Red Is for Remembrance

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Come to me like the waxing moon,” I whisper, sprinkling the pepper membranes over my offering to the earth. “Grow in fullness and in bloom. With each and every dream at night, may you come to me so full and bright. Blessed be the way.”

  I bury the pepper, patting over the snow so everything is level. Then, with the tip of my finger, I draw a pentacle in the snow from left to right to invoke my dreams. I lean back on my heels and look up at the waxing moon, the snow cascading over me, landing on my tongue, on the tip of my nose, and over the crown of my head. I pray in my heart that somehow, somewhere Jacob, is doing the same.

  Shell gets up early the following day, well before the morning bell sounds. He washes up, dresses quickly, and then makes his way out. It’s snowing this morning—a light fluffy batch that floats down over him, chilling the back of his neck. Why didn’t he wear his scarf?

  Finally, he reaches the dining cabin, stomping his boots on the mat so as not to drag dampness across the hardwood floor. Sierra and several of the other campers are already up, tending to their early morning chores. While Sierra and Daisy prepare breakfast, Lily washes laundry in the pantry sink basin and Rain entertains a group of children in the adjoining living room, singing songs and telling stories.

  “Hey, there,” Lily says, a beaming smile across her face. She takes a step away from the sink basin, wiping her hands on the skirt of her apron. “What a pleasant surprise to see you up so early.”

  Shell looks toward her neck, wondering about the X, the rune for partnership, but knowing somehow that there isn’t one there.

  Sierra flashes Lily a stern look. “You’re not finished with that yet,” she snaps, as though the heaping sack of laundry isn’t evidence enough. Lily frowns, but obediently turns back to resume washing.

  “What gets you up at this early hour?” Sierra asks Shell. “Not feeling well?”

  “I think I might be coming down with a cold,” Shell says, hoping he won’t be karmically penalized for the lie, wondering how he even knows about karma. “Would you mind if I grabbed a teabag from the cabinet?”

  “Of course not,” Sierra says, gesturing toward the cupboards. “Do you want me to prepare it for you?”

  Shell declines the offer, knowing that he has other items to sneak. While Sierra turns her back to set the table, Shell grabs a teabag from the cupboard and quickly scans the spices in search of vanilla.

  “Can I help you find something?” Sierra asks, after several moments.

  “Just looking for chamomile.”

  “Top shelf to the right,” she says, watching as he takes it.

  A second later, Rain calls Sierra into the living room to give her a hand. Shell works quickly, grabbing a spoon from the drawer, a piece of cheesecloth from the countertop, and continuing to scour through the cupboards for the vanilla, knowing full well that Lily is undoubtedly watching him.

  “Is everything okay?” Lily whispers.

  Shell gives a slight nod, finally finding it—a tall glass jar of dried vanilla beans. He takes one, shoving it into his pocket along with the spoon and cheesecloth.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Sierra asks, already back from the living room and startling him from behind.

  Shell shakes his head, feeling his face grow warm.

  “How do you expect to drink tea like that?” she says, gesturing to his hand, the teabag clutched in his palm.

  Shell laughs in relief as Sierra takes the teabag from him, muttering something under her breath about men in the kitchen. She extracts a mug from the cupboard, fills it with steaming water from the kettle, and sets the tea at the table for Shell to enjoy.

  “Thank you,” he says, frowning at it, knowing that he doesn’t have much time before the other campers awaken. He sips the tea down as quickly as possible, so as not to raise suspicion, and manages to save the teabag from his cup.

  “I’ll see you at breakfast,” Lily says as he gets up, a curious look on her face.

  Shell nods, hoping she doesn’t suspect anything.

  He takes the path that he normally uses into the woods—just past the area where he and Brick chop wood. It’s a winding dirt-covered trail that leads him to a spot that’s somewhat secluded—behind one of the thicker trees but still within eyeshot of the camp cabins, in case he needs to dart off quickly. The wooded area that extends from the camp feels somewhat shallow now that all the leaves have dropped for winter. Still, it’s dark, the sun just beginning to peek out through the towering trees and branches.

  Shell sits on the stoop of a rock, spreading his spell supplies out in front of him. Using the back end of the spoon, he chisels into the dirt with all his might, working to break through the frozen ground. After several minutes, he’s made a hole the size of a softball. He takes the vanilla bean and holds it up to the sun, noticing how the crisp brown peapod shape fits across the length of his palm. He does the same with the cheesecloth and teabag, hoping the sun’s rays will consecrate his spell ingredients and make them pure. “To health,” he says, tearing the teabag open and spreading the contents out over the cheesecloth. “And to mental clarity.” He smothers the vanilla bean with the moist tea leaves, breathing in the flowery sweet scent of chamomile mixed in honey. He wraps it all up in the cheesecloth, concentrating on the idea of mental health, and then he looks up at the sun, just beyond the tree limbs, knowing in his heart that he indeed had an uncle who passed away.

  “Uncle Kyle,” he whispers, confident that that was his name. It’s slowly coming back to him in bright and fleeting patches—his uncle’s broad and beaming smile; his gray-blue eyes, just like his own; and the time his uncle taught him about vanilla beans—how they have the ability to support mental power and intuition.

  Shell places the wrapped ingredients into the hole and buries it with the dirt, hoping that the vanilla coupled with the tea leaves’ ability to heal will help him remember more.

  Shell emerges from the woods and spots Brick right away.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” Brick says, pausing from sweeping snow from in front of their cabin.

  “Is something wrong?” Shell asks, nervous that his early morning absence might have caused alarm among some campers. He glances around the camp but, aside from himself and Brick, it seems as though most of the campers are still inside their cabins, probably getting dressed and preparing for the day.

  “No,” Brick says, pulling Shell behind the cabin. “I wanted to tell you. I did a spell for you last night.”

  “What kind of spell?” The two sit down on a couple slabs of rock. “I was thinking a lot about our conversation last night,” Brick continues. “I think it’s good you’re starting to remember stuff . . . and I won’t tell anyone. I want to help you.”

  “How?”

  “I did a channeling spell with pinecones and dried oak leaves. I want you to see that girl again . . . the one from the trading field.”

  Shell smiles at the gesture. “Thanks.”

  “Sure . . . I mean, anytime. I have a good feeling about this. I think you’re right . . . about questioning stuff.”

  “You do?”

  “I’ve wondered about stuff, too, but I’ve been good at putting it out of my mind, you know. It’s easier that way—safer.”

  Shell knows all too well. It’s been easy listening to Mason, making excuses for why he has no memory of the past.

  “I mean, who wants to get more work?” Brick continues.

  “Is that the punishment for having your own mind?”

  “If you’re lucky,” Brick says. “Way before you came here, Mason twisted Daisy’s arm so hard, he almost broke it.”

  “Why?”

  “You’d never know it now, but she used to have a hard time on the taking missions. She wasn’t taking enough . . . thinking too much about the owners’ feelings. S
he’s gotten much better since then,” Brick continues. “We all get better at it. We forget those first few times, you know; then it gets easier.”

  Shell nods. It’s all becoming much clearer for him now—all the mind games . . . the brainwashing.

  “I guess it beats living on the streets,” Brick says.

  “Is that where you’re from, too?”

  “Most of us.” Brick nods. “I ran away a couple years ago. My parents split up and my mom got this drunk bastard of a boyfriend. He liked putting out his cigarette butts on my arm.” Brick pushes up the sleeve of his coat, revealing a couple burn marks that never went away.

  “So your mother might actually be out there looking for you?”

  “Man, where are you from?” Brick laughs, pulling down his sleeve. “I used to leave home for weeks at a time, camping out at friends’ places. My mother never cared. I don’t think she even noticed. It’s like that with a lot of us here . . . at least that’s what they tell me.”

  “What about Lily?” Shell asks.

  “She’s a little different,” Brick explains. “She’s been here forever, practically. Her father brought her here when she was around five or six. He used to be one of the campers, but then he up and left one night. Teal’s mother is Luna, one of the elders; and Oak’s dad is Hawk.”

  “Wow,” Shell says, absorbing it all. “You’d never even know it . . . that they’re their parents.”

  “Mason says we’re all family here—that we’re all brothers and sisters, parents and children. He thinks we should all treat each other the same . . . not give familial preferences.” He smiles. “I guess you pick up on all this stuff when you’ve been around for as long as I have.”

  “Don’t you ever want to leave?”

  “I would, but where else is there to go? Any ideas?”

  Shell shrugs, wondering how hard it would be—to find their own place, get their own jobs, and buy their own food.

  “Just promise me one thing,” Brick continues.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t leave without me.”

  Shell nods and shakes Brick’s hand. He plucks the pentacle rock from the pocket of his coat and flashes it at Brick. “I always suspected you were a rebel.”

  “That’s right.” Brick laughs. “If Mason decides to rename me, that’s what I’ll suggest.”

  “Rebel?” a voice repeats, startling them.

  It’s Clay.

  He turns the corner, standing over the two of them, still huddled on their rock slabs.

  “You’ve been listening this whole time?” Shell asks him.

  “Do you have something to hide?” Clay asks.

  “Not at all.”

  “What are you two doing here? Brick, why aren’t you sweeping?”

  “I had a problem,” Brick blurts out. “I wanted to talk to Shell about it. I dragged him back here.”

  “What problem?” Clay asks, his dark gray eyes narrowing on them.

  “Daisy’s angry with me. I told her she had Ronald McDonald hair and she got upset.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  Brick shrugs, swallowing hard.

  “What’s that?” Clay asks, pointing at the pentacle rock.

  “It’s mine,” Brick says, snatching it out of Shell’s hand. At the same moment, Mason makes his way across the yard toward them.

  “Maybe Mason would like to see your rock,” Clay says. “Maybe he’d like to hear that you’re obviously practicing the magic arts again.”

  “Tell him, then,” Brick says. “And then we can tell him about the platinum necklace you stole.”

  Shell’s mouth drops open at Brick’s sudden boldness. Does he realize what he’s doing?

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clay says smoothly. “I never took that necklace.”

  “Then I never had a magic rock,” Brick says, meeting Clay’s eye.

  Clay clenches his teeth at the response and looks away, toward Mason.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Mason calls out.

  “For me?” Clay asks.

  “No, for Shell. The two of us have some talking to do,” he says. “Alone.”

  I come straight back to the room after my spell behind the dorm and, to my surprise, Amber is gone. Janie’s still here. She’s got her foot propped up on her bed, her back toward me.

  “Where is she?” I ask Janie. “I thought she wanted to talk.”

  Janie stuffs something under her comforter and turns around to face me—her face all grimaced, like something’s seriously wrong.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  She sighs, like there’s no point in trying to hide it, and whips her comforter upward, revealing an egg and a fresh jar of mayonnaise. “I got a splinter,” she says, sticking her foot out for show. There’s a giant glob of mayo stuck to her heel.

  “Did you get it out?” I ask, holding back a laugh.

  She shakes her head, two sparkling pink mouse ears sprouting up from her headband. “I tried to tweeze it, but it’s too deep.”

  I nod, thoroughly amused that she’d even think to resort to my evil egg remedy. “So where did Amber go?” I ask.

  Janie hobbles to sit at the edge of her bed. “I don’t know. She took her cell phone out to the hallway and started making all these phone calls.”

  “To who?”

  “Whom, not who,” Janie corrects. “And how am I supposed to know? She obviously didn’t want me to hear.”

  “So much for our chat.”

  Janie shrugs, like she could care less. “Where did you go?” she asks.

  “You know where,” I say, returning my remaining spell supplies into the suitcase under my bed.

  “So are you going to help me or do I have to beg?” she huffs.

  “With what?” I grin.

  “My splinter, what else?” She rolls her eyes.

  I resist the temptation to tease, and grab a bowl that’s big enough for her foot. I fill it with a mixture of olive oil, lemon juice, and honey, all regular spell staples that I keep on hand. “You wouldn’t happen to have a piece of bacon fat in your fridge, would you?” I ask.

  “Are you serious?” Her face twists up in disgust.

  “It was worth a shot,” I say. “Bacon fat is good for splinters, but so is this stuff.” I direct her foot into the mixture. “This will help soften your skin so the splinter can slip out.” I take the egg from her bed and crack it into another bowl, being careful to keep the shell as intact as possible. I apply the skin of the shell to her splinter. “It’s best to use the insides of eggshells for splinters,” I explain.

  “Are you sure this will work?” she asks.

  “Trust me,” I say. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Well, thanks. I tried calling Hayden for help, but he isn’t around. I couldn’t imagine trying to hobble over to the nurse’s office by myself.”

  “Just hold the shell skin to the splinter.” I hand it to her and then take a seat back on my bed, almost plopping down on my crystal cluster rock.

  “What is that thing?” she asks, zooming in on the crystal.

  “It’s for protection.” I hold it out to her for show. “See all the tiny fractures and cuts? They’ve all been healed over with chunks of itself, the jagged edges all smoothed and polished. It’s sort of like self-healing, when you think about it.”

  Janie studies me for a few seconds, her eyes softening slightly. “You really miss him, don’t you?”

  The question completely takes me aback. Still, I nod, feeling my lower lip tremble slightly.

  “Sorry,” she says, pressing the eggshell against her heel. “I didn’t mean to get you upset.”

  “It’s okay.”

&nbs
p; “I hope you don’t mind,” she says, “but I saw what you wrote.” Janie gestures to the clay bowl sitting at the side of my bed. The piece of paper—my question—is still sitting inside from the last time I opened it. “I thought it was a phone message,” she explains. “I wasn’t thinking and picked it up.”

  Coming from Little Miss Label Maker, it’s an unlikely excuse, but I nod anyway since I really don’t feel like getting into another argument right now.

  “Do you always write down the stuff that you want?”

  I shrug. “Sometimes I just meditate on it.”

  “Sort of like praying.”

  “It is prayer to me.”

  Janie lets out a tiny sigh. “I’m sorry if I’ve been all icky lately. There’s just a lot I don’t quite get.”

  “I’m not like Sage.”

  “I know that.” She nods like she does know it.

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I was just talking to the college chaplain about some things. We can talk about it sometime.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Hey, look,” she says, peeling the eggshell away. The splinter has worked its way out through the skin. Janie plucks it out completely, a huge, beaming smile across her face. “It totally worked. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She dries her foot off with a Pink Panther towel, sticks a Barbie bandage to the wound, and then rewards me with her mouse-ear headband, pushing my hair back and slipping it in place.

  “Thanks,” I say, peeking up at the ears. They dangle just over my eyebrows.

  “Next time you need to do a spell,” she says, scooting into bed, “why don’t you just do it here?”

  “What about our agreement?”

  She shrugs and pulls the covers up.

  I wait several moments for her to say something else, but she doesn’t. It’s a huge milestone, I think, like maybe she’s starting to figure it out—that my way of life has nothing to do with anything evil.

  The phone rings a couple seconds later. “Hello?”