The Restorer

by Sharon Hinck

  Kieran was busy at a high table in the corner of the room to my right, although with the rounded shapes of all the walls, it wasn’t actually a corner. Still, it seemed to be a separate area. Maybe a kitchen. Steam was rising from a large bowl, and Kieran sprinkled something over the top and set a lid on it.

  A growling moan rose from outside the building. My pulse stuttered into a faster rhythm as I whirled back to the door. Tristan already had it shut and locked.

  “Right,” said Kieran from the corner, “may as well have something hot to drink.” He turned with a tray in his hands, saw my sword, and cocked an eyebrow.

  With the weapon in my hand, I felt self-conscious and a bit silly. But I was strangely reluctant to put it down. Finally, I braced it against the wall near the other sword and returned to the table. If these men had planned to attack me, they could have done so by now.

  Tristan pulled up a chair, and the wood creaked as he settled into it with a sigh. I was about to perch on one end of the couch when I realized how dirty and wet I was.

  Kieran set the tray on the low table and ladled hot liquid into mugs. He glanced up. “Go on. Sit. We’ve seen worse.” He lifted a round, grainy loaf from the tray. “Hungry?”

  I shook my head, but Tristan was already tearing off a piece. Kieran leaned across the table and handed me a mug. The smell of cloves rose in warm and comforting steam around my face. I wondered about the wisdom of drinking something I didn’t recognize, but if getting hit by a truck hadn’t killed me, this probably wouldn’t either.

  I settled on the edge of the couch and sipped the hot liquid, cradling the mug in both hands. The flavor was richer than any tea I’d tasted before, with a spicy bite that warmed me all the way to my stomach, like wine. My spine relaxed back against the couch.

  “I suppose introductions are a good idea,” Kieran said, flopping onto the floor across the table from me, unconcerned about the hard surface. His lanky form seemed all angles of knees and elbows. “You’ve already met Tristan. I’m Kieran, and you are . . . ?” He leaned back on his elbows casually, but his eyes were sharp as they watched me.

  “Susan Mitchell. I live on Ridgeview Drive.” For a moment it felt natural and normal to introduce myself. Then my eyes traveled around the odd room again. I set my mug down on the table, and my voice grew smaller. “Do you know if we’re far from there?”

  The two men looked at each other. Tristan lifted one shoulder and shook his head.

  “I’m not sure,” said Kieran, still studying me through narrowed eyes. “But my guess is that you’re a long way from home.”

  My skin tingled with a warning of danger. Tristan was a killer; so why did his dark friend frighten me even more? The magnitude of my isolation and confusion overwhelmed me. Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back.

  Tristan shifted and then reached forward with his sword arm. “Well met, Susan-mid-shawl. You are welcome here.”

  I reached my own hand forward to shake his, but he grabbed my forearm in some kind of soldier’s greeting and patted my shoulder with his free hand.

  “Thank you,” I said softly. “And it’s just ‘Susan.’”

  Satisfied that he had cheered me, or at least fulfilled the requirements of hospitality, Tristan nodded, released me, and sank back into his chair.

  I glanced over at Kieran. Even in the glow of the room, he managed to look as if he were lurking in shadows. Darker hair, darker eyes, and much darker mood than his friend.

  He didn’t offer his hand. He continued to scrutinize me, as if I were a moth pinned to a science fair display board.

  I picked up my mug again and turned back toward Tristan. “Could you please tell me where we are?”

  “This was my cousin’s home before . . . well . . . back when my people lived here. I use it when I’m traveling through. It’s about as safe as anywhere in the Grey Hills. We’re only a day’s ride from Braide Wood.” He waited for me to give some sign of comprehension. When I just stared at him, he continued, “That’s my home.” The way he said the word home was rich with longing, fatigue, and pride.

  “Have you been away long?” I floundered for the right questions to ask, still making no sense of what was happening.

  “Tristan’s a guardian,” Kieran cut in, his voice cold. “He doesn’t get home much. The Council keeps him too busy.”

  Tristan glared at his friend. “She saw me. If she’s working for the Council, we’re already in trouble. There’s no harm in answering her questions.”

  I decided to ignore Kieran and, instead, searched Tristan’s face. “What I saw . . . was it . . . I mean, was that real? At first I thought you were an actor rehearsing a scene. I didn’t realize . . . I mean . . .” My throat felt thick. In my mind, I could still see the man before me with rage in his eyes, gasping for breath and lunging forward, his sword skewering another man. The memory of blood on his sword made me queasy.

  “He poisoned my wife.” Raw anguish edged Tristan’s words. “I’ve been tracking him for two seasons.”

  I remembered phrases from the sword fight—and a name: “Kendra.”

  Tristan looked at his feet and nodded, lost in his pain.

  Kieran jumped up. “Tristan, get some rest. I’ll talk to her.” He helped the larger man to his feet with an odd tenderness. There was murmured conversation as Kieran grabbed some blankets from a cubby; then he and Tristan moved to the far end of the room and rolled out a pallet. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the light of the far wall dim and go out. Kieran pulled a flexible panel out from the curving wall to create a partition.

  I settled back into the couch and sipped some more of the comforting drink. Breathing in the scent of cloves, I stared into my mug and tried to sort out what I knew.

  I had been in my attic, but now I was someplace far from home. I didn’t know how I had gotten here. I’d leave that question for later.

  But I needed to know where I was. Maybe it was some sort of commune far on the outskirts of town. That was why it was such a deserted area. Or maybe they were living in an abandoned movie set. That furry lizard was probably an animatronic prop. Logic didn’t seem to apply anymore and it hurt my brain. Once, when Mark and I were driving to the grocery store, we saw a blue van—identical to ours—just ahead of us on the freeway. “Look,” I said. “It’s us in the future!”

  “No,” said Mark, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “That’s us in the past, because they’ve already been where we are going to be.”

  His reasoning made my head hurt the way it was hurting now. Maybe the issue of where or when could slide as well. I just didn’t know enough. What did I know?

  Staring into my tea, lost in thought, I didn’t realize Kieran had come back until he shoved the tray aside and sat directly in front of me on the edge of the low table. I looked up and jumped at the sight of his face so close to mine.

  Cheekbones, lean angles, and very cold eyes faced me.

  “What do you know about Kendra?” He was barely speaking above a whisper, but his voice carried a biting menace.

  I swallowed. “Nothing. I just heard the man say something. The man that Tristan was fighting. The one he . . .”

  I stopped.

  “Killed.” Kieran waved that away. “What did he say?”

  “I don’t know. Something about . . .” I looked down as I tried to remember the exact words. “‘It won’t do any good. Kendra won’t be coming back.’” I lifted my gaze.

  Kieran’s jaw tightened. His eyes were hard and remote. “And why were you there?”

  “I don’t know. I was in the attic. Mark built me a room, and I kept hearing noises. I looked in the bin of toys and pulled out a sword, and there was this roaring in my ears, and everything tilted . . .” I hated the quaver in my voice, but I forced myself to continue. “I don’t know what happened, but all of a sudden I was in an alley. When I looked up
, Tristan was fighting. I saw . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Glinting eyes narrowed and continued to stare at me.

  “I was scared. I started running. Something hit me, and I woke up here. And . . . and I know this is a nightmare, and I really want to wake up now.”

  Kieran leaned forward. “Do you work for the Council?” he asked.

  I pressed as far back into the couch as I could. He was trying to intimidate me and succeeding easily. Didn’t he realize I’d been terrorized enough today? “I’m not on any councils,” I stammered, wondering what to say to get him to back off. “Well, unless you count the band parent’s booster club. But we just sell candy bars at the football games. They asked me to serve on a church council, but I’m not big on meetings, and with the kids being so busy, I had to say no.”

  Kieran’s left eyelid started twitching. “Stop babbling.” He rubbed his temple, obviously annoyed. “Are you a Restorer? Tristan’s ready to believe anything. But I’m not.”

  The icy suspicion in Kieran’s face made me angry. I hadn’t asked for any of this. I was tired, cold, and wet, yet I’d been very accommodating. I wasn’t yelling for the police. I was sipping tea and answering all his crazy questions.

  “Restorer? What’s a Restorer? What’s a guardian for that matter? What do you want from me? What is this insane place anyway? It can’t be real. You aren’t real.” Tears threatened again, but I didn’t care anymore. I was tired of trying to be brave. “I want to go home.”

  Kieran ignored my questions and grabbed my chin, his fingers bruising my jaw. His eyes locked with mine, as if he were trying to see into my heart. “Are you the Restorer?”

  I shoved his hand away and stood up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I walked to the kitchen, set my mug on the tall table, and began pacing the floor. Three paces. Turn. Three paces. Turn. “I’m a housewife and a mom. I got hit on the head, and I’m in a coma. But I want to wake up now. I need to wake up now. I have to find out if the kids are okay. And Mark—he was going to take them to the park. I have to get back to them. Now.” I was working myself up to hysteria, but I’d earned it. “I don’t want any more furry red lizards or strange lumpy buildings. And definitely no more swords.” I looked up toward the coved ceiling. “God, let me go back. Please. I want to wake up. Whatever you’re trying to tell me, it’s not making sense. Let me wake up now.”

  Kieran grabbed my arm to stop my pacing and guided me to a chair. “Who are you talking to?” His voice sounded strained, but I ignored him.

  “God, please. I need you.” My mutters and sniffles continued. Sure, I was sounding crazy, but since I probably was insane, it didn’t seem worth fighting to stay calm anymore.

  I shivered from the cold rain that had soaked my clothes—or from fear. Hard to say. My shoulders began to shake, and hysterical laughter bubbled from my lungs. “Restorers and guardians and swords. It just makes so much sense, doesn’t it?” I gasped, holding my stomach. My giggles morphed into strangled sobs. “It’s not real. Go away. None of it’s real.”

  Kieran’s face moved in front of me again, but I couldn’t focus.

  “Susan.” His voice was sharp.

  I ignored him. I had heard of people who would disassociate when faced with incredible trauma. They’d just go away somewhere in their head. I wanted to go away.

  Kieran held my wrist against the chair arm. “Susan, look at me.”

  At his words, I came back to the present, only to find the nightmare taking a new frightening turn. He knelt in front of me holding a knife.

  I tried to pull away, but his grip was strong. He pushed the sleeve of my cardigan up and ran the knife quickly over the back of my arm, cutting deeply into the skin.

  I cried out and jerked my arm, but couldn’t free it. Searing pain overwhelmed my initial shock as blood coursed across my skin. My breath hissed in through my clenched teeth, and I closed my eyes.

  “Look at it.” The steel in his voice brought my head up in panic. Would he slit my throat next? He saw my terror and softened his tone. “You have to see this. Look at your arm.”

  I glanced down. My breath caught. Kieran let go of me, but I didn’t move. My fear of him gave way to a much deeper fear. Something very strange was happening.

  Beneath the line of blood, the skin of my arm was visibly rejoining.

  Stunned, I wiped away the blood with my other sleeve. I began to breathe again in trembling hiccups. Rubbing my arm, I looked up at Kieran, my mind a little more connected to reality—or at least this reality.

  He met my questioning eyes and nodded, something close to sympathy in his expression. “Restorers heal very fast.” He gave me a moment to take that in. “That’s what makes them difficult to kill.”

  I didn’t like the speculative way he studied me as he said that.

  “And they always discover other gifts. Things beyond their natural strength.”

  I thought of the flashes of detailed sight I had already experienced, and the easy way I had heard Tristan’s voice from a half a block away. Pieces of this delusion could almost make sense—except that it was all impossible and insane.

  Kieran seemed to make a decision to dial back his hostility. He pulled clothes from one of the bundles at the side of the room and handed me an armful. “Some of this should fit you. Put on something dry. Do you want anything more to drink?”

  I shook my head and walked in a daze toward the open doorway of an inner room. Getting clean and dry suddenly sounded like the best plan in the world. As I pulled the door shut from within the wall, I thought of Mark. He would love these pocket doors and dividers. This room was only a little larger than an airplane bathroom, and as streamlined and efficient, with metallic walls layered over the plaster. I fiddled with a spigot over a shallow aluminum sink.

  Whatever place this was had running water, at least—though it was only moderately warm. The plumbing was similar enough to home for me to figure out. The pants I had assumed were sweat pants turned out to be a shapeless drawstring design in a type of linen fabric. The sweater looked handknit, although the stitches didn’t seem quite right. Soon, I padded back out into the large room, bundled in the warm, earth-toned clothes. Oversized woolen socks flopped as I walked.

  Kieran had pulled the padding off a chair and unfolded it near the door. The near-empty central room apparently didn’t include any convenient Murphy bed that pulled out of the wall. This was like camping out in our house before the moving van arrived. He tossed me a blanket. “You can have the couch.” He stretched his lithe body out across the front of the doorway.

  Was he guarding the door to keep creatures out, or to keep me in? I was too tired to care.

  “Could you get the light?” he asked.

  I stood looking around the room, bewildered.

  He sighed. “Never mind.” He sprang up and slid a catch on the wall near the kitchen. The glow from the walls gradually dimmed.

  By the time I had curled up on the couch cushion, the room was completely dark. I squeezed my eyes shut so I wouldn’t have to see the blackness. A strange longing pulsed through me: I should have set my sword nearby. It was my last thought before I tumbled into exhausted sleep.

  Chapter

  4

  I often wake up cold. Then I scootch closer to Mark and nestle my body in against him. He spoons around me and his warmth eases me into wakefulness. Sometimes we chat about our upcoming day, his breath tickling my ear. At some point, we always agree we’d like to stay right where we are all day.

  I smiled to myself and scooted over, but couldn’t find Mark. Did he have an early meeting at work? I went through my morning ritual of figuring out which day it was. Yesterday we did chores in the morning and had a family meeting. The kids were going to the park. It must have been Saturday. That meant today was Sunday. The shower wasn’t running. Where was Mark?

 
Stretching my arm out farther toward his side of the bed, I felt empty space. My eyes squinted open and I poked my head out from under the blanket. A pale pink glow enveloped the room. The walls were curved and seemed far away. I twisted my head to the side. No alarm clock, no stack of books. I turned the other way. No Mark. Just a low table.

  Oh, right. The bizarre dream. Mark always loved to hear about my dreams. He claimed to never dream. I told him that was scientifically impossible—he just wasn’t remembering them. But whatever the case, he always enjoyed hearing about mine. They were usually spy stories, involving long chases through empty buildings. But this was a new one. I pulled my head back under the blanket. A little more sleep should finish the dream so I could tell him about it on the way to church.

  “Let’s go.” A deep bark sounded much too close to my ear. “We have a long way to travel today.”

  I pulled the blanket down to my nose and peered out.

  Tristan no longer looked tired. His golden-brown hair was wild and disheveled and framed an unshaven face. He was full of suppressed energy—like my neighbor’s huge Golden Retriever waiting to be let off the leash to go bounding into the local pond.

  I groaned and ducked back under the covers.

  The blanket was yanked away, and a hand pulled me upright.

  My head fell back against the couch, and I groaned again. This apparition was not following dream etiquette. “I need to finish sleeping,” I mumbled.

  “We could just leave her,” said a voice across the room behind me. “She’s not your responsibility.”

  “Kieran, I’m a guardian.” Tristan’s words were firm.

  The threat of being left behind in this nightmare was enough to propel me off the couch. I glared at the back of the room where Kieran was rolling up a bundle of clothes and stuffing it into a pack. “You are not real.”