“You’re next,” she says, her first words to me since the question at the well.
I take my turn and am embarrassed when she pours a second time because my hands are so dirty. All the girls wash their hands after me, going in order by age it seems. After Sana’s turn she holds her hands up to me and says, “I washed my hands.” I’m glad that she has said something normal. She looks at her six sisters and says, “We shy handmaids.”
They hold back their laughter, seem to frown, and Flor, who is drying her hands, scolds Sana, “You’ve done that one before. Try again.”
Sana concentrates on her hands. A few seconds pass and I wonder why we’re all so focused on this little girl’s clean hands. Sana brightens and says, “I washed my hands. Sad, whiny, shamed.” She accentuates the last three words with overdone facial expressions and I finally get it. She’s a gemfry, probably all of them are, and her special ability is a tremendous manipulation of words and letters, manifesting in anagrams.
I take her by the shoulders and face her to me. I say, “Dalton Battista is not Lucas Sroka.”
I kneel down in front of her, waiting to see what she comes up with. She frowns and I spell the name. It only takes a moment before she says, “Dalton Battista, sit on Usala’s Rock.”
The sisters chorus a gasp, but I smile. I rise, but my smile falls when Sana takes my hand and adds, “Dalton Battista outranks socials. Dalton Battista, actual risks soon.”
The silence is broken not by nervous laughter, which would be what I’d expect, but by a woman carrying a tray of food, greeting me by my full name, and clucking instructions to the girls to return to the kitchen and bring out the rest of the banquet.
* * *
The girls sit on either side of the table, their mother at one end, next to me, and their father at the other. Flor is on my left and across from me sits Kassandra. Aside from an awkward introduction to their father, Raul Luna, I’ve been quite comfortable in this family’s house for a grand total of maybe fifteen minutes.
“No, that’s not right,” Mrs. Luna says, correcting her husband again. “It was after the Suppression that my parents started this ranch, so then the first drought had to be after 2071 and we met the following year so …”
I tune out their argument, gentle as it is, and steal glances at Kassandra’s face. She catches me and lowers her eyes. She cuts into the orange vegetable and mashes it up. I do the same. I hold a forkful up to my lips and sniff before taking a taste. Just like at Vinn’s cabin the food here is very different from the canned, preserved, and irradiated supplies I’ve been raised on. When we first sat down Mrs. Luna served me from every platter and bowl on the table. I wondered what each dish was, every one so artfully presented, delicious aromas rising. She began to name them when she sensed my wonder. Some of the words sounded Spanish, other names she said with a lilt to her voice or a guttural sound. I asked if they were ethnic and she laughed and rattled off her husband’s ancestry and her own: Mexican-African, German-Swedish. After a lengthy prayer by Mr. Luna the feast began and quick praise followed with a chorus of flattering words from the daughters. I had a number of compliments come to the tip of my tongue, too, but I swallowed them, hoping that Mrs. Luna would see how much I was enjoying the meal. I hate how hard it is for me to speak.
“And our dinner tonight, Sana? What do you have to say about sweet potatoes, strawberries, and lamb?” Mr. Luna smiles at his daughter and winks at his wife.
Sana takes a thoughtful moment and says, “Sweet potatoes, strawberries, lamb. Two poets tease barber’s lame wrist.”
The twins clap. The others laugh or smile or nod. I’m more than impressed. Sana’s ability to see the letters and rearrange them in her head so quickly is mind-blowing. I’m curious if her limp is related to her gift. I’ve heard that many gemfries have a corresponding handicap. I try to remember if Barrett had something wrong or not. All I can come up with was that he seemed smaller and younger than he was.
“I better let old Markus know to be careful. Either he’s going to hurt his wrist cutting hair or encounter a couple of poets.” Mr. Luna chuckles.
I think of how Barrett has more than one gift. Perhaps Sana’s anagrams are prophecies as well. I wonder what other talents or powers she may have. I think, too, on how she solved the Usala’s Rock anagram a second and third time. Dalton Battista outranks socials. Obviously. Nothing to worry about there. But the third one–actual risks soon–could be a warning.
I come out of my thoughts to realize, just like in class, someone is asking me a question and I haven’t heard a thing.
“Excuse me?” I look toward the twin with the pock-marked face.
She asks again, “Would you like to hear Sana’s thoughts on the other foods we’re eating? Or are we boring you?”
“Deandra!” Mrs. Luna scolds her. “He’s our guest and, and, you know …”
There are looks tossed back and forth around the table, nervousness, blushes, and then Sana points to me and repeats part of what her mother said, “He’s our guest.” Her finger wiggles my attention toward her sister, “Outguess her.”
I am confused until Kassandra’s foot touches mine underneath the table. It’s as if shocks pass from her toes to mine, burn up my leg, and spread through my chest, and with them come unmistakable knowledge. I know that Sana and Deandra have special gemfry gifts. I assume that Kassandra as well is pretty special–her talent must be to impart truth with a touch. I look across the table to confirm. She will not meet my gaze.
“Okay,” I say, “it sounds like this is a game. I’m supposed to guess things about all of you and Deandra guesses things about me. Right?”
“She’s really good,” Flor says. “Almost perfect.”
“Fast completer,” Sana jumbles Flor’s assessment.
Deandra takes her twin’s hand and squeezes. She begins to rattle off my secrets and I nod in polite agreement to every one of her pronouncements. “I guess you’ll be here a while.” Her mother says that’s fine under her breath. Deandra continues, “You’re running away. You have done something bad that some people think is good.” Her father nods as if he understands. “You have stolen something.” She pauses and though I feel really exposed I’m not ashamed. Not yet. My hands grow sweaty and I wipe them on my thighs, thinking that she might guess I’m a murderer.
The electric tap of Kassandra’s toe on mine sends a jolt to my usually mute lips. I say, “Pretty good, Deandra. You’ve stolen, too. You’ve read your sisters’ diaries. You’ve taken money from a widow and food from a friend and passed your blame onto someone else.” Another tap and I know. “You let Flor take your punishment.”
Clearly I’ve upset the whole group. I have no idea how I could let myself speak so brashly, insult my hosts, and embarrass myself.
“Wonderful,” Mr. Luna says. “It’s been a while since we’ve heard someone match Deandra’s histories. She has an amazing talent to read the past and future, but you seem to have an equal aptitude.”
“It’s nothing,” I say and pull my feet back under my chair. They’ll think I’m a gemfry, too, with a gift similar to Deandra’s. But I’d rather have Kassandra’s ability, only in reverse. Instead of giving information I’d want to touch someone and know their every thought.
Deandra narrows her eyes at me and makes a final guess. “I think Dalton Battista is more interested in our oldest sister.”
Sana quickly chimes in, “More interested–red enemies trot.” She holds her hand up for us to wait and adds, “Rioter meets end.”
Abruptly Mr. Luna stands. “Come with me, Dalton” he says. “We need to talk.”
Sana mumbles to herself, “Witch let doom, amen. Walked to teen.”
I have a creepy feeling, but I rise and follow Mr. Luna outside, leaving the girls, and my bags, behind.
* * *
The moon has yet to take charge of the night, but the stars provide sufficient light. Raul Luna is a star-reader. He tells me this with his hand stretched upward, pointing
to the handle of my favorite constellation, a constellation that my nanny had a hundred stories to explain.
“It’s not astronomy or astrology,” he says. “Star-reading is undefined, no manual to learn it, no group to affiliate myself with, no way for me to teach it to my daughters.” He lowers his hand, moves to my side, and pats me on the back. He reaches up to do so since he is not a tall man. There’s comfort in the patting. I imagine it to be a father’s gesture. His hand remains at rest on my shoulder. It doesn’t match the obligatory false affection my grandfather has shown me in public, hard quick open-handed gestures designed to mimic tenderness and caring. This is warm and real, a truly unconscious move on his part. Mr. Luna could ask me to clean the sheep’s pen right now and I’d run to do it, not as payment for the fine dinner and hospitality, but as gratitude for this paternal act.
Raul explains his view of the religious oppression that decades ago resulted in the burning of Bibles and the smashing and ripping of ancient scrolls. His voice lulls me in the same way my tutors’ lectures did. I catch one strange phrase: he says, “… many shattering Torahs …”, and the letters float before my eyes, reforming into thorns against my heart.
Thorns against my heart. I have a déjà vu feeling, more of a sorrowful premonition, of a tender father-son moment. Of myself with a son of my own. The troubling moment passes and I realize it’s been a few minutes since he’s spoken.
“So … are you a gemfry, too?” I ask. I’m setting myself up for mortification if my question is impolitely out of line here, but I note the corners of his mouth lifting in pride instead of irritation.
“Indeed I am,” he says. “First generation. Born on the west coast. Old California. My parents moved inland after I was born. We were gypsies, moving further east year by year, setting our sights on the Mid-Land.” He squeezes my shoulder, points with his other hand. “There. See that shooting star?”
I do see it. It takes its time traveling in an arc across the dark night sky. A final dip and flare and it’s gone.
“Did you see how it passed between the second and third star of the dipper’s handle?”
I nod though I didn’t really notice that.
“My daughters’ gifts connect with mine in ways that are truly amazing. Deandra guessed that you would be here a while. That was a guess that I can confirm. Two years is what I see.”
Two years? I want to argue with the man, but his hand is still on my shoulder, grounding me.
“And my daughter, Sana, has revealed uncanny truths: red enemies trot and rioter meets end. I see this in the stars now. I know who you are, Dalton Battista. There’s a bigger battle than you can imagine coming your way, our way.” He finally drops his hand. I still feel its weight. “There’s a timeline here. Two years and our rebellion will begin in earnest. We are the Red enemies of your grandfather’s regime. He is the Rioter who will meet his end. Perhaps he’s already met his end. I saw the death star last night.”
Raul Luna, dark-haired father of seven blond daughters, stops talking. My ears are left ringing. Who am I to argue with prophecy, star-reading, gemfry guessing, and the touch of Kassandra.
I decide I want to stay two years. I want to live with this family. I want to escape the punishment of my crime.
But I don’t believe that there could ever be a rebellion strong enough to stop Bryer Battista’s government.
I remember the last set of anagrams and say them aloud, “‘Witch let doom, amen.’ ‘Walked to teen.’ What do those mean?”
He scans the skies. “Nothing that I can see. Not yet, anyway.” I can tell he is holding back something. Something big.
“What else do you see?” I prompt.
He hesitates, clearing his throat. “One of my daughters.” His voice is tighter now. He breathes deeply, still shying away from revealing something he apparently dreads.
I wait.
“Dalton,” he sighs again, “you’ll have to figure out which one. Certainly it’s not Araceli, Sana, or Flor, but one of the older girls.”
“What?” For some reason I can feel those thorns prickling against my heart.
“The one you will marry … soon.”
* * *
I lie in the bed that their mother has made for me and think of marriage. I’m six weeks away from turning seventeen and though it’s common to marry at my age, it’s not something that I’ve considered. I know from my studies that the marriage laws had swelled in number to over a hundred twenty separate regulations by mid-century, but now, under the Executive President’s orders, there’s not one federal law or tax that has anything to do with marriage anymore, except the one about intermarriage. People marry, divorce, remarry according to their church, family, or community customs; the government doesn’t care. Most people get married at least twice since there’s a certain shame to being single.
Fewer first marriages are arranged now since the collapse of technology, but there are still human match-makers. Like my mother. I ought to have given this more thought. My mother’s been hinting around the subject, suggesting that her frequent trips away are not totally political. I have the weirdest feeling that she has probably returned home expecting to tell me about some perfect girl for me and instead has found that I’m wanted for murder. I don’t want to imagine the scene between her and my grandfather.
I close my eyes and listen to the night sounds of this odd house. I hear faint voices, sisters giggling, footsteps, windows creaking open or closed, a tap on a door somewhere. It’s not my door, but if there was someone at my door, which sister would I hope to see? Not the rude twin or the quiet one. Not Katie–too bossy. Lovely, tall Kassandra, the oldest one, that’s the girl that makes the most sense though her gemfry ability is a bit scary.
I think of her pretty face, and then I hear another sound, a lamb’s bleating. My eyes pop open and I catch a glimpse of candle glow as someone passes by my door. I realize I want that someone to be Lydia.
I immediately feel bad. Do I have any say in this marriage thing? Mr. Luna’s predictions can’t be a hundred percent true. He wasn’t even sure which daughter I would marry.
There’s a soft knock and this time it’s at my door.
“May I come in?”
“Sure.”
I sit up and start to rise as Kassandra enters holding a candle that flickers gold onto her skin and makes her eyes look like sparks. She’s wearing a short gown of flimsy cloth. I see that she’s barefoot and I notice something else too–a sign that she’s cold.
I can’t help but think of sex.
Part II 2095
Chapter 8 Taken
From the fourth page of the Ledger:
He held her and would not let her go until he had brought her to his mother’s house.
YET ANOTHER CUSTOM to learn, abide by, accept, and pass onto my son. Kassandra watches me. She presses her lips together to fight a smile, but her eyes are laughing.
My son. I want to laugh, too. Every time I think of this absurdity, this awesome change in my life, I have to let it overwhelm me. It almost covers the guilt I still carry.
Her parents walk several yards ahead of us, leading the way to the first spring TM of the year at our unnamed Mid-land village. Unnamed, all the better to stay under the radar of Exodia’s imprecise authority. Her sisters spread out behind us as if to herd us there. I carry my son in a wool-lined sling Kassandra made. He’s two weeks old. We’ll present him to the town in a small ceremony, but there will be no tattooing of his tiny arm. I believe there should be even though we live in this neutral zone where life is primitive yet tranquil. I’ve talked to Kassandra several times about this small fact. My own elbow is undeniably red. I haven’t dyed it in the nearly two years I’ve been here; I haven’t needed to even when strangers pass through.
“What are you thinking?” Kassandra says. “Nervous?”
I shake my head. A memory pops into my mind of my first month on the ranch when two men had shown up. They said they were government inspectors, but w
hen one had eyed the lambs that Sana and Araceli were holding, he said, “Cute woolen bastards” and Araceli told me later that Sana’s eyes got wide. She came running to me with her hand over her mouth. I was behind the new windmill I was helping Mr. Luna construct and she pushed me into the room at the base, unclamped her hand, and let her words spill out: “Beware Dalton scouts!” The men snooped a bit, but I stayed out of sight. We never found out if they really were looking for me. I confessed my crime to my new family and they still accepted me. We asked Deandra to make a guess and she thought they weren’t from the government at all, but were Ronel’s people. A week later the news was shared at a TM that my grandfather was dead and a new election was planned. I didn’t grieve for Bryer Battista. After that news I didn’t see a need to find Ronel. I liked my new life here. Our wedding was a simple party.
It’s still hard for me to express myself in words. I should share this memory with Kassandra as we walk the path to town, but I answer her question in a few words. “Not nervous,” I say. I’ll talk more when we’re alone.
We reach the edge of town and join another family to continue to the center. More people appear until I’m sure that not a single person has stayed home from this TM. There’s a crisp freshness to the air that’s suddenly marred by a now familiar scent wafting up from the baby sling. I haven’t yet changed one of these home-made diapers, but I fear that if we don’t do something quickly this ceremony will be over before it begins. My sisters-in-law are no longer trailing us. One of the twins has the sack, my old backpack really, that contains the baby’s needs and the four coins that were left after I gave Mr. Luna the money to rebuild the windmill.
Exodia Page 8
