The Rise of the Fourteen

by Catherine Carter

  Anima disgruntledly tucks her hair behind her ear as the guide pulls out the map again. The map itself is bothersome. It is crinkled by the endless opening and un-opening, it is stretched by the constant grabbing of sweaty fingers, and it is stained with the occasional smear of dirt. It is a worn and beaten object—tired and desperately wanting to be free. Not unlike myself, in fact.

  The group suddenly changes direction and Anima follows blindly, mirroring the motions of a lemming. She sees her parents a few yards ahead of her. Her father points out a grand column and then whispers something into her mother's ear. Her mother grins and throws her head back in laughter, the strands of her ebony hair floating in the sunlight as if caught in time. Anima blinks and the vision is gone.

  “In the mid to late thirteenth century BC, the city that stood on this site is believed to be the Troy of Homer.” The guide continues to twattle on in her overly cheery Turkish accent. The sun now lingers directly overhead, and Anima is sweating profusely. The jumble of sounds and colors don't stay straight in her head. The guide's words are drawn out and meaningless, as if she was talking underwater. Her legs feel like cinderblocks, sliding on the crunching gravel. Anima reaches for her water bottle, but it’s empty. There are shrieks and laughs as two children run past, but Anima barely hears them. She is falling and, as she falls, darkness rises around her.

  Golden spirals cloud her mind as she struggles to regain her senses. She would rather stay and watch them forever, but something tells her that she needs to wake up. Do I have to awaken? I should stay and watch the lights. The lights. The light. Her vision is flooded with a brilliant white as she sits back up, once again in the real world. She is surrounded by people and faces that all blur together. She feels a cool hand on her cheek, and that grounds her.

  “Anima? Anima, are you all right?”

  Is it mother or father? Anima’s hazy consciousness cannot decide.

  “Come on, dear.” A pair of strong arms grips her shoulders and brings her to her feet. “Sorry folks, just a little dehydrated. We’ll be taking her back to the hotel.”

  Hotel? We’re staying with the tour group, aren’t we? Anima’s head swims, as she tries to make coherent thoughts. Two hands now grip each of her arms as she stumbles along the weathered path.

  “Come on, Anima. Your taxi awaits.”

  Her thoughts suddenly come to life. Taxi? She shudders at spools of memories of lying across her mother’s lap, limp and weak. Not a taxi. Anima tries to struggle a little, but it is futile.

  “Now, now Anima, don't be silly.” The grip tightens on her shoulders and Anima yelps in pain, nearly blacking out.

  “Where’s the car?”

  A man's voice is talking this time. That must be father.

  “Just wait a few moments. Calm down.”

  Well, I won't. Mustering all of her feeble strength, Anima viciously elbows her captor in the groin, breaking free of his grip and then begins to run. She is already panting from the start, but refuses to slow down.

  “Anima Annabelle Meadowlark!”

  Oh, now I’m in for it. As Anima runs, her mother sends a bolt of shade after her. Anima feels a biting sensation in her arm and crumples to the ground, hollering in pain. She whips her head back briefly to see her mother gaining on her and determinedly begins to crawl, not caring about the cuts on her legs (I knew shorts were a bad idea) and her throbbing limbs.

  She clambers into an ancient house, flopping through what must have been a window. Pressing herself into a corner, she prays. By whatever power I have, may someone help me. She grips the wall tightly, bruising some fingernails. A rosy wash spreads from her fingertips making a small dome over the decaying house. Anima shivers, waiting with bated breath for a chance to escape.

  “Anima? Anima, I will find you. Don’t have any illusions, girl!”

  That isn’t Mom! The strange voice has a more guttural sound to it. The words themselves have a scaly feel to them. Anima doesn’t trust what she hears and bundles closer to herself. The voice calls again and again, each time sounding both close and far away. The game of cat and mouse continues until the shadows have elongated, and the trees become wreathed with a Cimmerian mist.

  Dawn breaks with a red sun in the east, covering the ruins with a crimson hue. Anima is, at first, confused. Her back is sore from sleeping against a stone wall, her legs sting from dozens of scrapes and cuts, and her socks have a crust of dried blood. What happened? My parents would never have left me out like this. But, indeed, they did.

  That thought hits her like a granite boulder, and she begins trembling. But, they did. Then there is a large crack. She looks up to see the hazy bubble above her fracturing and splitting. Wisps of fuchsia rain down from above littering the ground.

  Anima is frantic. Whatever … whatever that was, it was protecting me. Now, what? As she agitatedly looks around, a beam of bloody ruby light streams through an opening in the splintering walls. Anima cringes, now wary of strange glows. An arrow clatters to the ground illuminated by the pool of light. The air is still and silent as Anima cautiously makes her way towards the arrow. It is an elegant design. A simple golden arrow, tastefully decorated with curved garnets and diamonds. You could know the world by looking in those facets.

  Then a man jumps out of the wall.

  “Anima, thank goodness I found you before they did.”

  Okay, someone must have spiked my orange juice with something yesterday. Anima is too stunned to reply and just stares, shell-shocked. His spiky, almost animated hair and glittering russet eyes are disconcerting in the bright morning sun.

  “Come with me, quickly!” Anima doesn't move, seemingly glued to the wall. “I'm Demetri. We met on the subway.” Anima is still motionless. “Alright then.” The man makes a fluid motion with his hands, and the wall seems to give way. Anima screams as she falls. She falls through the wall, but not into the space on the other side. “You'll thank me later,” the man says, shaking his head. He leaps through the opening after her and the portal closes behind them.

  ***

  “You fool! You should have known the girl could make wards.”

  “Blaming me? This is still your fault."

  “Either way the master will be displeased.”

  The two reptilian voices continue their spitting chatter, long after Anima’s disappearance and well into the day. It’s such a pity, the woman thinks, she thinks that our demonic behavior changes the fact that we’re her parents.

  22

  sadly, no one is too cool for school

  “You see, when I pictured magical training, I was thinking more like … Hogwarts, not bruised and battered extremities,” Luna remarks after yet another morning of training. Everyone nods in agreement, even Callida, the petite protégée.

  Each time Luna comes down to the training room, she somehow expects it to be different, but nothing changes. The sound of trickling water still emanates from the fountains on the walls. The training circle is still sticky (mopping, even magical mopping, is useless against the sheer volume of sweat), the sword racks are still endlessly far apart (or it seems endlessly far after a long sparing session), and blue torches are still eerie, even during the day.

  “I, for one, am in desperate need of a shower,” Ámpelos declares, putting his hands on his hips dramatically.

  “I agree. You smell disgusting,” Callida says.

  The group guffaws while all secretly knowing they probably don't smell much different. Terrance laughs especially hard. Watching these two try to knock each other off their high horses is priceless.

  “Shut it, smart mouth.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, do you want a rematch Argyris?"

  Ámpelos stiffens but says nothing.

  You can’t really top last name sass, can you?

  As the assemblage reaches the top of the stairs, they see Demetri in animated conversation with a tall, raven-haired girl.

  “I know you! You were the man from the subway! Thank you for saving me.”
r />   “Don’t mention it—there are more like you already waiting.”

  “What do you mean, like me?”

  “Yeah, Demetri, what do you mean, like us?” Arden remarks. The girl turns around abruptly, sending him a charged look. Arden swallows hard and takes a step back, frightened by the intensity of her stare. Sorem finally emerges from the stairway.

  “Ah, you’ve found her,” Sorem says, her eyes widening a bit.

  “Always with the tone of surprise,” Demetri replies, rolling his eyes a bit.

  “Well, I’ll go and brief her then,” she says, moving closer to Anima. “In the meantime, make sure this lot,” she points at the gaggle of sweaty students, “get washed up. We don’t want the new girl to suffocate in this … odeur.” She wrinkles her nose slightly as she leads Anima down the hall and into the sitting room. The gang looks at Demetri with questioning faces.

  “You heard the woman. Go and shower,” Demetri commands, waving away their unspoken questions. They dejectedly shuffle up the stairs, knowing full well it may be days before Demetri explains anything.

  Lunchtime is an awkward affair. Anima comes into the room at the same time as the others. Her legs are completely wrapped up in bandages to cover her cuts and Arden, being his clueless self thinks they are some bizarre fashion trend and tries to compliment her.

  “Nice leggings,” he says casually, trying to make up for his earlier comment.

  “Thanks,” she says with strain, “I got them from my psycho parents who tried to kidnap me.” Her completely straight face conveys no emotion as she sits down at the table and begins chomping on a tuna sandwich.

  “Very smooth,” Luna whispers into Arden’s ear. He shoves her playfully but sits down awkwardly, worried what stupid thing he might do next. Callida, on the other hand, sits right next Anima and murmurs something into her ear.

  Anima cracks a grin and snorts, tossing her jet-black hair behind her. Get a load of this lot, Anima thinks. They’re better than controlling parents, that’s for sure. Ámpelos flicks a grape at Luna, who shrieks as it goes down her shirt. I could get used to this place.

  The next few days pass by as mere minutes. The sanctuary is huge, and even after she is sure she has explored every inch, Anima is always finding a new room. Training is hard of course. Sorem is warm yet unforgiving and stiff. Odd combination really, but Anima loves the rush and flow of her blood as she fights. The strange sensation of fear and joy.

  The training room is both the bruises on her ribs and the rush she needs to get moving. The combination is invigorating. And the group has warmed up to her. Even Arden has been relatively tactful over the last few hours. Anima bounces down the steps to join the gang at breakfast when there is a great crash in the kitchen.

  “Sorem! There goes the jam.”

  “Demetri, do me a favor and look at the crest for a moment.” He rushes in the direction of the noise to get a glimpse.

  He pauses for a moment, mid-thought. “That was still the good jam!”

  “Quit complaining and let's go!” She turns to the throng of puzzled faces. "We'll explain when we get back." Sorem flicks her hand, and a swirling vortex appears. After she and Demetri rush through, the gateway shuts, disappearing in a flicker of light. A moment of silence follows their abrupt departure.

  “Okay, what’s the crest?” Terrance asks.

  “The Crest: an ancient magical stone linked to each of the twelve arrows. When magic is used, or an arrow released, the according stone will light up on the crest. That's how they have such perfect timing,” Callida says breathlessly.

  “I truly believe that you swallow encyclopedias in your spare time,” Luna remarks.

  “Oh, I was just snooping in the library and it was in a book I found.”

  “Only you would go snooping in a library,” Ámpelos snarks.

  “There's a library?” Arden asks.

  “Of course there is,” Anima says. “And I think I found a room that has cable TV!” Everyone’s ears prick up. They all turn to Anima, doubtful of her words. “There is! Come on!” They all rush out of the dining room, following Anima down the corridor.

  ***

  “That judge really changed after the last season, didn’t she?” Anima remarks.

  “I know, it’s terrible,” Luna says, her chin resting on her hand as she gazes at the screen.

  “Are we seriously watching The X Factor?” Callida asks from her position beneath the coffee table.

  “I did try to convince you all to watch Britain’s Got Talent.” Luna replies.

  “Shh. They’re about to vote!”

  Terrance and Nuntios snicker while Ámpelos gives Arden a judgmental look. It’s surprising how three hours of bad TV can change a person.

  Just as the gang starts to get comfortable, they hear a commotion in the front hall. Are there any quiet days in this house, Nuntios muses.

  “Well, they’re back,” Anima remarks. The group hastily turns off the TV and sprints down the hallway, skidding to a stop on the marble floor. Terrance elbows Nuntios for stepping on the back of his foot then looks up. He stops for a moment, entranced.

  Demetri holds a blonde girl in a blue dress. It bunches about her in the most fashionable way, despite the obvious presence of mud stains. Her eyes are sapphires, their cobalt-blue coloring uncomfortably discerning. Her face is dark and guarded. But there is also a shadow of fear.

  She also appears on the verge of tears. As Demetri begins leading her up the stairs, she kicks and screams, fighting his iron grip. Terrance longs to rush forth and help her, but Sorem sends him a warning glance. The girl, led by a persistent Demetri, then takes the turn on the landing and disappears out of sight.

  “Sorry about that,” Sorem says. “She’s a bit … delicate at the moment.” Nuntios nods in understanding. I was a bit of a mess when I got here myself, he thinks. “She’ll be staying in her room for the next few days and no one is to disturb her, understand?” The solemn faces nod silently.

  “Now, hup hup, we’ve got training to do. Don’t think I forgot that we missed our morning session.” A collective groan ensues, but they all head down the stairs.

  Terrance takes one last look at the landing where the violent girl disappeared before heading down himself. Why am I even thinking about her? He stays silent for the duration of the training, his thoughts lost with a girl and her crying eyes.

  Terrance is sitting upright already when it starts. There it is again at exactly seventeen past eight—her screaming. I know it’s her. I know from the way Demetri avoids my gaze when I ask him about it. Or the way Sorem pretends to not hear me when I ask her. I don’t know why she screams, but it’s always the same. The first few nights were the worst. Callida practically broke the door down trying to get her to stop. By now we all know it happens. But we don’t know why she screams, haunted by unseen terrors that not even the strongest eyeglass can pierce.

  He runs through possible scenarios in his head, each more unlikely than the next. Runaway actress? Good girl gone diva? Dead parents? When the screaming dies down, Terrance rolls over to turn off the light and slips into a fitful slumber.

  23

  the terrors you encounter while going to church

  Nuptia walks through the doorway in disbelief, unable to accept the events of last night. Our family money, my mother’s jewelry, all of that is gone. The thieves did leave our altar, but it has been slashed and torn apart, defiled, and made unsacred. How I can think that everything will be made right by prayer when I have seen my own prayers slashed to ribbons. Nuptia walks to the window, her bronzed face stroked by the last rays of the sun.

  I’m right to be worried. When the house was quiet, and all were thought to be sleeping, I heard mother and father talking in the kitchen. Their hushed whispers were loud enough for me, as I crouched, taking cover behind a potted plant.

  I remember mother’s words: “How do we know that God is watching?” She fingers the wooden cross around her neck, tracing the depressions
left by the constant rubbing of her fingers. We don’t know if God is watching, not anymore. And that scares me. It scares me more than I dare admit.

  Nuptia opens the door slowly, wary not to make it creak. It is dusk now and, as she closes the door behind her, she is bathed in the light of a dozen pinks and violets. She breathes in the first of the night air, closes her eyes, and faces the heavens.

  For a moment, a peaceful smile crosses her face. In the mind, there is no reality. You can swim in the wild blue yonder if only you just ask. The bark of a stray dog startles her back to reality, and she continues down the dirt road, further wearied by thoughts of peace.

  The church is a battered building. It has withstood the ravages of time and wind but stands with many scars. The exterior, which once could have been white, is now a faded brown. The paint peels, even at the slightest touch. Many of the windows are broken, and the entrance displays suffer goring from wild animals.

  Nuptia enters the church, lightly pushing the door open with one hand. It shuts behind her, screeching on its hinges. It’s not a large church. Less than half the village can fit in it at one time. But this church has been home to all. It is where everyone prays for their newborn child, where everyone says their marriage vows, and where everyone asks the Lord for forgiveness. It is a fortress of faith.

  I have sought refuge here in times of need. Prayer is our way of communicating with the Lord, and he speaks with the voice of a thousand singing stars gliding down from the heavens. But should I pray if God doesn’t listen?

  Nuptia glides through the aisles of pews, concealing her inner turmoil well. She steps forward towards the altar, her eyes fixed warily on the well-worn crucifix. The carving has seen better days, that much is evident from the half-gone nose of Christ. She moves to kneel and begins her prayer. Other bodies move around her, also seeking refuge.

  Nuptia does not know how long she has stayed but, by the time she rises from the cold church floor, there is cool starlight streaming through the altar window—and something else.