by Angel Lawson
“Well, maybe there is a puzzle he wants us to solve? What if there is a reason for them being so similar? What if there’s an oral tradition being passed down, that only a select few know about?”
Her eyes grow wide. “What, like a Masonic ritual?”
“Why not? The words are passed down without change for hundreds of years, right? It would explain a lot.”
“Still doesn’t give him the right to be dismissive and impolite,” she huffs.
I sigh. “Faye, it’s his classroom. He has the right to do anything he wants, including kick you out of it.”
“But—”
“I’m not saying that you or my brother is in the wrong. He’s usually right—please don’t tell him I ever said that—but what if there’s stuff Jules doesn’t know, and because you’ve been uncooperative, we don’t get full credit for the course? You’ve openly accused Dr. Anders of some pretty heinous things without knowing all the facts.”
She twists her fingers in her long skirt, and finally nods. “I’m not very good at this. My father paid my tutors, so none of them would have dared to speak to me that way.”
“Well, maybe just tell him that you are not used to a classroom situation, and apologize for being disrespectful.” I nudge her shoulder with my elbow, nod to the church. “So what exactly are we doing here, Tiny?”
Faye takes a piece of paper from her bag, and a box of children’s crayons. “Sometimes, when a carving has eroded away, and disappears to the naked eye, it will still show up in a rubbing.”
She hands me the sheet of vellum, and I place it where the mark is in Ethan’s picture. She holds it down at the bottom corners, standing on tiptoes. I hold it at the top with one hand, and she tells me how to stroke the purple crayon back and forth over the vellum, until the rune shows up, clear as a blueprint.
My roommate grins. “It wasn’t just a shadow. See, it is perth.”
I walk around to the left, and lean over the stone stairs that descend to a lower door. “There’s one on this one, too. It’s visible, if you know where to look,” I tell her. Hanging onto the stones that edge the door with one hand, I brush some lichen from the door. “It doesn’t look like the same symbol. It looks like an M.”
“Is it ehwaz or mannaz? Is it a regular M, or does it have an X in the points?”
“It has an X.” I trace the lines with my fingertip.
“Does your phone have a flash? Can you take a picture?”
“If you stand below me, and catch it if I drop it.” I say, and she hops down the stairs, and grabs her skirt by the hem, holding it out like a net. I take the photo without mishap, and climb down. “It’s not very clear,” I tell her. “I’ll draw it when we get back.”
“No, it’s fine. That is definitely mannaz.”
“What’s it mean?”
“The self. Ego. Memory.” She grins at me.
“Great. So even the ancient Norse decided I was vain?” I joke, though my chuckle tastes a bit sour.
We take a rubbing of another that Faye says she can see is kaunan, though I see the jagged, C-shaped mark only after it presses through the paper. The ground slopes down and away from the building on the next side, and I’m not tall enough to reach the plant debris that hangs over the roof, but by teetering on a stack of library books, with Faye holding my hand for balance, I’m able to scrape away the dead vines with a stick.
“This one looks like an F.” She passes my phone up to me, and I manage to hold it high enough to get a reasonable photo. “See, you have a door, too.”
She looks at me, head sideways with narrowed eyes, then looks at the phone. “No, tilt it a little. It’s an A. Ansuz.”
“What’s it for?”
“Order, language. Thought.”
“Thought and Memory, again.”
“Huginn and Muninn.”
“What does this one mean?” I pull ivy away from the last door, and the rune is blatant, an arrow pointing up.
“That’s tyr. Or tiwaz. Means strength, and conflict.”
“That I believe,” I mutter.
“Why, where have you seen it?”
I could tell her I had seen the rune in two places, but I didn’t. I wasn’t ready to share that the mark was seared into my brain from a kiss. “In the book Anders gave us. There’s a chapter on each of the crows. Each one has a symbol at the top of the chapter. Huginn’s rune is one of them, and this tyr is another. I just assumed it was an abstract design.”
“Does the fourth one look like this?” She holds up the first etching.
“Perth, right?”
She points to the church, to the door in Ethan’s picture from this morning. “One door for each crow. We were right! The chapel does tie in to the crows. And you’re right, too. All this is beginning to show a lot of similarities to a fraternal order. We’ve got to find out when it was built!”
“But there are only four chapters in the book, not five. Why five doors?”
“Wisdom’s line didn’t carry on, remember?” she says. “So no raven tales to spin into indigenous folklore. It was on that runestone drawing in the book. I translated it in group the other day.”
“I remember what I see, not what I hear,” I remind her. “But why on earth build a church that’s practically dedicated to crows? The settlers were Protestant missionaries, not Norse pagans.”
“Does Vangarde’s book mention crow worship?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I didn’t read all of it before I gave it to Julian. He was about to take my hand off at the wrist to get it.”
“Does he still have it?”
“I’m sure it’s in his stuff.”
“Isn’t his backpack in the dorm?” she asks.
“I’ll get it from Ethan. My sketchbook is in there, too.” I hand her the book bag. “So. I’ve done my part. Now you go apologize to Professor Anders.”
“But we need to look inside,” she says.
“We are not breaking in in broad daylight, and class starts in fifteen minutes. Now go.”
“Do I have to? He always has food stains on his shirt,” she grumbles. “And he needs a belt.”
“See you in class,” I say, laughing.
She stomps off, a disgruntled bundle of brown wool in Victorian boots trudging toward the campus buildings.
But she doesn’t show up for class. When Ethan gestures to her desk, I shrug. After the lecture, I linger with the crowd asking questions.
Dr. Anders smiles at me. “I sent Miss Jarvi to the library with some suggestions for research. The Moravian missionaries did have quite a few ties to the Freemasons.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“Have you heard from your brother?”
I nod. “They’re keeping him another night.”
Another student elbows me aside to ask an inane question about the sexual symbolism in Cinderella, and I leave, restless and lonely. Ethan is right, I really do need sleep, but I’ve drunk too much caffeine and I’m fidgety.
I look outside the library for Faye’s flock of crows, but I only see a few perched on the roof of the faculty building. I don’t know if they are hers.
19.
Epinephrine
The kitchen is warm from the ovens. Dinner isn’t for another hour but I’m exhausted, running on no energy, and so I rummage in the refrigerator hoping Constance can spare me a snack. My head is ear deep in the crisper drawer when I hear her say, “Boy, you better be here to work. Nobody steals food from Constance’s kitchen.”
“I was going to ask,” I say, already chewing an apple. “I just couldn’t find you.”
“You tell tales,” she says but she’s smiling and I take another bite. “You look tired.”
“Didn’t schleep lascht night,” I say around the apple.
“Follow me. I need to give you something.” I snatch another apple and stash it in my bag. Constance is already across the kitchen, quick on her little legs. She disappears into a small office off th
e main room; I follow. She reaches into her desk. “I think you lost this the other night. It was in the sink.”
I take the small metal charm. “Oh,” I say, pocketing it. “Thank you.”
“That’s yours, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Seems funny for a boy to carry around one of those.” She raises an eyebrow.
“It caught my eye,” I mumble. “Found it on the sidewalk.”
“Miriam always had trinkets like that. Little things she wore around her neck or ankle. She was always into the voodoo.”
“Miriam—Sonja’s mother?”
“Miriam loved the old ways. Still does, I suppose.” Constance gestures to a photo pinned to the board behind her head. It’s covered in schedules and receipts. Several snapshots peek out from under the clutter. I look at the one she’s pointing to and stop short.
“That’s Miriam?” The woman next to a younger Constance is pretty with smooth brown skin. Her hair is in tiny braids that hang to her shoulders. I blink, try to shake the exhaustion from my brain. “This is Sonja’s mother?”
“Gorgeous, isn’t she?”
“She works here? For the college?”
“No, not anymore. She works for the state, now.”
I nod, staring at the picture. The half-eaten apple is slimy my hand. “I guess I should go,” I say. “Thanks for finding the charm for me.”
“Anytime. Just ask before you go digging in my refrigerator next time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I start to walk away from the office, trying to keep my feet slow, when all I want to do is run.
“Ethan,” she calls when I’m at the back door. I pause, my hand on the knob. “You be careful and stay out of trouble. And get some sleep.” I nod before pushing the door open. I step out into the afternoon sun, but it doesn’t warm the knot of cold that has turned the apple sour in my stomach.
The dorm room is empty. I flop down on the bed and try to force my brain to think in a logical pattern, but it won’t obey, and I fall asleep with the image of Sonja’s mother guarding over me.
*
I wake at the pounding on my door. The sun is shining low into the windows, and my stomach growls. I’ve slept through dinner.
“Ethan, open up,” Memory shouts from the hallway. I yank open the door. “Where’s my brother’s stuff?”
“What the hell, Cherry?” I shuffle back to my bed, sit down. I rub my hands over my eyes, trying to shrug off the groggy feeling. My clothes stick to my skin, creased and sweaty.
“Where is Julian’s laptop bag?” she asks, then sees the leather satchel on the bed and starts rummaging through it.
“What are you looking for?”
“My sketchbook. He had it the other day after class and I need it.”
I take the bag from her, place his laptop and power cord on the mattress. Opening the side pockets, I toss several pens and pencils into a pile, along with a couple books she’s already pulled from the bag.
“I don’t see it.”
“It has to be here,” she snatches the leather strap and drags it toward her. Something on the bed catches her eye. “Wait. Hand me that.”
“What?” I ask, but she pushes past me and grabs one of the pens. Or not exactly a pen, I see as she holds it up. It’s wider and has a green wrapper around it. “What is that?”
“It’s an Epi-pen. That shouldn’t be here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When you use one of these you have to take it with you to the hospital. The paramedics would have insisted.” She opens the cap and says, “It wasn’t used. It’s still full.”
“Then maybe that’s it. Maybe he didn’t use his pen, and that’s why the reaction was so bad.”
“Dr. Anders said he used his pen. So did Julian, it was his first text from the hospital.” She fumbles with her phone and shows me the screen: I’m alive. Epinephrine is great stuff. The food here is not. “I’ve always made sure he had that pen with him and I have an extra in my bag. Why do you think I carry it everywhere I go?”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
*
I scramble to find my shoes. Memory’s ahead of me, walking fast with her phone to her ear. The main dormitory door slams as I dodge a crowd of science nerds hurrying to their Evening Activity. When I catch up to her, she’s halfway to the main administration office.
“Ugh! Why won’t anyone answer the phone?”
“Who?” I ask, grabbing her hand, slowing her down.
“My parents. Julian. Where are they?”
“Well, Julian is in the hospital and your parents are on some kind of camping trip, right?”
She rolls her eyes at me, and a tear spills over, stained black with makeup.
“Where are you going, anyway?” I ask her. “Planning on storming the faculty offices at 8:00 in the evening?”
She stops, finally. “I need answers. Something isn’t right.”
“That may be, but we need to talk to Julian first. One thing at a time. And we can’t just go in making accusations without evidence, okay?” I cup her stubborn jaw with my palm, and she closes her eyes, leans into my hand. “If Anders is really plagiarizing academic papers, he’s more trouble than we can handle on our own.”
A bird chirps at us, a melodic tweet in the now empty quad. I itch for my camera, to have this second forever, her all soft and needing me, but then I hate it, wanting her strong and fierce again. I rub my thumb under her eyes, wipe away the tears.
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” she whispers. “I think it’s bigger than we realize. Faye knows it, too.”
“Well, between the four of us, we can figure it all out. Let’s go find Faye. Is she still at the library?” She nods, sniffs, blinks back more tears, and then smiles a little. One hand with glittery red nails moves to my waist, clutches at my shirt. I ask, “What started all this? What made you upset?”
“Faye and I were at the chapel and we found symbols above each door. It all seems too close to us, too personal, y’know? And I’m starting to get creeped out, and I really wish I could talk to Jules, but they’re keeping him another night, and—”
“Tyrell. Get away from her.”
I jerk my hands back in guilty reflex before the anger slides down my spine. Memory’s eyes flick to our left, but she doesn’t let go of my t-shirt. “Jeremy, we talked about this,” she calls back to him.
College Boy is several years older than me, but at least three inches shorter. He’s bearing down on us, face red under his tan. “You don’t understand, Memory.”
Memory runs a hand down my arm. It quells the rage for a moment. How does this girl manage to fry my brain with a kiss and then soothe me with a simple touch? She steps toward the soccer-jock, who rises on his toes, trying to loom over us. “Jer, it was fun, and thank you. But we’re done,” she says.
They are? I look at her, the way she stands, the distance between them. She’s not holding onto his shirt.
“I’m trying to protect you, Memory! You have no idea how dangerous he is!” He points in my direction without looking.
“I don’t need your protection, Jeremy. I can take care of myself.”
The student counselor’s face twists in disbelief. “You’re choosing to listen to this jack-ass over me?”
Is she?
“I’m not choosing anyone, or anything. Let it go.”
“I’ve seen his file.” He warns her. “All ten pounds of it. You know he’s been in jail, right? Assault, aggravated battery, disturbing the peace. He’s a thief, and he’s got diagnosed anger management issues since grade school.” He grabs her arm. “His own mother didn’t even—”
Jeremy doesn’t get to finish that sentence. Two steps and a pivot on my toes, and I ram him in the stomach, under his ribs, a straight arm drive across his diaphragm, shutting him up and knocking him down. I tumble with him, but roll off fast, snap to my feet before
he’s scrambled to stand up straight.
He pushes my chest with both hands, like a kid on a playground. Doesn’t even make me take a step backward. I let go of my fists, take a deep breath. Hitting this guy gets me sent home, and Memory needs me right now. I’m no good to her back in lock-up. Her hand is still out, reaching to me.
Crack. My head rocks with the impact, cheek split against bone, the pain coming slower than my fury.
Jeremy is staring at his hand, one knuckle pulped and bloody. “Mother f—”
I jump him, two short jabs in his belly with tight square fists, and one hard pop in the sternum that drives him to the ground. He flails, gasping, but kicks me in the knee, busts up my balance and I stagger.
Then he’s on his feet, arms stretched out, and he kicks again, misses my balls when I twist away. I land a weak uppercut and a good, low sock to his gut, but he shakes it off, dances away fast, kicking out again. I dodge. Soccer-boy doesn’t know how to use his hands. He’s not even making fists at all, but he’s quick on his toes.
“Stop!”
We ignore Cherry’s plea. I go in again, avoid his knee as it comes up, swing a roundhouse to his ear that connects with an ugly sound, but then he head-butts me in the face, and I don’t see it coming fast enough, and take it on the mouth, hard.
I go down. He does, too, pawing at his ear with both hands. I try to stand, but a hand on my shoulder is pulling me down, I shake it off, but another pushes at my chest.
“Ethan, stop! Ethan!”
I see the sparkly red nails. Breathe. Spit blood on the ground.
Jeremy stands. I do, too, slowly, heart pounding with the heavy, hard beat of a fight. Adrenaline is singing in my veins.
“Don’t,” she whispers.
Jeremy is covered in blood and dirt. He points a finger at me, like he’s going to poke my chest, thinks better of it. “You’re screwed, Tyrell. Burnett’s gonna have your ass for fighting. Better get ready for that jumpsuit.”
