Rebel Fires

by Tara Omar

  Sasha pressed the accelerator to the floor and let go of the steering wheel as Natalie dropped the match into the tin. Buttercup blasted forward, catapulting Crusty and her pinecone into the backseat as the AO-RV rocketed through the forest at lightning speeds. Buttercup was shaking violently and sustaining major blows to its frame from rocks and roots, much like a tin can being kicked over jagged concrete. Sasha stared at the red line on the screen, which seemed to end in a rapidly approaching dot.

  “The line’s ending,” he said.

  “What?” asked Natalie.

  “It’s…”

  Sasha stared ahead. A massive tree stood in front of them, right at the end of the line. He ripped the wires connecting the steering wheel to the computer and grabbed the wheel.

  “BRACE!” he shouted, but it was too late. Buttercup dived forward, snapping roots as the ground swallowed them up.

  Further down the river, in a grassy clearing near the foot of Lion Mountain, the nearby saplings poked curiously at a mound of compacted dirt between them. The bigger trees, sensing a vibration in another part of the forest, stretched their ancient limbs downward and pulled them back, mere seconds before the dirt mound erupted with a violent, explosive force never seen before nor ever likely to be seen again. Buttercup shot from the ground like a cannonball fired from a sarcophagus, hurling a hailstorm of mud balls across the trees as it soared over a clump of sugarbush. It crashed into a rickety bridge connecting the grass to a small island of land in the middle of the river, sinking end-first into a hidden tunnel below the bridge. Jets of water sprayed through Buttercup’s broken windows. Natalie, David, Liza and Sasha tumbled out Buttercup’s back and into a watery pool below.

  David grabbed Natalie’s arm as he burst through the water, pulling her to the side of the pool. Natalie gasped for air and squealed in pain, her fins caught in the rubber boots. David pulled her out of the water and onto the dry floor. They were in an elegant hall that ran like a glass tunnel through the part of the river used as a moat. The hall ended with a pair of golden doors, which flung open. A mer with purple-tipped hair stormed toward them, furious. It was Raphael.

  “What in the name of Silence is going on here?” he bellowed.

  Natalie trembled as her gills retracted and her fins changed back to feet. David held her close.

  “You okay, Nats?” he asked.

  Natalie moaned, “Yeah…yeah, I think so.”

  “Dave!” shouted Sasha, who had pulled Liza to another ledge. “The Queen’s not breathing! I think we’re losing her.”

  David looked to Raphael.

  “Please help her. She’s dying of poison, which is why we brought her here. You’re the only chance she has.”

  Raphael opened his mouth to respond but stopped short as he glanced toward the woman dying at the edge of the pool. Something stirred inside him as he looked at her—something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He moved to the Queen and began to press on her chest.

  “It’s not working,” said Raphael. “I’m doing the compressions, but the chest’s not even moving.”

  He dunked his wrists in the pool and spun a pointed thread of filament, attempting to pierce her skin with its edge. The filament cracked without leaving a scratch. Natalie gasped.

  “The shield! She’s wearing the shield.”

  Raphael’s eyes darted back and forth as he looked at Liza’s body, thinking.

  “Can we get it off?” asked Sasha.

  “No, for the shield to separate from her, she either has to take it off willingly or die,” said David.

  “And there’s no way to force it off?” asked Sasha.

  “We can’t burn, boil or strike it off,” said David. “From what I know it’s invincible.”

  “There must be a way to separate the shield from her,” said Natalie.

  “We’re running out of—”

  “MOVE!” shouted Raphael. He swept the Queen into his arms and carried her down the hall to the mansion behind the doors.

  C h a p t e r 6 7

  Raphael took Liza through a glittering, sapphire library to a rocky cavern that served as an art studio. Intricate, crystal statues crashed to the ground as Raphael swept them off the table and laid Liza’s body at the centre. He raced around the cave, pulling glass bottles and paper sachets from crevices in the stone, along with a heavy, black jumpsuit, thick gloves and a mask. He quickly put them on so that he was completely covered, and lifting the Queen once more, moved toward a large kiln at the back of the cave.

  The kiln was white hot with fire; streams of heat poured from it as he broke the safety latches and pried open the door. A cloud of fire rolled out like a pulsing star, melting nearby jars and instruments. Raphael stepped inside the kiln with the Queen and shut the door, just as David, Natalie and Sasha ran into the cave. David raced toward the kiln but reeled back as scorching heat attacked his eyes and skin.

  “What is he doing?” asked Sasha.

  “He must be trying to separate the shield from her body,” said Natalie.

  “But the shield can’t be burned,” said David.

  “The temperatures inside the kiln are much hotter than an ordinary fire,” said Natalie.

  “Will it damage the shield?” asked David.

  Before Natalie could answer, the kiln door opened with a wave of heat and fire. Raphael emerged completely enflamed, holding Liza in his arms. He pulled a cord above him; water from the moat poured through the rocks in the wall, sending up a cloud of blistering steam. Natalie, David and Sasha stepped back to avoid being burned. Raphael dropped Liza onto the table and immediately began chest compressions. Like a singed corpse pulled from the furnace, Liza lay lifeless and exposed, Raphael’s violent pounding on her chest seemed cruel and futile. After several rounds, he poured a draught of liquid down her throat and placed a mask over her mouth. Then, ripping the sleeve from his arm, he dunked his wrist in water and spun a syringe needle, injecting into her leg more of the liquid. Liza gasped and her eyes shot open. She passed out again; her breathing faint and her heartbeat barely more than a patter. Raphael sighed. Liza was sick, burned and nearly dead, but she was breathing.

  “Is she—”

  Natalie tapped David in the chest before he could finish. David swallowed his sentence. The three of them watched silently as the mer circled around the table, covering wounds with various mixtures and bandages. Slowly, the skin healed, and her breathing deepened. As her heartbeat grew stronger, Liza fell into an exhausted, unsettled sleep, as though she had just recovered from a nightmare.

  “By a great mercy, it appears the Queen will not yet pass into Silence,” said Raphael, wearily. “I shall attend to her scars and other ailments after she’s rested.”

  “And the shield?” asked David.

  Raphael stared at him with a coldness that seemed to pierce David’s spine.

  “Dead,” he replied. “The shield is dead.” He turned to Sasha and asked, “Sir, would you please carry her? I will show you to her room,”

  “Oh, of course,” said Sasha. He scooped Liza from the table and followed the mer from the cave. David stared at the flooded kiln, breathless and stiff. Broken pottery shards lay in the ashy puddles littering the cave’s floor. David searched through them, looking for any remnant of the shield. He found only the blackened bolts of a damaged safety lock. He could barely believe it.

  “So, the shield is gone,” said David.

  “It wasn’t yours to lose,” said Natalie, rubbing his arms. “And if you think of all the trouble it caused Naymar, Uriel, Norbert and Liza, it doesn’t really seem to live up to its image as a great protector, anyway, so maybe it’s for the best.”

  David’s mind throbbed with tortured visions as he stared at the kiln. He felt the painful sting of the seal’s bite and the burning squeeze of the willow’s tightening vines. He saw Norbert crying over his torment
ed son and felt Petra’s hand slide into his pants. He smelled the acid of whale bile and saw the massive eye filled with horror. He ducked through the door as the crystal room shattered behind him and felt guilt as he looked at the smiling woman in the tapestry. His head exploded with pain as he felt the knock to his skull.

  Blinding heat hurt his eyes and parched his throat as he trudged through blistering sands, feeling angry and betrayed. It morphed into water, which sloshed around rubber boots as he passed his hand over the cold metal of the fountain—the same cold metal of handcuffs and darkened prison cells, of despair, fear and death.

  In that moment, David felt every prick, pinch, gash and wound; every lie, insult, threat and manipulative move. Every emotional trauma and sacrifice he had suffered in the retrieval of this shield welled up so that inside he screamed. Inside, he screamed from the depths of his being so that every cell and molecule in his body wept and trembled, mourning the wounds that had been inflicted and cursing the futility of their purpose, reliving how, in the name of a purportedly good and desirable object, he had been insulted, abused, betrayed and broken for something so fragile, transient and damned. Inside, David screamed.

  On the outside, David remained still, gazing silently at the open kiln with an expression Natalie couldn’t quite understand. She watched him, a hint of worry passing her eyes.

  “Yeah,” said David, hugging her, “maybe it is for the best.”

  C h a p t e r 6 8

  In the early hours of the morning Catherine bustled about the elaborate, walk-in closet in the Marilyn Room, pulling out an array of silk dresses and hats from various cupboards and boxes. Beatrice joined her, half-asleep and in her pyjamas with a cup of coffee in her hand. She fanned through Catherine’s choices with a smug, indifferent look.

  “Right. The charity tea is this afternoon in the rose garden,” said Catherine. “I’ve selected several of the most appropriate looks for the occasion from which to choose.”

  “No, no, none of these will work,” said Beatrice, dropping dresses to the floor. “Find something else. These are all hideous.”

  “With respect, Miss, I am more versed in royal protocol than you are, and these choices are all quite appropriate,” said Catherine.

  “You are here to serve me, and I say find something else,” said Beatrice, yawning. “Something strapless, I think.”

  “But the dress code—”

  “Hang the dress code. I’m sick of old women and their rules of etiquette. Find me a different dress.”

  “Very well,” said Catherine. “Would you consider adding a bolero at least?”

  “You can suggest some, but I can’t guarantee that I’ll wear it,” said Beatrice, sipping her coffee. She held another dress in front of the mirror before tossing it behind her.

  “Of course not. That would be beneath you,” grumbled Catherine.

  Beatrice turned. “Are we going to have a problem, Catherine?”

  “I can’t imagine what you mean,” said Catherine, picking up the dresses that Beatrice had dropped.

  “Well, I mean we are from the same class at the Temple, and I’ve done quite a lot better for myself than you have,” said Beatrice, pulling a strapless dress from a hanger. “I mean, you were the star pupil, and now you’re calling me ‘Miss.’ That can’t sit well.”

  “If there’s one thing the Temple taught me, it’s humility,” said Catherine. “I’m fine with my place, and I thank Avi for it.”

  “Hmm… I guess you have no choice but to accept a low status now that Imaan and Liza are gone,” said Beatrice, thoughtful. “If you’d had any sense you would’ve sided with Gabe from the beginning. You’re a bit fat for Dominic’s taste; still, you could have caught a lesser man of considerable rank, if your morals weren’t so ridiculous.”

  “As I said, I’m happy with my place,” growled Catherine. “And I don’t envy the woman on the King’s arm, particularly this King’s.”

  “You just say that,” said Beatrice.

  “Oh, no, I mean it,” said Catherine. “His Majesty is too flashy for my taste. I’d prefer someone with much less maintenance.”

  “What do you mean, ‘maintenance’?” asked Beatrice.

  “You know, looking after. His Majesty is a desirable catch for many women, and desire is very attractive. I wouldn’t want to be in continuous competition with every woman that passes his eye, particularly as my own mystery wanes. It’s all too easy for him to move on, if you know what I mean.”

  “Dominic’s not like that,” said Beatrice.

  “Isn’t he?” asked Catherine, pulling Beatrice’s arms through a bolero. “Well, as you say, you know him best.”

  Beatrice squinted at the mirror. “Is that cement on your skirt?”

  “What?”

  “Ow! You bumped my chest. It’s sore,” said Beatrice.

  Catherine stared at her, confused.

  “It’s sensitive,” said Beatrice grumpily.

  “My apologies, Miss,” said Catherine, thoughtful. “It was unintentional and won’t happen again.”

  “It had better not, and wash your skirt,” said Beatrice. She looked herself up and down in the mirror as she adjusted the bolero. “I think I will take it with. It does add a bit of a flirtatious element, doesn’t it? And it will be good if it gets cold.”

  In a bedroom at Raphael’s house, Liza stirred. A dome of light broke into thousands of glittering rainbows as Liza opened her eyes, her skin tingling under thick chenille blankets. As Liza sat up, the dome cracked in half and swung open, revealing a mer standing over her with a ceramic bowl and brush in his hands. Liza looked around. She was sitting in a giant pearl-shaped bed on an oyster against a wall covered in swirling mosaics reminiscent of the sea. Liza noticed a colourful, coral reef beyond a glass wall. She looked at him, confused.

  “You are still in Aeroth,” said Raphael. “What you see are the fish in my moat, which surrounds the buried house along the edge of the Chumvi River in Faerkbërde Forest. David Michelson, a mera named Natalie and their human acquaintance brought you here for healing. You were poisoned.”

  Liza felt her arm.

  “It’s not there,” said Raphael, mixing a salve in a ceramic bowl. “The shield died while saving your life.”

  He touched her hand, but Liza snatched it back like a wounded animal, tears welling in her eyes. She quickly wiped them away.

  Raphael stared at her, thoughtful. “I’ve mixed everything you need here,” said Raphael pointing to the bedside table. “Paint this onto your scars, wait two minutes, and then wipe it away with the cloth. There’s a mirror in the corner of the room should you need one.”

  Liza nodded.

  “If you need anything, make this symbol with your hand,” said Raphael, holding up an unusual fist. “My fish will call me.”

  He turned toward the window and signed.

  Watch her.

  Then he left the room.

  Liza examined her arms, which looked like a worn-out roadmap of splotches and scars. She took the bowl and painted the salve along the jagged lines crossing her arms. The soft bristles of the paintbrush sent shivers through her body like an unwanted touch. Liza dropped the bowl and sobbed.

  C h a p t e r 6 9

  In another part of the house, David stretched and turned in restless sleep among the tall, scratchy grass of a savannah-like room, warmed by pink-orange light rising over the horizon. A shrill, piercing scream echoed through the trees. David bolted upright with the force of a snapped rubber band. He looked around.

  “Crusty?” asked David.

  The scruffy parakeet shrieked again, poking her beak along several bald patches, which were now sprouting curled, toothpick-like feathers. She leaned back toward her bottom and growled, chasing in circles a glossy, new tailfeather that had grown in the night. David wiped his eyes.

  “It’s o
kay, girl. You’re just getting your feathers back,” said David sleepily.

  Crusty plucked a pointed feather from her chest, much to the dismay of Raphael’s resident bird, Mozart, who shrieked in displeasure. Crusty argued back in even louder screams which then upset Kiwi, causing all three birds to scream at each other simultaneously in a cacophony of shrieks and screams. David buried his head under a pillow.

  “Of all the rooms in this house, the mer had to put us in the aviary,” grumbled David. “I swear I thought you were hurt, Nats.”

  David glanced at the nearby cot. “Natalie?”

  The cot was empty. He looked around the trees, but Natalie was not in the aviary. David raced from the room and down a spiral staircase into the library with sapphire walls. Open books were strewn along the floor near the back. Natalie sat between the volumes with a manuscript in her hands, reading with wild, excited eyes, like a predator ready to devour.

  “Did you know Raphael has human books…as in books written and made by actual humans?” asked Natalie. “I don’t think my brain has ever been more excited. Ahh! There’s just so much to read.”

  “Damn it, Nats. You gave me such a fright,” said David. “You shouldn’t be sitting down here alone.”

  “See here, look at this passage,” said Natalie, holding out the page. “According to humans, they were made from the land and Paradise Island belonged to them. There’s no mention at all of them having been bred from apes to be slaves to the mers. In fact, they claim the opposite, that their deity gave them dominion over the mers. And, rather than blaming us for losing Paradise, like we claim about them in our stories, they spun the collapse of Paradise into some sort of moral story. They seem to think that if Adam had been a better human, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “I’m serious, Nats. It’s not safe here,” said David.

  “Although I guess they later blamed us with the legend, since you did mention humans believe this merish assassin or Leviathan made the humans act immorally with his poison. Though there doesn’t seem to be any mention of this Leviathan in the texts.”