by Stacey Nash
“This is your room.”
Wow. All mine? He must be my family, along with whoever else lives here. I flip through my memory once again, searching for something, anything that’s familiar, known. My thoughts slide right off any memory of family, leaving my mind a slippery mess. I sigh. Why can’t I remember?
He shoots me a puzzled look. “What is it?”
“I don’t … my room … are you my brother?”
“Look, the concussion will knock you around for a few days. Maybe even make you forget.” He glances away. “But it will all pan out, I promise, and no I’m not.” His mouth tips and my tummy flutters.
I try to smile again and this time it’s easy because it sure seems like the hot guy’s glad he isn’t my brother.
He heads for the door then doubles back, his coppery eyes meeting mine. “My father wants to see you. Someone will come by to collect you when he’s ready.”
I nod, trying to keep the smile in place.
His eyes dance across my face. “I can stay.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll be all right.” Moisture floods my mouth and I swallow. “It’s nice to be home.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod.
“Relax while you wait.” He points to the bookcase. “There’s bound to be something there you’ll enjoy.”
He leaves and I’m alone, more alone than I’ve ever felt before. Now that I’m alone, the room suddenly feels tiny, the space shrinking by the second as if the walls are closing in. It’s overwhelming, just like the hard lump in my throat and the burning sting in my eyes. Everything I know can’t just disappear. It’s not fair, there has to be something familiar, just one thing. Surely there’s one thing.
Father.
I try to draw a mental image but can’t even summon a hair color. Drawing a boy in my mind, I try again with a brother. I can’t hold onto any thoughts of hair, eye, skin color, or even the shape of a body. So I search for my mother, trying hard to picture a face. I conjure up nothing. Even building a round face, grey eyes, blonde hair, a freckled nose, pulling them all together isn’t enough. It’s like a drawing in 2B pencil, not a memory.
Nothing is clean, not even one thing.
My eyes sting but I won’t cry. I won’t, even though I don’t understand why I can’t remember. Can concussion really cause this kind of forgetfulness? Or is this how life goes for old people—they just wake up one day and it’s all gone? I drop to the floor, lying on my stomach, my cheek resting against the shag carpet. My legs are no longer able to hold me any more than my face can hold that fake confident smile. Running my palm around in circles, I draw comfort from the soft pile.
So alone, so lost, so … nothing.
When I’m finally done with my little pity party, I push myself up off the floor. My body, numb and heavy, makes it difficult to move, like all the energy’s been zapped right out of me. I pull myself onto the chaise lounge and lay on my side staring at the open door, unable to think anymore.
Minutes, hours, who knows how long later, a woman appears in the doorway, her thin frame silhouetted by the setting sun. She flicks on the light and scans the room, her focus settling on me. “Feeling a bit under the weather, love?”
I force out a smile and suck in a deep breath. Yet another unfamiliar face. Joyous.
“Come, the Councilor is ready to see you,” she says.
I throw my legs over the side of the sofa and stand. A councilor. Is this the ’him’ the nurse mentioned? I paste on my practiced face while she glances at me with lips clamped together. She taps a long foot on the floor.
“Best not to keep him waiting.”
“All right, I’m ready.”
It’s not as if I couldn’t be. I resist the urge to huff, instead striding toward her. She spins on her heel and takes a series of short steps. I fall in beside her and she lengthens her stride, leaving me behind. I catch up and fall in again. She stalks out again. Sighing, I follow along a little behind, feeling like a puppy.
She rushes down the same hall from my walk in, to the glass elevator. As she enters, she stabs the button and looks at me, her arms crossed. No sooner have I climbed in than the door slides closed. She glances at her watch, and the muscles in her jaw tighten. What a cranky—
My body drops without my stomach, leaving it floating somewhere around the back of my throat. One, two floors, I count as we plummet past. The desire to ask who she is sits on the tip of my tongue but the vibe she throws off makes me bite it back. It would be so much nicer if this woman was Cynnie. At least Red was friendly. Finally, the fall stops and the glass door slides open. Three floors down, and this has to be the ground because the building didn’t look that tall from outside. She stalks from the elevator, leaving me to hurry after like a damn puppy again.
We enter a door on our left, into a small room where a man sits behind a large oak desk.
“Councilor, Anamae is here,” the skinny woman says, then leaves the room.
The man doesn’t look up. The crown of his chestnut, gray-sprinkled hair is my only greeting as he scans a screen floating above his desk, tapping at the flat surface with his finger. I stand in the center of the room watching and waiting. Like I’m in trouble, only I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. He plucks the screen from the air and places it on the table, then his flat brown eyes meet mine for a long, silent moment. Yep, shrinking into myself right now would good.
“Anamae,” he says, “welcome.”
“How are you feeling?”
Lost. Confused. Frightened. Alone.
“Better.” I cock my head slightly, trying to decide what to ask first.
“Ready to return to school tomorrow?”
“School? Where am I?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. I bite down on my lip to stop saying more. School. I know what it is, but when I try to summon a memory of my school, nothing comes. Again. I’m tired of not understanding.
“Ahh, Anamae, that was a nasty bump to the head. Slight amnesia, eh?”
The corner of his mouth lifts in something that isn’t quite a smile and I instantly regret it. That could have threatened my second chance.
He’ll have no use for you.
“Don’t worry, it will get better with time. These things always do.”
Blow what the stupid nurse said. “But I don’t remember a thing.” My voice shakes. “This place is supposed to be home and it’s like I’ve never been here before. The stuff around here …” I shake a finger toward his screen thingy. “Is like nothing I’ve ever seen and—”
“Anamae,” he says my name softly, with warmth. “You are a guest in my home. You shouldn’t remember every tiny detail. We couldn’t have our newest student for the elite class staying just anywhere. I need to foster your training, especially now that you’ve been hurt.”
Guest, elite class … training? “Everyone keeps saying training. Why the heck was I training? What for?” I look above his desk at a long staff that hangs on the wall: it has scythe-like blades on either end, the light glinting off it like it’s been recently polished.
“It will all come back, and when it does make sure you tell me. Or you know, even if it’s still not coming back, tell me about that, too. I’m here for you, we can work through this.” He glances away and moves his hand across his mouth. “My son will accompany you to school tomorrow morning.” He pauses, glancing out of the window. “The transport will leave at eight sharp. I’ll have Bia collect you.”
I nod, feeling dismissed, and turn to walk out the door only I’m not sure where I’m supposed to go. At least now I’m not so alone. It’s good to know there’s someone who understands, unlike that stupid nurse. And by the way he was talking, perhaps everyone are strangers anyway, if I’m a guest or whatever.
“Anamae.” His voice startles me into a jump.
“Wear the leather training gear.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And call me Councilor,” he pauses, a smile spreading across his stern face.
“Manvyke.”
Chapter Five
Mae
The rake-like woman walks me back to the same room. She doesn’t hang around, just drops me off. Snapped out of my earlier woe-is-me moping, I resolve to be more proactive so I walk straight through the small room to a set of double doors lining the back wall. I pull them open and my jaw drops at the opulence inside. A huge four poster bed dominates the room. Its cover perfectly matches the white chiffon cascading from tall timber posts to create a canopy over the carved-mahogany bed. In the corner rests a matching wardrobe. It’s tall, straight sides towering to a curved top.
I place each of my hands on a wrought iron handle. Pulling the doors open to reveal a cupboard bulging with clothes fit to rival any girl’s dream wardrobe. Except mine. The garments inside are of a different caliber to the dirty jeans I’m now wearing. Green fabric shimmers in the light and I tug out the hanger, flopping a long dress almost to the floor. Its vibrant jade fabric dances to lavender with movement. If I was out to impress, this is the dress I’d wear. Placing the hanger back on the rack, I pull out another identical to the first only deep red. When I put it back and pull out a third, it’s the same again. This wardrobe must all be long, flowing, beautiful dresses.
Surely these clothes aren’t mine. Something so pretty couldn’t possibly be comfortable but there’s definitely no jeans, no tees, not even any shorts. The councilor said to wear leather but these dresses are far from that.
Fingering each hanger along, something different jammed against the inside wall of the wardrobe catches my eye. Heavy fawn fabric which doesn’t flow or shimmer. It takes a good yank to pull the coat hanger loose, and when it comes out my wrist drops under the weight. Long sleeves, crisscrossed to the elbows with leather lacing, are trimmed with the same dark binding as the low V neckline. The smell is so familiar, I lift it to my nose and take a deep whiff. Leather. Gosh, the rich, warm scent is great. Almost knee-buckling in its goodness. Maybe I wore these clothes often, because the smell is certainly one I know.
I pull the shirt off the hanger and toss it over the back of an antique chair sitting by the large multi-paned window, then remove a pair of pants folded over the bottom rung of the hanger. They’re made from the same fawn leather which is surprisingly soft and supple under my fingers. These must be the training clothes the councilor spoke of. The pants smooth easily as I place them over the chair too, leaving both in place for morning. For school.
Whatever elite training means. Peering out the window at the yard below, I study a massive house facing us from the opposite side of a narrow street. A manicured lawn complete with sculptured shrubs spans between us and it, the paved road winding down the middle. The way reflections of the purple and pink sunset shine on the windows gives the whole house a soft glow. I drop my forehead onto my window; surely this can’t go on forever. I’ve been awake a whole day and am no closer to figuring anything out than I was this morning. The amnesia or concussion or whatever it is will surely wear off soon. My frayed nerves better hold out till then. That thought makes my eyes heavy and my mind fog, so I sink into the chair by the empty fireplace.
It’s been a long day.
Another door, this one closed, is on the far side of the room. I peel myself out of the chair, curious what’s behind it. The door opens easily, revealing a bathroom, all white and black tiles, shiny marble surfaces and massive corner spa-bath. Sheer luxury is just what I need. I slip out of my clothes and duck into the expansive shower, letting the warm water flow over me from the wide rose-head. The pounding liquid massages my back and stings my neck, turning my thoughts to the welt which rings it. What sort of training accident could cause a mark like that? I shudder as I climb out of the shower and reach for the fluffy robe hanging on the back of the door. It’s just not right. Someone would have had to loop a rope around my neck, but surely that’s not something that happens in ’training’.
Wrapping a white robe around myself, the soft folds nestle divinely against my skin. I return to the bedroom, flop onto the bed back-first. The white eiderdown puffs up around me and my eyes slide closed. I’ll lay here for just a minute.
A grating throat clear wakes me to the too-skinny-lady drawing the blinds back. I yelp, and jump up. “Wake up,” she snaps, “Nik will leave at eight sharp.”
My fluffy robe falls open. I yank it closed around myself and cross my arms in front for good measure. Nik. Who’s Nik? Last night’s conversation flows back … he must be the Councilor’s son. No doubt another face I won’t know.
“I’ll return in twenty minutes. Be ready.” She stalks from the room.
I climb out of bed and pull on the soft leather training gear, which strangely, falls over the curves of my body as if it was custom made. Probably was. Searching for shoes, I find a pair of calf-high boots in the wardrobe. They obviously complete the outfit so I pull them on, tucking in my pant legs.
When I’m done in the bathroom, I retreat to the sitting room with a growling tummy. Thankfully there’s a tray of food on the low table, but gosh when did I last eat? Shrugging, I sit and dig into the fancy breakfast of fresh fruit, sweet pastries, and some kind of cereal, eating until I feel full.
As my spoon clinks against the bowl for the last time, the woman strides into the room without knocking, her wispy-thin body moving like a man’s. “Let’s go.”
“Do I need to take anything?”
She looks at me like I’m half crazy. “It’s school. Take what you always take.”
A lump grows in my throat and I want to scream ’SCREW YOU’, but I swallow all emotion and stare back at her. If my gut instinct is right, this woman is not to be trusted.
“Nik’s going to have fun with you,” she says and I can tell she doesn’t like me. Perhaps it’s because she has to wait on me.
I’ve so many questions about this place and these people, but she’s sure as hell not the one to ask. She seems like the sort who would take advantage of any weakness I might show. So shoulders squared, I follow her out of the room.
By the time my wandering mind ceases, we’ve come down the elevator and I’m walking out the small door. The guy who brought me from the hospital-like place stands by the strange transport. His crossed arms pucker his shirt over his bulging chest. He’s wearing the same fawn outfit as mine only the cut is slightly different, more masculine. The way it falls accentuates the curves of his muscles too. Nice.
He frowns. “About time.”
My watch reads 8:04. Only four minutes late and he’s pissed.
“Get on,” he says, stepping onto the hexagon before me.
I scramble onto the metal plate and look back at the woman, but she’s already gone. The barrier whooshes as it shoots up and I brace myself against a corner, prepared for movement. The transport device rises into the air and we’re off. Zooming down the street, everything—houses, gardens, people—outside our small enclosure a rushing blur. I grip the base with my boots, holding every muscle in my legs tight to stop from flying into Nik while we ride this thing that feels like it belongs in the future. In only a few seconds we stop, dead still and sharp.
He touches a few buttons on the holographic screen and the barrier drops. Jumping off the hexagon, he leaves it standing by a line of similar devices and rushes toward the front gate of the school. Just as he reaches it he turns. “Run, Anamae!”
There must be a reason to hurry or he wouldn’t have moved so urgently, so I jump down and run too. He’s pretty fast but I manage to keep up even though my legs are shorter than his. We sprint under a huge brick arch and emerge into a courtyard filled with people who stand in lines facing away from us. Nik skids to a halt and I stop too. The courtyard is deathly silent. Way to make a grand entrance, Nik. With strides double the span of mine he goes to the far side of the back line where a glimpse of orange hair peeks through the crowd. Relief floods through me at the sight of my friend.
“Line up.” Nik points to a spot right by Red.
I fall into place and she s
hoots me a sideways smile then snaps her attention back to center front. Nik takes his place on my other side. We’re just three people in a line standing behind at least sixty more kids. It seems like they’re all teens, ranging in age.
“Eyes front,” Nik orders.
I do as I’m told, looking at the back of the blond head in front of me. Even though he’s taller than me, the lines of students grow roughly shorter in height the closer they are to the front. We stand, as if at silent attention, for a long time. Long enough for me to pick out there are far more boys than girls.
I glance around at the three story brick buildings with their covered walkways that make up the edges of the courtyard. This is my school, and it’s as unfamiliar as everything else since I woke yesterday. All of this strangeness and unfamiliarity makes a tight knot build inside me, one I’m scared will never unravel. I just want to know.
I glance at Nik then Red. Cynnie, that’s her name. Maybe I’ll ask one of them some questions. They both seem nice and kind of, maybe, caring. If I can twist it the right way …
A man wearing a purple robe steps up onto a small round dais at the front of the assembled students. Looking down at us, he raises a fist and thumps it over his heart. In unison, approximately sixty kids do the same.
“We, The Collective,” they chant, like the beat of marching feet.
“Righteous heirs to truth behold,”
“Preservers of civilization young and old,”
“With the tools anciently bestowed,”
“Will protect society from times foretold.”
I look straight ahead, eyes wide as their chant continues. They shout it as if for the whole world to hear, all the while fists over hearts. As they reach the final word, hands drop to sides as one.
Collective, heirs, preservers, tools, foretold. The words tumble in my mind as I try to make sense of them. Protecting society from times foretold, what does that even mean?
