The Power of Six

by Pittacus Lore

Page 7

 

  I nod and go back to what I’m doing. As fleeting as they are, it’s these small moments that bring us girls together, the fact that we share a common enemy. When I was younger, I thought commonalities like this, and of being orphaned and living under this same tyrannical roof, would unite us all as immediate and lifelong friends. But really it only worked to further divide us, creating small factions within our already small group—the pretty girls huddling together (La Gorda excepted, but still a part of their crowd), the smart girls, the athletic ones, the young ones—until I was left all alone.

  A half hour later when everything’s ready, we carry the food from the kitchen to the serving line. The crowd of waiting people clap. At the back of the line I see my favorite person in all of Santa Teresa: Héctor Ricardo. His clothes are dirty and wrinkled, and his hair is tousled. He has bloodshot eyes, an almost scarlet complexion to his face and cheeks. Even from as far away as I am I notice he has a slight shake in each hand, as he always does on Sundays—the only day in the week he swears off drinking. He looks especially rough today, though when he finally approaches, he holds his tray out and fixes on his face the most optimistic smile he can muster.

  “And how are you, my dear Queen of the sea?” he asks.

  I curtsy in return. “I’m doing well, Héctor. And you?”

  He shrugs, then says, “Life is but a fine wine, to be sipped and savored. ”

  I laugh. Héctor always has some old adage to share.

  I first met Héctor when I was thirteen. He had been sitting outside the lone café on Calle Principal drinking a bottle of wine by himself. It was midafternoon, and I had been on my way home from school. Our eyes met as I passed.

  “Marina, as of the sea,” he had said, and I’d found it odd that he knew my name, though I shouldn’t have since I’d seen him every week at the church pretty much since the day I’d arrived. “Come keep a drunk man company a few minutes. ”

  I did. I’m not sure why. Maybe because there’s something entirely agreeable about Héctor. He makes me feel relaxed, and doesn’t pretend to be somebody he isn’t like so many other people do. He exudes the attitude of “This is who I am; take it or leave it. ”

  That first day we had sat and talked long enough for him to finish one bottle of wine and order a second.

  “You stick with Héctor Ricardo,” he’d said when I had to get back to the convent. “I’ll take care of you; it’s in my name. The Latin root of Hector means ‘to defend and hold fast. ’ And Ricardo means ‘power and bravery,’” he’d said, thumping his chest twice with his right fist. “Héctor Ricardo will take care of you!”

  I could tell he meant it.

  He’d gone on. “Marina. ‘Of the sea. ’ That’s what your name means; did you know that?”

  I’d told him I did not. I’d wondered what Birgitta meant. And Yasmin. What Emmalina was rooted in.

  “That means you are Santa Teresa’s own Sea Queen,” he’d said with a sideways grin.

  I’d laughed at him. “I think you’ve been drinking too much, Héctor Ricardo. ”

  “Yes,” he’d replied. “I am the town drunk, dear Marina. But don’t let that fool you. Héctor Ricardo is a defender all the same. And besides, show me a man without vice and I’ll show you one without virtue!”

  Years later, he’s one of the few people I can call a friend.

  It takes twenty-five minutes for the few hundred people to receive their due today; and after the last person leaves the line, it’s our turn to eat, sitting away from the others. As a group we eat as fast as we can, knowing that the quicker we clean up and get everything put away, the sooner we’ll be on our own.

  Fifteen minutes later the five of us who work the line are scraping pots and pans and wiping counters. At its best, cleanup takes an hour, and that’s only if everyone leaves the cafeteria after they’re done eating, which rarely happens. As we’re cleaning, when I know the others aren’t looking, I throw into a bag the nonperishable items I plan to take to the cave today: dried fruits and berries, nuts, a can of tuna fish, a can of beans. This has become another weekly tradition of mine. For a long time I convinced myself I was doing it so I could snack when painting the cave’s walls. But the truth is I’m creating a stockpile of food in case the worst arrives and I have to hide. And by the worst, I mean them.

  Chapter Six

  WHEN I FINALLY WALK OUTSIDE AFTER CHANGING into warmer clothes and rolling my bed blanket under my arm, the sun is shifted to the west and there’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s half past four, which gives me an hour and a half at best. I hate the rushed quality of Sundays, the way the day creeps by until the very moment we’re free, at which point time flies. I look to the east, and the light reflected off the snow causes me to squint. The cave is over two rocky hills. With as much snow as there is on the ground now, I’m not even sure I’ll see the opening today. But I pull on my hat, zip up my jacket, tie the blanket around my neck like a cape, and head east.

  Two tall birch trees mark the trail’s start, and my feet turn cold the second I enter the deep drifts. The blanket-cape sweeps the snow behind me, erasing my footprints. I pass a few recognizable fixtures that show the way—a rock jutting out past the others, a tree that leans at a slightly different angle. After about twenty minutes I pass the rock formation identical to a camel’s back, which tells me I’m almost there.

  I have the faint sensation of being watched, possibly followed. I turn and scan the mountainside. Silence. Snow, nothing else. The blanket around my neck has done a great job of hiding my tracks. A slow, prickly feeling crawls up the back of my neck. I’ve seen the way rabbits blend into the landscape, going unnoticed until you’re almost on top of them, and I know that just because I can’t see somebody doesn’t mean they can’t see me.

  Five minutes later I finally spot the rounded shrub that blocks the entrance. The cave’s mouth looks like an oversized groundhog hole cutting into the mountain, and that’s exactly what I had mistaken it for years ago. But when I’d looked more closely I knew I was wrong. The cave was deep and dark, and back then I could see next to nothing in the little light that entered. There was an implicit desire to discover the cave’s secrets, and I wonder if this is what caused the Legacy to develop: my ability to see in the dark. I can’t see in the dark as easily as I can in the day, but even the deepest recesses of black glow as though lit by candlelight.

  On my knees, I knock away just enough snow to be able to slip down and in. I drop the bag ahead of me, untie the blanket from my neck and sweep it across the snow to hide my footprints, then hang it on the other side of the opening to keep out the wind. The entrance is narrow for the first three meters, followed by a slightly wider passageway that winds down a steep decline large enough to navigate while standing; and after that the cave opens, revealing itself.

  The ceiling is high and echoing, and its five walls smoothly transition into one another, creating an almost perfect polygon. A stream cuts through the back right corner. I have no idea where the water comes from or where it goes—springing up through one of the walls only to disappear into the earth’s deeper depths—but the level never changes, offering a reservoir of icy cold water regardless of the time of day or season. With the constant fresh source of water, this is the perfect place to hide. From the Mogadorians, the Sisters, and the girls—even Adelina. It’s also the perfect place to use and hone my Legacies.

  I drop the bag beside the stream, remove the nonperishables, and place them on the rock ledge, which already holds several chocolate bars, small bags of granola, oatmeal, cereal, powdered milk, a jar of peanut butter, and various cans of fruits, vegetables, and soup. Enough for weeks. Only when everything is put away do I stand and allow myself to be greeted by the landscapes and faces I’ve painted on the walls.

  From the very first time a brush was put into my hand at school, I fell in love with painting. Painting allows me to see things as I want to and not necessarily as they are;
it’s an escape, a way to preserve thoughts and memories, a way to create hopes and dreams.

  I rinse the brushes, rubbing the stiffness from the bristles, and then mix the paint with water and sediment from the creek bed, creating earthy tones that match the gray of the cave’s walls. Then I walk to where John Smith’s partially completed face greets me with his uncertain grin.

  I spend a lot of time on his dark blue eyes, trying to get them just right. There’s a certain glint that’s hard to replicate; and when I tire of trying, I start on a new painting, that of the girl with the raven hair I had dreamed about. Unlike John’s eyes, I have no trouble at all with hers, letting the gray wall do its magic; and I think that if I were to wave a lighted candle in front of it, the color would slightly change, as I’m sure her eyes do depending on her mood and the light around her. It’s just a feeling I get. The other faces I’ve painted are Hector’s, Adelina’s, a few of the town’s vendors I see every weekday. Because this cave is so deep and dark, I believe my paintings are safe from anyone’s eyes but mine. It’s still a risk, I know, but I just can’t help myself.

  After a while I go up and push aside my blanket, poking my head out of the cave. I see nothing but drifts of white and the bottom of the sun kissing the horizon line—which tells me it’s time to go. I haven’t painted nearly as much or as long as I would have liked. Before cleaning the brushes I walk to the wall opposite John and look at the big red square I’ve painted there. Before it was a red square I’d done something foolish, something I know would have exposed me as a Garde, and painted a list.

  I touch the square and think of the first three numbers that are underneath, running my fingertips over the dried, cracked paint, deeply saddened by what those lines meant. If there is any consolation in their deaths, it’s that they can now rest easy and no longer have to live in fear.

  I turn from the square, from the hidden and destroyed list, clean the brushes, and put everything away.

  “I’ll see you guys next week,” I say to the faces.

  Before leaving the cave I take in the landscape painted on the wall beside the passageway leading in and out. It’s the first painting I’d ever attempted here, sometime around the age of twelve; and while I have touched it up a bit over the years, mostly it has remained the same. It’s the view of Lorien from my own bedroom window and I still remember it perfectly. Rolling hills and grassy plains accentuated with tall trees. A thick slice of blue river that cuts across the terrain. Small bits of paint here and there that represent the Chimæra drinking from its cool waters. And then, off in the far distance at the very top, standing tall over the nine archways representing the planet’s nine Elders, is the statue of Pittacus Lore, so small it’s almost indistinct; but there’s no mistaking it for what it really is, standing out among the others: a beacon of hope.