My response was cold. “What makes you think I care what you believe?”
Joshua stopped, his expression changing. He drew his eyebrows together in contemplation, took a step back, and laughed. “Edmund, Edmund,” he read the expression on my face, “do you really think you could take me on?”
I knew my response could bring a death sentence, but I probably wasn’t going to get out of this alive anyway. Even if I did everything Joshua asked, gave him the book, and took him to my father’s secret place, he would still kill me or give me to the energumen in the end. I had the odd sensation that I didn’t need to fear death as I once had. The feeling made me feel energized and foolish.
A few mumbled phrases in my head and the world around me turned blindingly white. The energumen screamed profanities as the possessing spirits were ripped from their hosts. The flash caused the humans to erupt into frantic screams again. I felt the cold hands on me falter. I pushed my way through the line that was meant to trap me.
I ran. While I ran, I asked Mother Earth to protect me. I heard the trees whisper to me in support and encouragement. With every ounce of power and respect I had for the planet, I asked them to help me escape.
The planet moved beneath me. The trees surrounding our town pulled toward me. I felt their desire to help me succeed, to grant my request. Suddenly, the roots of the giant firs and oaks broke through the ground, crumbling roads and buildings behind me, blocking the path of anyone who might try to follow. I saw the trees in the distance moving, crawling closer so that when I passed they could stand between Joshua and me. I sensed their intentions. I had never been so connected with so many of them. Their voices gave my feet power to run faster. I stole a glance behind me to view the entire path destroyed and blocked. I grinned as I felt my escape sure.
I felt the shift in the elation of the trees at the same time I ran into something hard and dark. Suddenly, I was in excruciating pain. I looked down and saw an arm thrust into my stomach, a punch so strong that it ripped all the way into my spleen. I looked up to see Joshua’s cold face, his dark eyes meeting mine, a smile of victory on his face.
I coughed, and my blood splattered across his robe. “How?” I choked.
“Did you really think I would be stopped by a shrubbery?” He chuckled and pulled his hand from my stomach, taking the book with him. As he turned away from me, I heard him mutter, “It’s too bad you’ll never learn how much power we were capable of having.”
I wasn’t sure if the pain that followed was my own or an echo of the planet’s pain over my defeat. I watched in disbelief as blood seeped through my fingers and dripped, thick as syrup, to the ground.
Six
My eyes flashed open. I could feel the muscles of my iris constrict in spite of the darkness. I was inundated with strange noises: heavy breathing, running water, distant chatter, a ticking clock. The smells here were awful, dust and sweat and… ugh… urine. I lifted my head from a lumpy pillow, my neck stiff and my back sore. I turned to the right and saw thin strips of light forcing their way into the room between the cracks of a closed door. A thin curtain billowed from an open window and the night breeze felt cool and sweet on my flushed face.
I swallowed hard, my mouth dry and my throat sticky. As I did, pain shot through my spine and up through my frontal lobe. Great, I thought, I have a headache, too.
I turned to the left and saw nothing but swirling blackness occasionally broken by a phantom light that came from outside the room. It illuminated another curtain, and although the light wasn’t enough to see by, I could tell how wide the room was but not how long. All I could make out was a wooden paneled wall running from the lighted cracks in the doorway and burying itself into blackness.
As my memories slowly crept back into my brain, I remembered that I knew blackness well. I instinctively reached for my stomach as I remembered the cold and pain being replaced by absolute nothingness. The pain in my head surged like some kind of response to the memory. I winced and rubbed my temples.
My fingers felt like ice though the rest of my body was hot. I kicked off my blanket, tucking my hands under my arms. The coldness in my hand felt strange, almost metallic. Shocked, I held my hands close to my face to examine them. The hint of a silver skull glimmered in the dim light.
My father’s ring.
The pain in my head surged again with such intensity that I grimaced. It hurt so much I forgot how to breathe. The pain grew until it overtook all my senses, roaring in my ears like an ocean and tasting prickly and bitter like dried cactus. It felt like sharp claws were raking my body. I cried out as lightning bolts filled my vision. As I collapsed, the flashes in my head brought facts and information—an entire child’s lifetime of facts.
Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1492. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both. Names. Dates. KMNO4. Gravity. My Very Excellent Mother Just Sent Us Nine Pizzas.
John 3:16—For God so loved the world that he sent his only begotten son. Peter, James, John. God, infinitely perfect and blessed in himself, in a plan of sheer goodness freely created man to make him share in his own blessed life. Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.
***
When I opened my eyes again, I was in a different room. Judging from the number of windows, it was less spacious. Beams of bright-colored light streamed through stained glass windows on the far wall, the colors dancing brilliantly on the hardwood floors and on my white blankets. This room smelled sterile, like bleach.
The bed I was in was much more comfortable than the one I remembered in my dim memory of the room that smelled of urine. The sheets weren’t as itchy and there were enough pillows to prop me up into an inclined position, none of which were lumpy. The walls surrounding me were made of dark wood and brick, with numerous paintings of fat little children with wings and men wearing halos. I found the imagery comical and couldn’t help but wonder whose imagination came up with the paintings.
I wasn’t alone in the room; there were other beds like mine, some empty, and some with other children in them. Most were sleeping soundly although some of the more sickly looking ones groaned and tossed in their sleep. I realized I was in a hospital when I saw bags of clear liquid hanging over the beds. I looked up and saw I had my own clear bag, which was almost empty. A tube ran down into a needle that was plunged into my arm. My head was still achy and that told me that what I’d experienced during the night hadn’t been a dream. Confused, I reached for my stomach again, lifting up my shirt. There was no scar or mark where Joshua had ripped into me. I pushed around, examining myself for any pain, but besides the dull ache in my head, there was none.
Did I manage to survive Joshua’s attack? And if so, where was I now? Did the humans actually have such great healing abilities that they could repair the damage to my stomach without leaving a scar? How long had I been healing, unaware? Where was I when I woke up last night? Was it even last night? How much time had passed since I was in the dark room that smelled of urine, and how did I end up in a hospital?
The questions kept coming. It bothered me that I couldn’t answer any of them. This room was like nothing I had seen before, certainly not a building in Orenda. It was too ornate to be a prison.
As I surveyed my surroundings, attempting to find a clue as to where I was or who brought me here, my gaze fell on a painting hanging above a large arched doorway that led to a decorated hallway. The painting was of thirteen men at a large wooden table. All of the men were turned toward the man in the center who wore a red and blue robe. The ring on my finger pulsed.
Jesus, I thought, and the painting is The Last Supper.
I wondered how I knew that, but as soon as I thought about the question my brain answered that I learned it in an art history class, ta
ught by Sister Mary Jane. But who was Sister Mary Jane, and how did I know her? I searched my memories for a face or a voice, anything to help me put physical characteristics to the name, but I couldn’t find anything. I could picture Ralph and Hailey perfectly. I could remember the Elders who taught me in school. The memory of Sister Mary Jane, her art history class, and Jesus should be just as vivid, but I couldn’t remember anything about them.
I began sifting through my thoughts, looking for words that had no memory associated with them. Something called the Bible, which I knew was a book because there were verses in it I could quote. I couldn’t remember ever seeing one, though. Father Michaels, a phrase that made me feel respectful when I thought about it, but I had no idea what it referred to. I drew a blank on word after word, some of which I recognized easily as common names, while others felt like ideas or objects, but not one conjured any sort of memory: church, car, boat, bus, pope, telephone…
My thoughts were interrupted when an older woman dressed in long white robes extending all the way up and around her face walked through the large archway. A younger woman pushing a metal cart filled with more bags of clear liquid followed her.
The older woman looked at my startled expression with kind eyes and a warm smile.
“Oh, Alexander. How wonderful that you are awake.”
Alexander. This was another one of those words that had nothing but darkness behind it.
The younger woman was busy replacing my empty bag with a new one from her cart.
“How are you feeling, dear boy? You gave us quite a scare.”
Was this woman talking to me?
She waited patiently for an answer, though I could see her eyes growing wider with concern when I didn’t speak.
“Alexander? Are you all right?”
I was still confused by this “Alexander” business. She was using it like it was my name.
Ow! Headache again.
I decided I’d better say something before the already furrowed brow of this kind-looking woman folded in on itself completely. “Are you talking to me, madam?”
An expression of confusion and relief crossed her face. “Of course, son.”
“Son?” I repeated. “But you are not my mother.”
The expression of confusion morphed into worry. “Alexander, do you know where you are?”
I shook my head.
“Oh dear. Do you know the year?”
“No.”
“Did you hit your head?”
Her hands started probed my skull, looking for damage to my head, no doubt.
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you know who I am?” She was frantic now.
“A doctor of some kind?”
“My name, Alexander. Do you know my name?”
I shook my head again. “I don’t think we’ve ever met before.”
“Dear child!” the woman exclaimed, taking my hand in her own and sitting on the edge of the bed. She turned to the younger woman, who wore a similar look of worry. “Run to Father Michaels…”
There was that odd phrase again.
“… and tell him to come quickly. I need to know what happened to Alexander, how he was found. Tell him the poor boy cannot remember me. He is suffering from amnesia.”
The younger woman nodded and ran for the archway while the older one looked at me intently, shaking her head, and mumbling, “Dear, dear.”
I tried to remain calm, but my confusion turned into panic.
“Ma’am, my name…” No, that was going about it wrong. “Why do you call me Alexander?”
“That’s what you’ve been called since birth. What would you rather have me call you?”
I thought it smarter to ignore her question while my mind twisted the possibilities. Maybe I had been transplanted into someone else’s body… or at least my memories? That was the only thing I could come up with at the moment. Before I told anyone my real name, I had to make sure I was who I thought I was.
“Do you have a mirror?”
The woman looked at me warily, but finally crossed the room and retrieved a small mirror on a nightstand.
I took the mirror cautiously. The eyes of the old woman narrowed in suspicion as she took in my expression. I held up the mirror and tilted it until I saw my face. Two deep brown eyes stared back at me. Their color was like dark chocolate mixed with liquid gold. They were bright and clear, though a little swollen from exhaustion and pain. The hair was raven black, tousled, but definitely mine.
The muscles in my jaw and lips relaxed. I was half expecting to see a stranger’s face in the mirror but was relieved to find my own. So I hadn’t died? Was there another explanation for the strange facts and unfamiliar words I knew?
I handed the mirror back to the old woman, asking her name.
She was exasperated, and I knew she expected that I should already know who she was; I had gathered that much by her quickly muttered instructions to the younger nurse. She answered me slowly. “Sister Mary Rafaela.”
At the sound of her name, I felt my brain play an excited game of connect the dots. Words I didn’t know, like nun, nurse, ibuprofen, injection, and infirmary connected with words I knew, such as kindness, aged, intelligent, teacher, and healer. Nurse and healer felt somehow connected but I wondered why nun and healer didn’t have the same connotation. Nun was connected to Sister Mary Rafaela. So was nurse. But nun and nurse didn’t necessarily equate. The whole process was exhausting.
“You are a nurse,” I said matter-of-factly. “This is not a hospital, but an infirmary. You are a healer.”
“Yes, child.” Her expression was more relaxed now. “Although I’ve never been called a healer before, exactly. I’m not a doctor.”
In my experience, a doctor and a healer were the same. A doctor and a nurse were different. I filed away the understanding.
“And Father Michaels?” I realized the odd phrase was actually a name.
“He’s our priest. Our elder in the church.”
Elder was a word I knew. A word I knew all too well. I asked the next question timidly. “Does Father Michaels know Joshua?”
Sister Mary Rafaela looked puzzled. “We don’t have any Joshua here, not even among the children, so I wouldn’t say so.”
“Is he a good elder, or a bad elder?”
“Oh, very good.”
As if on cue, a man entered the room with the younger nurse. This must have been Father Michaels, but he didn’t look like any elder I had seen. He wore a ceremonious robe, like my elders, but it had no covering for the head. A piece of collar was missing, revealing a bright white insert.
“Good afternoon, Alexander,” the man said cordially, taking a seat on the bed next to me. The man was older too, not as old as Sister Mary Rafaela, but older than Joshua was, older than my father had been. His cheeks blushed pink in the warm afternoon sunlight. He wore a thin frame over his ears and nose that held two round circles of glass in front of his eyes. The glass was warped from my point of view and made his eyes look a little bigger than I imagined they were. “How are you feeling?”
I assessed that and answered as honestly as I could. “Confused.”
“How can I help clear things up?” he asked honestly, but with a hint of a smirk.
“Well,” I took in a deep breath. This was going to be a long one. “Where am I? How long was I at the hospital after Joshua almost killed me? Where are my friends, Ralph and Hailey? How did my stomach get healed so completely? Why do I know all sorts of made up words, like Bible and scripture, but can’t define them? How come I know your name, but why have I never met you? What kind of name is Father Michaels, anyway? One I’ve never heard before. How long have I been here? What is this place? What about the war? Where is Joshua and what happened with his deal with the energumen? What was the fate of Orenda? And—” I stopped when I saw his expression empty into perfect blankness. I only had one question left. I decided to ask it anyway. “Why do you call me Alexander?”
Unexpectedly,
the priest’s eyes drooped and he took off his glass contraption to rub his eyes. Glasses, the word surfaced. I couldn’t tell if he was frustrated or tired. “Alexander was a saint.”
Hmm… no connection to the word saint yet.
“It is what we have called you for the entire twelve years you’ve been here.”
Twelve years. But I was only ten. At least, I was only ten when I had gone home to find Orenda destroyed. Could that have been two years ago? Or even twelve years ago?
I recalled my reflection in the mirror. No, I was still young. I would have been over twenty years old if I had spent the entire twelve years here. My features weren’t that old, but also weren’t as soft as they had been in the mirror in the hallway of the parliament building.
I am twelve years old, I thought, and I accepted that because it felt right.
“What would you have us call you?” the priest asked.
“My name is Edmund.”
Father Michaels and Sister Mary Rafaela exchanged glances. She shrugged.
Father Michaels shifted his weight uneasily. “Is Alexander in there with you?”
The younger nurse’s eyes grew wide; I saw her mouth a word that I knew very well—possession.
Me? Possessed? I wondered what it would be like to have an energumen in my body, but I was certain it wouldn’t feel like this. I was still me and, at least in the mirror, I didn’t have hollow, unnaturally yellow eyes.
The priest followed up with another question. “Alex—Edmund? Do you remember your communion yesterday?”
Communion? Nope. I shook my head.
The priest stared down at my hand. “That ring,” he gestured, “we found it with you when you were left on our doorstep. I gave it back to you as a gift for your communion. When we found you, your only possessions were that ring and an acorn.”
I shot straight up. “The acorn. Do you still have it?”
Father Michaels looked at me in disbelief. “Um… no…”
My heart sank. I promised Mother Tree I would plant her offspring and now I had lost it.
Death of the Body Page 7
