by Sara Grant
‘What’s going on, Mum?’ I asked again. ‘You’re scaring me.’
‘We need to get moving,’ Mum sort of barked.
‘Mum, just because you’re British doesn’t make you, like, Jasmine Bond.’ I laughed nervously. They didn’t.
‘Jack, give her the money belt,’ Mum said, indicating the three-inch-wide beige cloth that lay coiled on the stairs. Dad didn’t move. He stood there hugging my backpack. ‘Bloody hell!’ Mum grabbed the belt. ‘There’s ten thousand dollars in here.’
Was it a ransom? A bribe? She lifted my T-shirt and wrapped the money belt around me. I was having a total out-of-body experience. Had I hit my head? Travelled to a parallel universe? Eaten some bad Cheetos?
‘What’s this for?’ I stood, arms raised, like a two-year-old letting Mummy dress her. She fastened the belt at my spine. The cloth was cool and stiff. She pulled my shirt down and tugged the hem to straighten my smiley face iron-on. The bricks of cash cinched my waist like a corset.
I couldn’t take their evasiveness any more. They were ignoring my questions. ‘Someone tell me what the hell is going on!’ I demanded, and backed away, knocking the hall table again. The white roses toppled off. The vase shattered and water splashed on my cargo pants.
Mum took a deep breath. ‘You’ve got to trust us. We need to get out of here.’
‘We’ll get through this, Isis,’ Dad said, squeezing me and my backpack together.
Mum pulled him off. ‘God, Jack, we agreed. Get a grip.’
My brain didn’t know how to process this. There was no combo word for what I was feeling.
Mum glanced out the window as if she’d heard someone coming up the street, which made me look, too. But the scene hadn’t changed from a few minutes ago.
‘You and your dad get into the taxi and I’ll get our bags,’ Mum said. That’s when I noticed a second backpack and Mum’s big Prada overnight bag by the door.
‘Come on, Dad,’ I said, shouldering my backpack. ‘It’s going to be OK.’ I don’t know why I said it. It clearly didn’t feel true, but it’s what you say, isn’t it? When your life is falling apart, you utter stupid platitudes to make yourself believe it’s not so bad. I broke my arm when I was six, falling off the slide at the park, and Dad repeated the same phrase all the way to the hospital.
Now he looked at me with incredibly sad eyes. ‘You are so brave.’
It was easy to be brave-ish when I didn’t know what I should be afraid of.
Our home phone rang, making the three of us jump. We turned towards the phone on the hall table but none of us made a move to answer it. Mum shuffled through the pile of papers on the floor and pulled out a slightly soggy piece of white paper, spraying drops of water and shattered glass from the vase. She fanned it for a few seconds, drying the wet patches. She studied the now-smudged lines and dots on the page. It looked like some sort of hand-drawn map. She crammed it into the front netting of my backpack.
Mum’s volume increased to be heard over the ringing phone. ‘Let’s go.’ She slung Dad’s backpack over one shoulder and clutched her handbag and matching luggage in the other. She looked around as if she had forgotten something.
The phone thankfully stopped ringing. But Dad’s cell phone buzzed. He took it from the case clipped to his belt and checked the screen. He and Mum exchanged a coded look. They both switched off their phones and placed them next to mine. What was going on? Mum and Dad without cell phones was like Batman and Robin abandoning their utility belts.
And then we all heard it: the sound of sirens in the distance.
Mum opened the door and charged towards the taxi. Dad regained enough composure to snatch his navy blazer from the coat-rack and follow me out the front door. We piled into the backseat of the taxi, luggage and all.
‘Dulles Airport,’ Mum told the taxi driver and slammed the car door. The taxi did a U-turn in the middle of the street.
The sirens were getting closer. Mum and Dad slumped low in the seat.
I opened my mouth to ask the questions that were drilling holes in my sanity, but Mum shook her head. I understood from the pleading look in her eyes that she needed me to keep quiet and trust her. I pushed back into the seat, wedged between my parents.
The sirens were deafening now. Two black SUVs with blue lights on the dashboard blasted past us. I checked the rear-view mirror. The SUVs screeched to a stop in front of our house. The taxi driver didn’t seem to notice as he aggressively manoeuvred around the growing afternoon traffic. What had my parents done? Were we felons fleeing the law?
Mum slipped her hand into mine, and I pried Dad’s from his backpack. The sweat from our palms sealed our hands together. They couldn’t have committed a crime. This was all some misunderstanding, or the best opening ever to a hidden-camera TV show.
The world looked the same. There was no alien spaceship hovering over the Washington Monument. No mushroom cloud emanating from the direction of the White House. The sky was bright blue, not even a wispy cloud in sight. But everything normal had faded away. My life switched from Glee to Drag Me to Hell in one afternoon.
Chapter Two
‘Destiny is a choice, not an option.’
– Just Saying 103
BECKETT
‘Terrorists destroyed life Out There.’ Beckett begins as his people began, with the end of everything. His heart aches every time he tells their creation story. He can’t imagine such devastation, or living without the Great I AM to protect and guide him.
‘But the Great I AM . . .’ His voice catches. ‘The Great I AM rose from the darkness and built the community of Forreal to guard the Mountain and its sacred Heart.’
He stands near the fire at the centre of the Mall, surrounded by his followers. He turns in a slow circle, admiring every face and every fault. They are a patchwork people, resurrected from the broken remains of the Time Before. The Mall is only pine poles and a roof tiled with ancient signs proclaiming fast food and cheap liquor an exit away.
‘We are the descendants of Survivors.’ He keeps his voice low as if he’s sharing a secret. ‘The blood of the Great I AM runs through our veins. We are lucky but we must be ever vigilant. Evil does not die. It lingers, waiting for opportunity and weakness.’ He finds no pleasure in the fear that sparks in their wide eyes, but he can never let them forget that their history is not a happy one. They were forged from fear and survived through faith.
‘What do Terrorists look like?’ The voice is no louder than the crackling of the fire.
‘Terrorists have fangs with poisonous venom,’ another voice booms from the darkness. It’s Finch, shattering the stillness of Storytime. He limps on uneven legs around the perimeter beyond the firelight. ‘Their eagle-like talons are razor-sharp for tearing the flesh of innocent victims.’ Finch curls his slim fingers and claws the air, creating long, grotesque shadows that flicker on the Mountainside.
Everyone shrinks into a tight circle, like the snap of a lasso around the neck of its target. They twist and turn, swatting one another with their dreadlocks, searching for Terrorists.
‘Terrorists are black as night and sleek like a snake,’ Finch booms. He guards the Mountain, and everything about him serves to intimidate his unseen enemy. He coats his body with the Mountain’s dull earth to camouflage himself on his patrols. His short dreadlocks stand like spikes. He wears a loincloth like Beckett, but his is stained with blood from hunting. A smile tugs at Finch’s lips. Does he think frightening everyone is funny?
‘Enough, Finch,’ Beckett says before Finch can continue with his scary story. ‘We have never seen a Terrorist, not in our eighteen years of life and not in the lifetimes of our dads and mums.’ Finch is only sharing the stories that have been passed from generation to generation.
‘Just because we haven’t seen these beasties doesn’t mean they aren’t watching us even now.’ Finch laughs and fades back into the night.
‘“Everything will be OK”. So says the Great I AM.’ Beckett weaves among the
Cheerleaders and rockstars seated on the rubber tyres that surround the fire pit. Beckett lays a hand on one head and playfully tugs at another’s dreadlocks. ‘The Great I AM will protect us like we have protected the Mountain for hundreds of years. And one day Mumenda will come and we will be free.’
Beckett returns to the inner circle and stands with his back to the fire. ‘Let’s form the sacred symbol and join in our Evening Tune.’
Everyone takes his or her place in two connecting loops with Beckett at the centre. He bows his head and closes his eyes. A calm like the moment before wake succumbs to sleep envelops him. He can feel the Great I AM’s presence as sure as he feels his best friends beside him now – Harper on one side and Finch on the other.
Beckett leads Forreal in their Evening Tune. ‘Tonight’s got promise,’ he calls.
Everyone repeats, ‘Promise!’
‘Tonight’s got faith,’ he sings.
‘Faith!’
‘Tonight’s all we got.’ He is overwhelmed with the joy of song and the Great I AM’s spirit. He wishes everyone could feel the Great I AM’s presence like he does.
‘For sure! For sure!’ all of Forreal choruses.
As they continue the Tune, Beckett opens his eyes. He no longer needs to think about the words; they are like breathing. He looks up at Finch, who is a full head taller than everyone else. Like a stick figure drawn in the dust of the Mountain, Finch’s bony body forms awkward, sharp angles.
One by one Beckett surveys each Cheerleader and rockstar lined up around him. The youngest only four. The oldest nearly forty. With bowed heads, their dreadlocks shade their bronze faces. Each person is unique, as if the Great I AM sculpted them from the Mountain’s clay. Finch, with his limp. His little sister Atti’s wide-set eyes. Birdy, born with only one arm. Tom, with more toes than the others. May, with her hunched back. Forreal believes the body has no true form.
Beckett’s gaze finally rests on Harper. Even though Tom is holding her other hand, he keeps her at a rigid arm’s length. She smiles when she catches Beckett’s eye.
Harper stands out with her blue eyes, blonde hair that refuses to coil into dreadlocks, and pale skin that tans in blotches leaving her with polka dots of white. She and Beckett were only five when she wandered on to the Mountain. Beckett found her. He believed that she was a Survivor and the Great I AM had led her to the Mountain. He held on to Harper and wouldn’t let go, not even when the Cheerleaders tried to pull them apart. ‘If she goes, I go,’ he’d shouted. She’s been at Beckett’s side ever since. The others are afraid of her because her body is imperfectly perfect and she survived Out There among the Terrorists.
When the Evening Tune finishes, Beckett waits until all eyes are upon him. ‘Join me in our Saying of Dedication. Great I AM, protector of sacred Mountain . . .’ His voice rings a beat before the others as they recite the Saying. ‘Whatever! Whatever! The bad, the good. Whatever! I put my faith in the Great I AM. The Great I AM alone.’
Beckett raises his hand and twists his arm to expose the curved, red, looping lines on his wrist. Beckett was born with the mark of the Great I AM. He is Cheer Captain, chosen to lead Forreal because the Great I AM etched this slim figure of eight among the blue veins and the bump of his artery. The rest of Forreal similarly extend their arms. Everyone over twelve years old has a matching scar the size and shape of Beckett’s birthmark.
‘Whatever,’ Beckett proclaims the one-word Saying – so dense with meaning. With that simple word, he gives himself to the will of the Great I AM. It’s Forreal’s abbreviation for remembering that their lives are in service to their higher power: whatever the Great I AM needs, wants, or desires. Beckett is at peace because whatever happens, the Great I AM will protect him. He feels the power of the Great I AM flow through him.
Everyone chants, ‘Whatever. Whatever. Whatever,’ declaring their love and re-dedicating themselves to the Great I AM.
Every Cheerleader and rockstar files past Beckett. He shakes each hand and smiles until his cheeks hurt.
Atti taps Beckett on the arm. ‘Cheer Captain,’ she says, and continues to tap. She is one of the most unique rockstars. Her eyes are permanently droopy and sad. Her torso is long, but her legs are short.
‘You know you can call me Beckett.’ He takes her hand in his.
She giggles. ‘I like to say Cheer Captain.’
‘OK,’ he says, and kneels down so they are eye to eye. ‘Did you have something to tell me?’
‘Did Terrorists take my mum?’ She blinks at him.
Beckett is surprised and saddened by her question. Atti’s mum disappeared a month ago. ‘I don’t know what happened to your mum.’ Beckett always answers honestly no matter how much the truth hurts. ‘I have asked the Great I AM to protect her.’
Atti slips her hand out of Beckett’s. ‘Could you ask the Great I AM to send her back?’
‘If it is the Great I AM’s will, your mum will return to the Mountain.’ Beckett points to his best friend. ‘You know Harper, don’t you?’ Harper waves.
Atti nods and nods. ‘She’s helping me study for my Walk of Enlightenment.’
‘Well, the Great I AM led Harper to the Mountain, so maybe the Great I AM will show your mum the way home too.’
‘Sorry, Beckett.’ Finch hugs his little sister away from Beckett. ‘Atti asks too many questions.’
Beckett stands. ‘There are never too many questions.’ He winks at Atti.
‘See,’ Atti singsongs. ‘What did I tell you? I was just asking about Mum—’
‘We shouldn’t bother the Cheer Captain with that now,’ Finch interrupts. ‘We have to patrol the Mountain soon.’
As if on cue, the Timekeeper calls out, ‘Nine and twelve.’ Cheerleaders and rockstars disperse. Beckett loves Forreal’s efficiency. Everyone has a role and responsibilities before Forreal can sleep.
Beckett, Harper and Finch start their evening patrol at the base of the Mountain. Lucky is waiting for them. The black cat bounds ahead and then pauses to make sure they are following. Beckett is relieved to see Lucky. A black cat has always roamed the Mountain.
Beckett winds among the rocky burial mounds that create a barrier between the Mountain and Out There. He has memorized the name of each Cheerleader and rockstar buried there. Some graves are six feet long, some only two. He likes to believe that Forreal’s ancestors are still keeping watch.
Beckett, Harper, Finch and Lucky take the well-worn path up the Mountain. Huge boulders jet from the ground at odd angles as if tossed randomly from above. The ground levels as they make their way past the cave and rusty metal and pine structures that make up Forreal. They pause to drink from the Mountain spring bubbling in its stone-lined pool. It’s an oasis of green in the Mountain’s dull monotony. They check the nearby communal gardens and the trenches farther up the Mountain that form the Necessary. They pick their way through scraggly scrub brush and prickly ankle-high cacti. The barren landscape conceals nothing. They often see rattlesnakes, scorpions, and coyotes making their own deadly rounds.
As they ascend, the air cools. Scrub brush gives way to Joshua trees that from a distance look as if they’ve been hand-drawn by a rockstar. A band of pine trees create welcome cover. Beckett leads Finch and Harper to the Crown of thorns that circles the Mountain and marks the line that no one is allowed to cross. Beckett squints through the wall of twisted brambles as if he might glimpse the Heart of the Mountain. It’s up there somewhere. It’s what makes their Mountain special. It’s what they guard and what the Great I AM died to protect.
Beckett follows the Crown to the Other Side of the Mountain with Harper close behind, but Finch takes his time, investigating every strange sound and shadow. The Man-Made Mountains come into view. Beckett can’t believe Terrorists created those unnatural, jagged shapes that litter the valley below.
Something flashes in the distance. Beckett tells himself it’s only a trick of moonlight. But there it is again. A light flickers in one of the Man-Made Mountains.
/> Harper gasps as another and another point of light dot the skyline like a plague of fireflies.
‘What is it?’ Harper asks, hugging herself and swaying slightly. The lights seem to have triggered a fear in Harper from long ago. She has no memory of her time before the Great I AM led her to the Mountain.
Beckett’s eyes unfocus and the dozen lights scattered in the darkness transform into fuzzy balls, extending sparkling rays to one another.
‘It’s Terrorists.’ Finch’s voice makes Beckett and Harper jump. ‘They have returned as I knew they would.’ Finch scans the horizon as if he expects to see the hideous forms of Terrorist beasties rising out of the darkness.
‘It could be Survivors,’ Beckett says, eyes fixed on the lights.
‘No one could survive Out There for so long – not without the protection of Terrorists,’ Finch states as if it were a fact.
‘I survived Out There alone,’ Harper whispers and shrinks away from the lights and the argument.
‘That was thirteen years ago. Thirteen years since we’ve seen any Survivors.’ Finch starts to pace. ‘The Terrorists must have recruited or destroyed any remaining Survivors by now.’
Beckett grieves as if it were his fault for not saving more Survivors. He opens himself to the Great I AM. ‘Those lights are a sign,’ he says as the thought springs to his mind.
Beckett connects this new constellation of earthly stars, and they begin to take shape and meaning. ‘I see a heart.’ He traces the shape in the air.
‘Where?’ Harper asks.
He slips behind her so they are cheek to cheek. He shows her how to connect the dots. ‘See?’ he asks. She leans into him. ‘Let us ask the Great I AM to direct us.’
‘And protect us,’ Finch adds.
Beckett repeats the Saying of Dedication. When he finishes, Harper and Finch chorus, ‘Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.’ Their volume increases with each word.
