Rebel Fires

by Tara Omar

  “I tried, but Catherine is rather busy at the moment,” said Iris. “She’s left the preparation of the altar in our charge.”

  She carried a sack of firestones from the storeroom under the Temple up to the vestibule and dumped a few on the counter. The stones rolled onto the granite with a puddle of water. Iris frowned. “These are very wet.”

  “Do you think they will light?” asked the maiden.

  “I don’t know,” said Iris.

  “Should we add some petrol, just to be safe?”

  “No, it will invalidate the offering,” said Iris. “We must adhere to the rules proscribed in the Sacred Memories. ‘Nothing shall be added.’”

  The maiden touched the stones.

  “I don’t think these are going to light.”

  “They will light if Avinoam wills it,” said Iris.

  “What are we going to do?” asked the maiden.

  “We shall lay them out to dry and prepare the altar in the morning,” said Iris. “If Avinoam approves of the marriage, surely the stones will light.”

  C h a p t e r 8 3

  The rain beat down across nearly the whole of Aeroth. Liza watched as it fell into the moat from a chair in the sapphire library, while Crusty sat proudly on her lap, trying to bring some order to her mangled feathers with some serious preening. Sasha was also in the library reading a magazine on off-roading, while Raphael moved among the shelves, dusting their mahogany tops with a cloth. He stepped over Natalie, who was sitting on the floor with her goldfish computer, surrounded by an even larger pile of books than before. She glanced through a chapter and tossed it aside, typing into her clutch with a frustrated fury. David brought her a glass of juice.

  “Any luck yet?” he asked.

  “I’ve read and reread every footnote, field note, book and article on caribou, but I can’t seem to find anything that sounds even remotely relevant,” said Natalie.

  “Maybe there’s something in the religious tradition that can help,” said David. “Do you know of anything, Your Majesty?”.

  “Please, call me Liza,” she said. “And unfortunately in regard to Paradise, we know very little about the island, though it is believed that the land is protected by fierce cherubim.”

  “What’s that?” asked Natalie.

  “We think it’s a type of winged creature,” said Liza. “We know its domain is the sky.”

  “And you don’t have any physical evidence of these things?” asked Natalie.

  “Not that I know of, no,” said Liza.

  Natalie sighed. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to look.”

  David picked up the torn page, reading Bellecris’ note again.

  Yew must slice the angry caribou.

  He smiled. “Yew… It’s a cute spelling if you think of it.”

  David stared harder at the paper.

  If you think of it…

  “Natalie!”

  “What?”

  “I think we’re looking up the wrong word,” said David. He pointed to the words on the paper. “Look at the spelling of the first word.”

  “‘Yew’ should be ‘you.’ What’s your point?” asked Natalie.

  “Exactly that,” said David. “Bellecris writes names from the natural world. She calls me Daweed and you Nettle. I bet caribou is another substitution.”

  “That’s…definitely possible, but it could have any number of substitutions,” said Natalie. “Where do we even begin?”

  “Try variants of the spelling, and see if you get anything,” said David.

  Natalie typed into her computer. “Let’s see…Cariboo, Caribo, Karibau, Karibu—oh wow, I’m actually getting something on karibu.”

  David leaned nearer, looking at the notes in the fountain screen.

  “It’s in a book, Primordial Weather Patterns, by Atlas Wright,” said Natalie. David hurried to the meteorology section of Raphael’s library and pulled the book from the shelf.

  “Here, it’s a merish book,” said David, handing it to Natalie.

  Natalie looked up the term in the index and flipped to the page. She read.

  The Karibu, or welcoming wind, was a gentle, south-easterly airstream known to flow over the now defunct Paradise development. The formation of mountainous rings during the development of the island caused the gust to take on more violent properties and thus became known in common usage as the Kerubhim, to differentiate it from its calmer predecessor. The Kerubhim later became known as the Khamsin in merish usage, though it is believed to still be known among humans as Kerubhim, or in some cases, Cherubim.

  “That’s it,” said David. “We must cut the angry Karibu…we must soar through the wind.”

  “But we already tried all the aircraft,” said Natalie. “All the simulations ended up crashing against the mountain.”

  “Have you tried a peregrine?” asked Liza.

  “I don’t think I have any drawings of those,” said Natalie.

  “It’s a racing machine,” said Liza.

  “There’s a book in the library which may assist you on the subject,” said Raphael. He set down his cloth and pulled a volume from a shelf near the floor.

  “On The Brink: The Cutting Edge of Falcon Design by Jerry Merlin,” said Raphael, glancing at Liza as he handed the book to Natalie. “It’s a book of designs for falcon prototypes.”

  “Does this mean you’re willing to help us?” asked David.

  “Yes,” said Raphael.

  David’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “David,” whispered Natalie.

  “I will assist any venture that hastens being rid of you,” said Raphael, dusting more vehemently than before.

  “That would be great. Thank you,” said Natalie. David glared at her.

  Crusty climbed onto Liza’s shoulder as Liza sat next to Natalie.

  “May I?” asked Liza.

  “Sure,” said Natalie, handing her the book.

  Liza flipped through the pages one by one. As she looked over the designs, Crusty inched down her arm, becoming more and more interested in the drawings on the pages. She growled at some and chirped at others. On one particularly loud chirp, Liza paused. She looked over the design, thoughtful.

  “This one,” said Liza. “Try this one.”

  “Okay,” said Natalie. “Scanning now.” She held the book next to her keyboard and pressed a key, sending a flash of light over the book. With a few more keystrokes, a full model of the drawing appeared in the fountain screen. Natalie ran the necessary calculations through her programme. She paused.

  “Huh. That…just might work.”

  “Serious?” asked David.

  “Sort of,” said Natalie, “if we fly in at maximum speed from this point of the island.”

  “We’ll make it?” asked David.

  “Well, no,” said Natalie. “The computer still shows us crashing into the mountainside, but the margin of error is fairly small. If we can somehow manage to get a bit more speed, we might have a chance.”

  “How big of a chance?” asked David.

  “As big as we’re likely to get,” said Natalie.

  Liza looked at the model. “I could probably make some adjustments to the design that may be advantageous. I’d also like to adjust the bird cage so Crusty won’t suffer when I pilot you in.”

  “Are you coming with us?” asked Natalie.

  “Yes,” said Liza, “if you don’t mind.”

  “It’d be great if you came,” said David. “Your skills would be a tremendous asset.”

  Liza smiled.

  “It looks like the frame requires a fair amount of aluminium,” said Natalie. “We’re going to need someone to spin it.”

  They glanced at the dusting mer.

  “Don’t everyone look at me,” said Raphael.

 
“But we need you,” said Natalie. “Neither David nor I know how to dance.”

  “No surprise there,” said Raphael.

  “What does that have to do with building falcons?” asked Liza.

  “In order to spin filament of this magnitude, you have to know how to dance,” said Natalie. “It helps the filament form.”

  “We’re going to need music as well,” said David.

  “Raphael, you wouldn’t happen to have a cello David could play?” asked Natalie.

  “I might have one downstairs, yes,” said Raphael.

  “And what about you, Sasha?” asked David. “Can you play an instrument?”

  Sasha nodded. “I play the gum leaf.”

  “What’s that?” asked David.

  “It’s a leaf,” said Sasha.

  “You can play a leaf?” asked David.

  Sasha raised his finger and left the library, returning several minutes later with a eucalyptus leaf from the eula grove. He held it to his lips as though playing the harmonica, filling the library with sound as he blew across it. The vibrating gum leaf took on the character of a high-pitched horn, covering a range of notes stretching over an octave. David stared at him, awestruck. Even Crusty looked impressed.

  “This…this is amazing,” said David. “How in the world do you do it?”

  “It will work nicely with the cello,” said Natalie.

  Raphael tossed his rag and walked to the circular pool of jellyfish surrounding the spiral staircase, which David knew hid the controls to a moving platform that functioned as a lift. Raphael motioned for them to follow.

  “Shall we get started? I believe we have a frame to build.”

  C h a p t e r 8 4

  Norbert straightened his leaf-patterned suit before knocking on his neighbour’s front door. Gill answered a minute later, his hair still wrapped in a fluffy, white towel.

  “Are you almost ready, Gilgamesh?” asked Norbert. “We don’t want to be late for the nuptials.”

  “Come inside. I’ll just be a minute,” said Gill. He leaned nearer. “Oh, and it’d be better if you didn’t mention Beatrice’s name in the house. She rejected Hongi as a chef for the wedding.”

  Norbert gasped. “Bless my blueberries, she didn’t.”

  “I’m afraid she did,” said Gill. “Hongi’s rather bitter about it.”

  “No worries. I shall be the picture of neighbourly support,” said Norbert.

  Gill retreated to the bathroom, where the muffled sound of a hairdryer soon groaned through the door. Norbert wandered to the kitchen. The little tikihune stood behind a deep pot full of meat boiling in tomato gravy, which was exploding in angry bursts like the bubbles of a fuming cauldron.

  “Mhm-hmm. I must say, Hongli, your tamati bredie is a true work of epicurean art,” said Norbert, offering an appreciative sniff. He dodged a spurt of tomato sauce that splattered across the otherwise pristine counter.

  “Ooh, and you made cinnamon puffs as well. Don’t mind if I have one,” said Norbert, taking a pastry from a nearby plate. “I’m feeling a bit peckish, I am.”

  Hongi mumbled under her breath as she stirred. “Peck her ignorant eyes and slimy lips.”

  “Oh, Hongi, these pastries…they’re scrumptious, truly,” said Norbert, his mouth full.

  “Norbert Warrior-Mahn knows what’s good,” said Hongi. “The brine girl…the brine girl does not. The brine girl is an ugly hag with gluttonous snots and blasphemous teeth. She shall live with the yoke of envy and restlessness, shrieking in the shadow of calamity all the days of her life, for Hongi spits horrors and jinxes upon her, from now to the hundredth generation!”

  The seething pot of tamati bredie boiled over like a roaring cascade, bursting into a ring of fire and smoke as it hit the stove’s flames. Norbert swallowed.

  “Wow, remind me never to offend your cinnamon puffs,” said Norbert.

  “Okay, I’m ready now,” said Gill, now dressed in his tuxedo. “Shall we go?”

  “Yep,” said Norbert. “Have a good evening, Hongli.” He stuffed a cinnamon puff into his pocket, while Hongi calmly turned off the stove and continued stirring. Norbert shook his head as he plopped into the side seat of the waiting pteroduck.

  “You were right, Gill. That lady tiki-hoo-hah is bitterer than a green banana wrapped in lemon pith. I hope she gets over it.”

  “I hope so, too,” said Gill. “Poor Moai has been hiding ever since she heard the news.”

  Gill and Norbert flew to the Temple and took their seats among the other guests who had come to view King Dominic’s wedding. They quickly settled in as more people squeezed in around them. Norbert fiddled with his programme as a lady with a sizeable hat took her seat right in front of him. He frowned.

  “Oh, poop.”

  “Shh-shh,” whispered Gill, “they’re starting.”

  The lights in the Temple darkened and the music began. Catherine peered out from behind the Temple door, scanning the crowd of excited guests. Beatrice stood behind her in a richly elaborate dress unlike any ever seen in Aeroth, a flaming torch in her hand. Catherine waved at her.

  “And, go,” she whispered.

  Beatrice moved past her and into the darkness, carrying her torch through the crowd as Dominic started from the opposite side, swathed in orange light and glorious music. Beatrice walked slowly, jingling and glittering like a treasure chest floating down the aisle. The train on her dress was so long it nearly stretched through half the Temple; it was emblazoned with patterns and jewels showing the story of Aeroth in sparkling detail.

  As they reached the altar, Dominic gave a short, carefully-crafted speech about new life and his commitment to the Temple and State. Beatrice offered a succinct tribute to her predecessor along with a heartfelt acknowledgement of her new husband and position. They crossed arms and kissed, dropping their entwined torches onto the pile of black firestones, while rows of fireworks erupted in columns of sparks around them. Excited murmurs spread through the crowd. Beatrice glanced down at the altar, horrified.

  “What’s going on?” asked Norbert, fidgeting in his seat. “What’s happening?”

  “The torches…” whispered Gill, “they didn’t light.”

  The two torches lie on top of the pile of firestones, hissing with the last wisps of smoke. Murmurs grew into clamour as the crowd sat in near darkness, gossiping. Gabe walked purposefully toward the vestibule at a pace just short of a run. Wilhelm, the controversial Ibex guard, joined him.

  “What is going on?” asked Gabe.

  “The torches didn’t light, Sir. Avinoam doesn’t approve of the marriage,” said a maiden.

  “Maybe Beatrice isn’t worthy of the King, or maybe…maybe Lady Elizabeth is still alive,” said another.

  “Iris, how dare you utter such thoughts,” said Catherine as she entered the vestibule. “Were you not present at the Lady’s funeral?”

  Iris looked to her feet. “I was.”

  “Then how could you speak as you have just now?” asked Catherine.

  “Sir, in my opinion this stunt is a deliberate attempt to undermine the King’s authority and merits an arrest, in which case I would be all too happy to assist,” said Wilhelm, a hunger in his eyes. “This is a deliberate act of rebellion that deserves to be punished.”

  “Oh, no, Sir, not at all,” said Iris. “The storeroom flooded in the rain and soaked the firestones. We dried them out as best we could but couldn’t do much else on account of the proscriptions in the Sacred Memories.”

  “Did you tell Catherine about this?” asked Gabe.

  “We tried, Sir, but she was occupied with other matters,” said the maiden. “Miss Beatrice kept her very busy in the days preceding the wedding.”

  “We didn’t mean any harm, Sir, honest,” said Iris. “We did the best we could under the circumstances. Surely if Avinoam blessed
the marriage, it would’ve been enough, wouldn’t it?”

  “Not to worry, Iris. I believe you,” said Gabe. “The short notice put a great strain on everyone, there is no denying that.”

  He turned to the guard. “You may go, Wilhelm, thank you,” said Gabe. “Kindly ensure that all else remains in order.”

  “Very well, Sir,” said Wilhelm, clearing his throat.

  Gabe hid a bottle of lantern oil from the vestibule in his jacket and strolled toward the embarrassed couple who still stood at the altar. He relit their torches and with his back to the people, dumped the oil on the firestones. Then he slid the bottle into his jacket and turned to the crowd.

  “We were just ensuring the papers had something exciting to write about,” said Gabe.

  The crowd laughed, and the couple kissed again. This time the altar went up in a fiery blaze as Dominic and Beatrice carefully placed their torches on top of the altar. The Temple erupted with orchestral sounds and raucous applause.

  Meanwhile, in a storeroom next to an abandoned kitchen deep under the Palace, Wilhelm watched as Ibex guards shoved half-open crates away from a brick wall, revealing a hole and shards of dinnerware. Wilhelm pushed the guards out of the way and climbed inside. The cellar was empty. He grabbed the hilt of his blade, his eyes as wild and maniacal as those of a serial killer. Another guard raced down the stairs, meeting him at the pile of rubble.

  “There’s news from the coast, Sir. One of our guards was found dead near Three Corners,” said the guard. “We think he might have been murdered.”

  “Any leads?” asked Wilhelm.

  The guard frowned, his face making funny shapes as he decided whether or not to speak. Wilhelm’s eyes narrowed.

  “Out with it,” said Wilhelm.

  “I’m not sure if it’s much of a lead, Sir, but Faerkbërde was heard screaming,” said the guard.

  Wilhelm nodded. “Prepare a search party. We must move quickly if the fugitive is to be found.”

  “But Sir, surely the forest would’ve finished the convict?” asked another guard. “Faerkbërde never leaves survivors.”

  “Oh, in this case, I believe the circumstances will have been very different,” said Wilhelm, glaring at the rubble beneath his feet. The guard looked confused.