Rise

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  Throwing propriety to the wind, she called out to Franz. “Please, go to the kitchen and find porridge and a spoon. I want to feed him.”

  Amusement settled on his face, but he did not protest, and she gave him directions to the kitchen. While the nobleman was gone, Teresa spoke quietly to the boy, who gazed at her with a solemn expression. How much he was taking in, she did not know, but he settled back into the bed, squirming a little as he did.

  “You are safe here,” she told him. “Safe and wanted. My sisters and I will care for you until you are well. And you too will become one of us.”

  He frowned at that and managed to say, “I cannot become a sister.”

  She laughed. “No, but you can become Oneness. And you shall. I know, because I have dreamed of it. What is your name?”

  “I am Niccolo,” he told her.

  “And when did last you eat, Niccolo?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. It has been days.”

  “Days.”

  “My parents said I was going to die anyway.”

  “They were wrong.” She kept her voice steady, not betraying her anger at a mother and father who would stop feeding their own child. Yet, she knew the poverty of some in the countryside was desperate. Perhaps there were other children to feed. Perhaps they felt they had no choice.

  She smiled at Niccolo as she reached out and smoothed a long, sweat-thick lock of hair from his brow. Her soul was bonding to this child, her heart mothering him even as her hands followed her natural impulses. She hoped he would come into the Oneness very soon.

  Franz reappeared, not carrying the called-for porridge himself, but ushering it in via the helpful hands of one of the older sisters. He looked much like a master ordering a servant, which bothered Teresa a little, but she was too grateful for the food—and the sister’s company—to dwell on that overmuch. The sister sat on a low stool across from the bed and watched while Teresa helped the boy sit up and hold his bowl and spoon. He seemed capable of feeding himself. The sister fidgeted, and Teresa felt her impatience to be going. There were needs. Great needs. Every hand ought to be engaged in meeting them, not in chaperoning. But Franz did not seem inclined to leave the room.

  The boy took his first few bites tentatively but gained speed as his strength began to return, until Teresa had to put out her hand to slow him down lest he make himself sick. She supervised his eating until the last drop of porridge was gone and then helped him lie down again—he seemed exhausted by the surge of effort. His face had gone white and his hands shook.

  “Sleep,” Teresa said, making up her mind to leave him alone—though her heart wanted to stay. “I’ll come back to check on you. Just sleep for now.”

  He nodded, but his eyes were already closing of their own accord, and when she looked back just before stepping out of her quarters, she was sure he was asleep.

  Chapter 2

  April’s newest sketchbooks were full of fires.

  Trees, forests, graveyards in flames. Cities in flames. People in flames. But nothing burning—everything simply wreathed in fire, filled with it, purified by it.

  The pictures would likely disturb anyone else, so she didn’t show them. She wasn’t sure why she drew them—because, she thought, she was searching her own memory for a clear picture of what she had seen. She wanted to see it again. Clearly. In a way she could grasp.

  She had been through the fire. Had been filled and purged by it. But she could hardly describe it, even to herself. It was the greatest mystery of her life.

  Nick, she knew, had been stealing her journals and sketchbooks and looking through them with rapt attention, completely without her permission. He always returned them, and she let him be.

  He Joined one day while pouring through her fire sketches.

  She felt it the moment it happened—the coming of one boy’s soul into the Oneness. The affinity that had always been there between them, the empathy and tacit understanding of one another’s lives, gave way to something much deeper, closer, and more raw. She was perched on the roof when it happened, looking out over the bay, wearing a toque and wrapped in a warm blanket. It was November, the ocean air was damply cold, and fog lay out over the water. The boy’s Joining came as warmth and a layer of strength in her bones.

  “It’s about time,” she said aloud.

  She sat on her bed now, going through her own pictures—all of them except those in the book Nick had most recently filched. Searching. Wind shook her window with a blast.

  She couldn’t find what she was looking for.

  Looking at the pictures was like gazing at a veil drawn across a reality that looked something like it—as though someone had painted a landscape on a curtain and then drawn that curtain across the real thing.

  “Where are you?” April asked, speaking out loud, as her fingers and her eyes searched the lines of fire. “Why are you so hard to see?”

  Because I am in you, came an answer. You can’t see what is behind your eyes.

  She paused. “Is that also why you’re so hard to hear?”

  Because I sound like your own thoughts? Yes.

  She smiled. “I can hear you now, at least.”

  But there was no answer to that.

  Everything had changed for April, first in the water, then in the fire. In ways she was hard-pressed to explain, although she had tried to tell Richard—the wisest and most mature among them. But even he did not seem to understand that she had encountered—something—outside of what Oneness usually knew. That the Spirit had spoken to her, and had filled her, and burned her without burning her, in ways she had never experienced or heard of anyone else experiencing. And because of it, her entire understanding of the Oneness was changing. Of the Oneness, of the world, of herself.

  Changing, and yet she couldn’t articulate the change. Couldn’t figure out what it all meant, didn’t even know how to differentiate between the old and the new. And yet the dividing line was clear. Her world was not the same.

  She was not the same.

  Her door cracked and Nick’s head popped in, only to be withdrawn almost as fast. But she had caught his eye.

  “A-ha,” she said loudly. “Caught red-handed. Get in here.”

  He obeyed, sheepishly entering with a sketchbook in his hands. She cleared a pile of other books and loose papers from the bed and gestured to the open spot.

  “Sit.”

  He did, laying the sketchbook with the others.

  “Why are you taking my drawings?” she asked.

  “To learn,” he said carefully. Like a schoolchild giving the right answer, even though he knew it was not the true answer.

  “To learn what?”

  This time the answer was even more tenuous. “How to draw?”

  “I know you’re only looking at the fire pictures.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I spy on you. ’Fess up.”

  He grinned, not meeting her eyes but tracing a line on the bed with his fingers. “I wanna learn about what happened to you.”

  “You could just ask, you know.”

  “I didn’t think you wanted to talk about it.”

  “It isn’t easy to talk about.” She frowned. “But I’m willing to try. Not overly many people seem to want to listen.”

  That was probably crossing the line, she decided; she shouldn’t really be confessing her frustrations to an eleven-year-old, especially not one brand-new to the Oneness.

  “Well,” she said, trying instead to revisit her memories and put them into words, “you know how you felt when you Joined the Oneness?”

  He nodded but didn’t say anything. So she carried on, trying to describe his experience the way she remembered it from her own childhood conversion. “Everything changes. One day you’re just yourself, and the next minute you’ve become a part of something that covers the whole world. You can feel the hearts of other people and they’re all beating along with yours, and you can feel their happiness and their hurts and their hope. And
it all becomes part of you, and it makes you feel strong. Becoming One is the most amazing feeling in the world.”

  He nodded. She’d gotten it.

  “So,” she continued, “what happened in the fire . . . it was like that. But different.” She looked down at the books and flipped open the broad cover of one. The first drawing was not fire, but water—water and a deep, brooding darkness in the centre of it.

  “It wasn’t just the fire,” she said. “I encountered the Spirit before that in the sea. In a dark place where it was . . . creating. Birthing something.”

  She looked up at Nick and could see that he was lost. And impatient to get on to the fire part. So much for her sympathetic audience.

  “In the fire,” she said, “it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t a fire like we burn downstairs when it’s cold. The flames were real, but not physical. Well, they were physical. But . . .”

  She stopped. Nick was watching her expectantly, and clearly unimpressed at what he had so far.

  “It’s hard to explain,” she said.

  “Why did the people die?” Nick said. “And you didn’t?”

  She just stared at him.

  Leave it to a child to ask it so bluntly.

  That was the question, wasn’t it?

  Franz Bertoller, their old enemy, had died. His henchmen had died. Jacob—one of their own—had died.

  But she hadn’t. She’d walked off the pyre burning from the inside out, and the flames had been like air and like blood and like life surging through her. She had ushered the girl, Miranda, out of the flames. And Reese had not died. Reese had seen David vulnerable, about to be consumed like Jacob was consumed, and she had covered him with her body and saved him.

  So they three had walked away, and left everyone else in ashes.

  The police had filed their report as a freak fire, suspected to have been fueled by gasoline simply because of its intensity, that had killed a number of visitors who were paying their respects at a local cemetery. In the middle of the night. Obviously there was far more to the story than that, but other than testifying to the presence of whatever people they could identify—including Jacob, who was a murder suspect and wanted back in custody—the Oneness hadn’t talked much. They had just insisted they were all at the cemetery to pay respects to a mutual acquaintance. Lieutenant Jackson, who miracle of miracles remained friendly—if frustrated—to them, grumbled and complained at their inadequate explanations, but he confided to Reese that he was glad to see Jacob gone and just as glad to have her out of the picture. The whole story was full of holes, but no one—as yet—had a better one. Lieutenant Jackson was in charge of the case and seemed inclined to let it lie.

  “So?” Nick pressed. “Why did they die?”

  “I think . . . because they couldn’t be in the Spirit’s presence.”

  “Aren’t we all in the Spirit’s presence? All the time? Richard says the Spirit is like the air we breathe.”

  “It’s true,” April said. “But this was different. Kind of like if you tried to drink a concentrate before you diluted it.”

  “Huh?”

  “You like orange juice?” she asked.

  “Yes. Mary gives it to me whenever I want it.”

  “Well, have you ever tried drinking it before she mixes it with water?”

  “Yeah,” Nick said, looking slightly guilty. “One time I got a can out of the freezer and ate it with a spoon.”

  “And it was a lot stronger than the juice, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was like that. Like normally we’re in the Spirit’s presence, but it’s diluted. And that night it wasn’t; it was so strong it burned up anything that wasn’t really part of it.”

  Nick wrinkled his nose. “I think it’s kinda dumb to compare the Spirit to orange juice.”

  She punched him. “Fine. Go bother somebody else.”

  “So how come Jacob died? He was one of us, right?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that,” she said. “I wish I did. I’ve thought about it a lot. Tried to ask Richard. But it’s just one of those things we don’t understand.”

  Nick flipped open another sketchbook and stared intently at the drawing in the centre. It was one of the most personal, one where she’d come closest to really capturing what had happened. The drawing showed a person wreathed in flames, and the fire was forming another human shape around it. It was impossible to tell whether the flames came from the human figure or whether the human figure was created by the flames.

  “This is so cool,” Nick said. “I can’t believe this happened to you and you can’t even talk about it.”

  “Hey. I tried.”

  He made a small noise that might have been a snort.

  She sympathized.

  “My mom is coming over,” he announced suddenly.

  “Oh. When?”

  Shelley had lived with the cell for a few weeks before going back to her house and Nick’s dad—who, they had learned, was an on-again off-again part of her life. She’d agreed to let Nick stay with them, which seemed best for everyone. Now that he was Oneness, April couldn’t imagine him ever leaving. There didn’t seem to be too much threat of that; Shelley hadn’t come for a visit for the first month after she left. Nick acted like he didn’t care, even that he was glad she stayed away, and April knew exactly what mix of emotions and opinions he was actually carrying around with him. Her mother had never once come for her after she became One. Before that, in the whirlwind few years that were foster care, interaction with her mother was forced and miserable. Her father’s total absence was court-ordered and for everyone’s safety. Becoming One gave April a place of safety and warmth and love, security she had never felt with her parents or in the system, and yet sometimes at night she cried because she wanted them.

  Against every shred of reason.

  “Today,” Nick said, trying to sound casual. “She called last night and told Mary she misses me.”

  April just looked at him, and let him look at her, and neither of them said a word. They let the connection between them do all the talking. She understood. That was all she could really offer him.

  Nick popped his head up a minute later. “Hear that?” he asked, a goofy grin lighting his face.

  She had—a summons, deeper than words. Richard was calling the cell together. It was one of those things you couldn’t feel before becoming One, and Nick obviously loved the sensation.

  They met downstairs in the common room. Mary and Diane were already there, putting tea on for everyone with the help of eleven-year-old Alicia, and Melissa was sitting in her usual place on the couch, propped up on cushions and surrounded by books. Reese, Tyler, and Chris came in a few minutes later, ushered in through the outside door by a gust of snowy wind. Richard stood by the fireplace, leaning on the brick mantel and surveying the little group as they came together. His face was serious but not grim—an observation that made April aware that a sinking feeling had gathered in her stomach as soon as she heard the summons. She worked to let go of it now. The battle had been so fierce for the last few months, it was hard to believe they were being called together for something un-terrible now.

  On the mantel over the fire hung the picture she had painted while Melissa played the piano—the bay in summer, and over it, the light that was the Spirit. She let her eyes linger on it, trying to probe that light. The light that hid in dark places under the sea and broke forth as fire in the midst of its enemies . . .

  Richard let his eyes rest on each member of his cell as they entered and took their seats, holding steaming mugs of tea and chattering lightly to each other. April tore her gaze from the painting and met Richard’s, and she smiled. For years the cell had been only herself, Richard, and Mary. The family had grown. But the original three would always be special to each other.

  Richard cleared his throat as Mary finished serving and took her seat beside Melissa, resting a motherly hand on Melissa’s feet, curled up under an afghan.

  �
��You’re all very good at this,” Richard said with a smile. “Everybody’s here . . . nobody lagging on answering that summons.”

  “We wouldn’t dare,” Chris said, and the others chuckled. He didn’t have to say why—that they’d grown hypertuned to anything that might signal danger. But everyone had seen the lack of tension in Richard’s face, and like April, they had relaxed into this meeting. They were Oneness, and they battled alongside each other. This afternoon they would just be together. And hear what Richard had to say.

  “Well?” Mary asked, smiling. “Why have you called us together?”

  “One simple reason,” Richard said.

  And then, to April’s surprise, he turned to her.

  “April has something to say,” he said. “And we need to help her say it.”

  April looked out at the expectant faces ringing the room where she was most at home and found herself completely at a loss for words.

  “I do?” she said.

  “You do,” Richard said confidently. “You’ve been living a story out that means something to all of us. I just thought you should share it.”

  “You did.”

  “Yes,” Richard said, smiling, “I did.”

  April had been standing, but she dropped into an empty chair. “Richard, I don’t have words. I’ve been looking for them. Trying to figure out how to say it . . .”

  “I know,” Richard said. “So don’t talk. Use paint.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” He gestured to the far end of the room, where an easel and canvas stood waiting. They’d had it there since the day April painted the bay and the Spirit; she hadn’t used it. “You know something happens when you paint. Stories start telling themselves. So tell us this one.”

  “Why?” she asked, her throat going dry.