The Rise of the Fourteen

by Catherine Carter

  This tree is looking rather sick. What is troubling you, my friend? Terrance leans his ear to the tree and listens. It is so quiet. He can hear everything breathing together. The leaves begin to lose their spots. The dead crisps unfurl into deep green banners.

  He smiles. Life has come back. From above there is a rustling in the tree. An arrow? It is made of branches twisted together with golden fletching and an ivory tip. An unearthly ether surrounds it, coming off it like waves of mist. He reaches up, plucking it from the tree's boughs gingerly as if handling a bomb. He marvels at the filigree and the masterful intertwining of the branches. Should I take it home? Mother would find out. Father would demand to see it. They would both sell it. But shouldn't I do the same?

  He turns it over in his hands once more, familiarizing himself with the plaited framework. It must be a secret. But where can I hide it? Absentmindedly, he cradles the arrow against his arm. His arm begins to tingle, and an eerie green aura envelops his forearm, rising past his elbow and up to his shoulder. There is a sizzling sound, and the scent of burning flesh permeates the air. A brand? No, a tattoo. A tattoo of a shimmering arrow painted in thin black and silver streaks.

  He rubs his arm again and then rolls down the sleeve of his thin tunic. The warm musky air is starting to blow in, the day properly beginning. He turns and begins walking towards his house.

  After a quick breakfast, it’s off to work in the fields picking coffee berries off row after row of burgeoning trees. Maybe he imagines it, but the branches appear to sag under the weight of the plump little jewels. The work is repetitive and slow, but it must be done. It’s not so bad in the morning. He laughs and jokes with Ravi and Diego, his cousins. Father and Xander are in the south fields; Xander is probably doing more harm than good, as usual.

  As the sun begins to rise over the grove, they bear the worst of the midday heat. They retreat into the shade, hiding from the threat of heat stroke. When the sun dips, they return to the fields, trudging with already weary feet.

  But the day is not yet done. As darkness falls, they return to the house for the last time that day. Dinner is short and uneventful. What is really needed is fitful slumber. There is the rush to the thin scratchy bedding and the sounds of snoring. The moon rises over the trees, ending the day.

  ***

  English lessons. That is the thing Terrance despises the most about Wednesday mornings. English lessons. Getting up before the crack of dawn is always unappealing but, then again, so is getting yelled at by Mother. So, out of his room he goes and into the kitchen. There it is, as it always is, with its white block letters and azure background—an English textbook. There’s his mother, smiling and dedicated as always. Let’s get this over with. Terrance drags a beat-up wooden chair to the table and sits down, letting out a deep sigh.

  Today wouldn’t be so bad, just some simple writing. Speaking is where it gets harder, with all those funny sounds and word orders. Terrance exhales to clear his head. Now it’s back to picking, where his green thumb serves him better with his limited language skills. Trees cannot betray you with conjugations. Terrance starts down the line, basket in hand. The sun is only beginning its blazing arc, just barely peeking over the horizon.

  When Terrance finally gets back to the house Ravi and Xander excitedly wave a letter in his face. Terrance takes it from their sticky fingers, attempting to calm them. An American executive is coming. Inspector Fraus. They all seem to have funny names, but you can’t argue with a slip of paper. He’ll be coming in three days’ time. That will be refreshing.

  It’s only three weeks into the season, and the working is already getting to Terrance. He loves nurturing the plants, watching them grow and blossom. But picking berries can be tiresome. Some break in the monotony will be welcome. Father’s excitement at breakfast shows that he shares the sentiment. But that is still three days away. Terrance shoves away his bowl. Today is still for work.

  Ravi and Xander must be incredibly disappointed. They must work while the exotic “gringo” comes to make sure the plantation is up to scratch. Everyone was rather looking forward to a break, but Father decided that only three Cardosos should be present.

  “Three is a lucky number, my boys, and I feel that today will bring us luck.” He has probably been talking to Grandmother again. She spouts that kind of mumbo jumbo all the time. “Brazilian traditions” she always says. I always thought lucky numbers was a Chinese thing.

  Anyway, it was names out of a hat and Ravi and Xander lucked out. He almost feels sorry for them. Almost. Any pity on my part could result in me joining them and another taking my place. So, he is quiet as the gleaming silver Cadillac pulls up. They cough as the wind wafts the exhaust into their faces. It smells like coal and suburbia.

  Everything about this man screams “development.” From the moment he steps out of the car, he seems hopelessly out of place. Whether it’s his sleek earpiece, his enormous tablet, or his finely tailored suit Terrance cannot tell. But one thing is certain: this man would raze your livelihood to the ground for a high rise and then send you an apologetic letter on lovely navy stationary.

  His smile sends shivers down Terrance's spine. Father rushes to greet him. The executive shakes hands and makes all the polite talk expected of him. But, through all the chatter, one thing remains the same. His gaze is firmly fixed on Terrance.

  Measurements? Is that the only thing that this man cares about? Every leaf, berry, branch, and twig has had a tape measure put to it sometime this morning, and he’s made so many notes. He must have hundreds of pages of them on that tablet of his. It’s sunset, and he’s still quibbling with father about the process used to dry the beans. Ravi and Xander snuck back early about an hour ago, tiptoeing into the house as they went. Mother didn’t even try to stop them.

  Terrance is antsy and shifts his weight from one foot to the next. The sun has just vanished beneath the horizon, and it will be twilight soon. Field day or no, dinner is always much appreciated. Terrance tries to sneak back, but a gray sliver stops him. Even out of his periphery, the executive is still watching. Watching for what? Terrance shudders and rubs his arms as if he’s cold, despite the muggy air.

  “It is dark,” the executive finally says. “I think I will retire for the night.”

  “Sir, can you find your way?” Terrance’s father asks. “The roads are windy and it is not easy see.”

  My father still messes up his English and then he gets on my case about my mistakes. But he is my father and what he says must go.

  “Sir, that is not safe. Stay with us for the night.”

  I hope my groan is not audible as my father leads him to the house. He is merely a strange foreigner. He will be gone by morning. Terrance starts up the path behind them, trying to quell his fears.

  Dinner is an awkward affair. The boys eat in silence. Father and the executive chatter on about coffee beans, but their conversation is terse and strained. Mother only opens her mouth to ask if anyone wants more water. Otherwise, only the sound of utensils scraping plates comes from the family side of the table.

  “Tell me more about your sons,” the executive says. Terrance pauses mid-chew then swallows suddenly, nearly choking on his chicken. “They seem like such hard workers.”

  Father, eager to gush about his offspring prattles on for some time about our talent and promise. Even Ravi and Diego snag some praise, and can barely hide their grins.

  Terrance however, doesn't look up from his plate. He knows, by some divine reckoning that the executive is talking about him. He doesn't lift his head when he brings his plate to the grimy sink, or when he goes down the corridor to his room, seeking some protection from prying eyes. He feels overwhelmed by the heat, but can't sleep without the comforting pressure of the blanket around him. He drifts off into an uneasy slumber, soaked with sweat and doubt.

  Morning breaks and Terrance is nearly jumping with joy at the thought of being back in the field. The repetitive action of picking berries soothes him, cleansing hi
m like an elixir. It is not until sometime later that he realizes that he forgot to have breakfast. He doesn't see Ravi and Diego though. Not even Xander is making his troublesome noises? Something isn’t right.

  Terrance tries to ignore his feeling but, after another few moments, he can no longer push it aside. He sets his basket down and runs towards the house. There is some smoke, and acrid fumes float through the air. Fire? Terrance runs faster, his sides heaving with the effort. A wooden house will burn to a crisp in minutes.

  He shields his eyes. Where is that light coming from? He reaches the front of the house, panting for breath. He looks around. There is no fire, no screaming. Then he sees it. The executive's shining silver Cadillac, with black smoke pouring out from under the hood.

  “I guess I’ll have to send for a tow truck,” the executive simpers.

  “Please, stay in the house while you wait,” Father says, nearly bowing in quite a servile fashion. What happened to the proud coffee farmer of yesterday? Terrance looks accusingly at the executive who merely smiles back, a menacing glint in his eyes. Terrance runs back out to the fields, frightened of the sudden change that has come over his family. A pair of steely gray eyes follows his footsteps as he runs.

  When Terrance comes back, the sun has long since set. He had stayed all through the day, even through the middle heat. The trees had given him some shelter, but the back of his neck is still raw and red. He ignores the burning pain as he comes up to the house.

  The silver Cadillac is still there. The tow truck should have come hours ago. He pushes aside the fabric curtain and enters the house, puzzled. At the table, the executive is sitting talking to his father. Of course, his pinstripe is still perfectly unwrinkled and his hair freshly combed. Everything about this man worries Terrance. He just seems unnatural.

  “Would you be willing to do that?”

  “He's a strong boy and shows great promise. I'd be happy to take him on as an apprentice.” Terrance's arm jerks up in shock, almost knocking over Ravi and Xander, who are listening from behind a corner. “That is, if he’s willing.” The executive turns his chair around to face Terrance, who nearly falls over in fright.

  Is it the flickering fluorescent lamp that gives Terrance's eyes that iridescent quality? No. It is the tears pooling in his eyes—tears of fear, of shock, and tears of disbelief, as he sees his parents smiling and nodding.

  By the next morning, the tow truck has, oh so conveniently, arrived. Terrance has only packed some clothes in a small rucksack, but he feels heavy, heavy with fear and too many cups of water. He keeps swallowing as if trying to wash away his misgivings, but to no avail.

  Mother and Father are buzzing with excitement. Ravi, Xander, and Diego pointedly ignore him. They are always looking at their feet when Terrance turns to say something to them but, when he looks away, he can feel their jealous stares. They are like flaming javelins thrown at the base of his neck. But he knows there is nothing that he can say to them.

  The deed is done; the contract is signed. Rejection would only bring dishonor to his family and further alienation from his cousins. Terrance knows this, and he leans against the fence, his lips sealed. There is a blur of advice, hugs, and well wishing, and he is off, smushed against the window of a smelly city tow truck reeking of cigarettes.

  The yacht is absolutely magnificent with its perfectly crafted hull sparkling in the sunlight. The water lapping at the boat only adds to the effect. As Terrance is led up the gangplank, he looks around at the busy marina. Diego always did love boats. He pushes the thought aside and forces himself to keep walking forward.

  It was never a choice, not really. It was what Mother and Father wanted, and letting them down wasn’t an option. But letting myself down was. Terrance focuses on the slender figure in front of him, this time in a dark navy suit. What horrors do you hide, mysterious man? I guess I’ll find out.

  Terrance wastes no time exploring the deck of the ship. Plush beach recliners litter it. There is even a small hot tub with its own mini bar. A high-up executive that makes enough money to afford all this has to go out for plantation inspections?

  There’s no chance to question it now. The gangplank has been raised, and the ropes undone. The hum of engines joins the sound of seabirds as the boat casts off. Terrance goes to the bow and grips the metal railing. The water swirls off the sides of the boat.

  “It's beautiful isn't it?” It is a lovely morning, but the executive’s voice still ices Terrance's spine. “It is so calm when there is nothing around you but the open sea.”

  What? Terrance looks back. The bustling marina, the waterfowl, the whole coastline, is gone. They couldn't have left more than ten minutes ago. Terrance edges away from the executive, his misgivings making his legs shake. I’m losing my mind.

  He leans over the rail to get a better look. There is only the open seas and the smell, the smell of salt and confusion. His gaze locks with the executive's, a look of hopeless confusion on Terrance's face. The executive merely looks back with a scornful but quietly pitying look. His eyes seem to say, “you have so much to learn.” Terrance considers this a warning, and goes below deck. The darkness comforts him and almost convinces him he's in a dream. In a bedroom below, Terrance finds himself nodding off, and before he knows it, he is asleep.

  Terrance wakes up rather disoriented the next morning. He is quite nauseated after a night of being thrown about his cabin by crashing waves. He immediately rushes above deck and throws up the remains of yesterday’s lunch, retching over the side for some time.

  At some point, he feels a hand patting him on the back. He hears the executive's voice soothing him, telling him to let it all out. Much to Terrance’s surprise, he stops vomiting. He sinks into a deck recliner, the color drained from his face. Vomiting doesn’t stop that fast.

  He gives the executive a questioning look for a moment, but is too tired to confront the man. He sprawls out on the recliner and just lies there for a while, breathing in the fresh air. He doesn't see the executive smiling at his success. If the boy’s trust can be bought this easily, things are looking up after all, he thinks smugly.

  When Terrance finally feels like he can stand up again, he is immediately greeted by the executive and a rather puny lackey. He is offered all manner of tonics and sodas, but Terrance refuses them all.

  “Really Terrance, you must drink,” the executive says. “We can't have you feeling unwell for your training.” At that moment, Terrance notices it—not the wolfish smile, nor the sinister twinkling in his eyes—an aura of blackness surrounding the man, even as he tries to persuade Terrance not to be afraid. No longer able to ignore his suspicions, Terrance vaults off the recliner. Seeing no place to go but forward he runs to the bow and hurdles over the railing, plunging into the swirling waters.

  “You stupid boy!” The cries that emanate from the ship hardly sound human, but Terrance isn't going to stick around and confirm that. Of course, he has never swum before but his doggy paddle does get him a few yards before he starts to flounder.

  The wake of the ship is just getting to be too much, and the waves seem to be growing before his eyes. There are two large splashes in the water behind him. They must have abandoned ship as well. Terrance paddles furiously, but his own weight drags him down. Either they’ll get me, or the water will.

  A wave crashes over his head. It will be over soon. Drowning always seemed like such a horrible way to go. The bubbles will stop coming up eventually. As he begins to sink into unconsciousness, a pair of strong hands grabs him from behind.

  “Sorem, will you get a move on? The boy’s half-drowned as it is, and the sanctuary is completely unsupervised.”

  “This isn’t easy in normal circumstances, Demetri! I guess you wouldn’t know how hard conjuring a portal is because you’ve never done it.”

  “Just make the portal, woman!”

  Terrance is coughing and flailing as the waves slap him silly. There is a great luminescence in the sea. Moments later the three of th
em are gone.

  A sodden figure in a dripping black suit floats in the frothy brine, staring forlornly at the expanse where the trio was only seconds ago.

  “Remex will be displeased.” He takes off, swimming back to the boat, which is already speeding towards him.

  12

  breaking up with your best friend, one of the many dangers of airplanes

  Mortas can feel their pull so strongly that it hurts. It aches right in her core. She can feel the dammed-up tears, just sitting behind her eyes, only blocked by sheer willpower. Ferula looks at her contorted face but says nothing. The crinkling sounds of snack-size peanut packets being opened echo around them as well as the slurping of Sprite through little cocktail straws. They have been flying for at least an hour and Mortas hasn't said a single thing. The goodbyes at the airport must have been hard for her. Ferula looks over at Mortas again, wondering about her deep reverie.

  ***

  “Goodbye Annabelle! I’ll miss you so much sweetie!”

  “Shiloh, make sure to brush your teeth!”

  “Give me a big hug, come on!” Mortas looks around bitterly, her face concealed by the cowl of her dark sweatshirt. The tearful hugs, the momentous farewells, “Bon voyage” from the lips of all the well-wishing parents, but two familiar faces are gone from the crowd. I said goodbye the night before. Ferula was nice enough to take me. But it’s not the same. No memory can recreate a hug. No photo can show you a true smile. An arm goes around her shoulders and embraces her in an awkward side hug. She shudders and only exhales after the arm has released her.

  “I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun, Mortas.” Her father’s eyes are so sad and empty, like the faded gray of old prescription slips with traces of long gone blue ink. “I know Granny and Mom would have been here today if they could have.”