy skeptar wouldn’t let him forget who their next target was.

  A part of him wanted to slip out of camp and warn everyone in town. What if they thought the army was only there in passing? Unless the Union forces knew about their little meetings in the tavern’s basement, there was no reason for soldiers to attack. Seraphin glanced in his hometown’s direction again, where green roofs repaired and maintained by Alex would glow tonight, peaceful. As he thought of the Wet Lizard, and of his last night in the pub eighteen months ago, anger crawled back in his throat. Seraphin straightened up, ground his teeth. He had already wa
rned them that night. His father hadn’t listened, and now the army camped outside Iswood.

  Seraphin hoped they wouldn’t resist. As he thought about the one night they had invited him to their meeting, however, his doubts began to rise.

  *

  Seraphin followed his father into the basement of the Wet Lizard, Iswood’s only pub. He straightened his back and forced as much dignity in his strides as he could. He was an adult now, and was no longer asked to wait in the common room with watered beer. He wished Alex could see it. Seraphin’s friend had never been allowed down either, despite being a year older. Too much of an outsider, even after two full summers living in Iswood. It wasn’t just about how long Alex had been around. They were too different for Iswood. The hamlet needed more time to digest their lack of gender, their taste for flashy clothes, and their refusal to apologize for any of it. Seraphin wasn’t sure the townsfolk would ever completely accept it. Until he reached the bottom of the basement staircase, he hadn’t believed his town would get past his albinism and bisexuality. Sometime in the last summer, Seraphin had dared to kiss Alex’s cheek in public, and since then their passage had brought wary whispers. After that they’d kept anything resembling intimate contact to the forest, just in case.

  Yet the townsfolk had let him in, so perhaps one day it would be Alex’s turn. For now, however, Seraphin focused on controlling the butterflies in his stomach.

  The basement was a small room, its walls the stone foundations of the tavern. Everyone else had arrived, and eleven men and women had turned to stare at him as he’d entered. The lacquered planks under his feet creaked as he moved forward, following his father. Seraphin pushed his glasses farther up his nose and met their gazes for a split second—long enough to be able to say he had. Then his gaze went to the single tiny window. A hole had been dug around it to allow some of the sunlight to filter in during the day. Right now it was the dull white of snow at night, in part obscured by the cold winds whipping up a storm outside. Everyone settled around the large table, Damian Holt at one end, Seraphin to his right. Everyone seemed so grave, Seraphin couldn’t help but wring his hands under the table. His father cleared his throat.