She Who Rises

by Rachael Arsenault

  Rachael Arsenault

  © 2019

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book is never easy. From getting a weird, wild idea in my head to researching highly specific details in history to trying to get these figments of my imagination to do what I want them to do, constructing a story out of nothing is a long and stressful process. I will be infinitely grateful for the support I’ve had along the way.

  For my parents, who always encourage my writing and the creative endeavours I undertake.

  To my husband, who asks me hard questions about my book and isn’t afraid to poke the plot holes.

  To Angie, who is always there for brainstorming or ranting or proofreading.

  To all my other friends who have read my work or given me advice or otherwise supported me. You all mean the world.

  Chapter One

  “Yes, Mom, I’m fine.” I stared up at the squat brick building that was the Friedman Museum of Natural History, phone pressed to my ear as traffic rushed by behind me. Mom had insisted I call her with an update before noon even though my meeting with the gems curator was at 11:30.

  “I just worry about you all the way over there. All alone,” she said. Her voice cracked a little and a wave of guilt washed over me. “You’re my only baby.”

  “I know, I know,” I said. Hearing her so sad and concerned made me feel like a terrible daughter, even though all I done was move away for university. But, well, maybe there were some things I could be doing better. She was used to seeing me everyday and now she was lucky if she heard from me once a week. “I promise I’ll try to call and text more. It’s just been hectic this last while.”

  “You’ve had a busy first few weeks, that’s for sure.”

  I edged off the sidewalk to get out of the way of joggers and downtown workers trying to pass by, moving onto the low stone steps at the front of the museum. I glanced up at the building anxiously. Though I was promising to talk to her more, that didn’t mean I could talk more right now. Didn’t want to be late for my meeting. “Yeah, it’s definitely been a lot. Anyway, I really gotta—”

  “I just wish you didn’t have to be over there all by yourself.”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” I lied. “Besides, I’m just trying this out for now, remember? If things don’t work out… Well, I can always come back home. No big deal.”

  “You’re sure Mitch wouldn’t want to move over there with you?”

  I sighed. This again. “Yes, Mom. I told you, Mitch and I broke up.”

  “But you two were together for four years!”

  “And then I moved.”

  “I just really think you two should try and talk things out — you guys were great together.”

  “We tried.” And tried and tried and tried. I’d spent the entire summer trying to explain to him why I wanted to try pursuing my Master’s so I could maybe work for an NGO or non-profit one day, and he’d spent the entire summer not listening.

  “Well, what about Emily?” Mom asked.

  “She’s already got a great job in Summerside doing her aerospace technician stuff. I can’t ask her to leave PEI just so I won’t be lonely.” I moved up another step. “Anyway, Mom, I really gotta get to my meeting. I don’t want to be late.”

  “Oh, of course! You need to make a good first impression.”

  After another five minutes of Mom fussing, we finally said our “I love you”s and I was able to hang up. I checked the time — 11:20. Thank god I’m obsessively early.

  As I mounted the rest of the steps and entered the building, however, I felt my knees start to shake. I really wished Emily had moved with me — she was, after all, the one who had convinced me to make the jump (and got me to stick with it even after Mitch’s negativity started to make me break and doubt myself). She had always been my rock. Even more so than Mitch. And now she was 400 kilometers away.

  “Why the hell would you move all the way out there?” Mitch had said during one of our last fights, as if Fredericton was on another planet instead of being in another province. “You hate change. You suck at it. You should just stay here, where things are normal and simple.”

  I had told him he was wrong, even though part of me worried he was right. There was a reason I hadn’t even considered doing my undergrad out of province. But I wanted this program more than I wanted comfort and familiarity. I could do this. Or I could at least give myself the chance to try. Plus, like Emily had said, spite was a good motivator. It would be all too satisfying to come back with a degree and shove it in Mitch’s face.

  And — like I kept telling myself — it didn’t have to be a permanent decision. I could always back out after a semester if things weren’t going well.

  I took a few steadying breaths, hoped I didn’t look ridiculous, and marched over to the front desk. The woman behind the counter looked up, a practiced pleasant smile at the ready. “Can I help you?”

  “Um, yes. I — I arranged to meet with the curator of the gems collection today at 11:30.”

  “Oh, of course.” She reached for the landline on her desk, looking over a list of extensions as she asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Oh, um, Amber. Martel.” My face burned. Great first impression — stumbling over my own name.

  The woman either didn’t notice my stuttering or didn’t care. She simply found the number she was looking for, dialed it, and started speaking to whoever was on the other end. I felt awkward listening, so I wandered a few feet away to admire the displays in the lobby, all while irrationally panicking that I had somehow failed to actually book a time to speak with the curator. I would have to scrabble something else together for my meeting with my thesis advisor tomorrow. Professor Hale was an amazing teacher and mentor so far, but she was also strict. Deadlines were nonnegotiable.

  The dioramas about pond ecosystems and the Bay of Fundy weren’t really holding my interest. Then again, it was geared toward elementary school kids and not even part of my field. My undergrad (and now my Master’s) was in cultural anthropology and sociology, which didn’t so much concern itself with flora, fauna, or food chains. The other displays didn’t interest me, either, so I ended up sitting on one of the long wooden benches that hugged the wall across from the front desk and dug my phone out of my pocket. I wanted to make sure the ringer was off so I didn’t embarrass myself in the middle of my meeting. When I unlocked my phone, however, I got distracted when I saw new text messages.

  Mitch: Good luck Amber!!! You’ll ROCK this ;p

  Mitch: Text me after. Let me know how it goes.

  I frowned. So now he was supportive? After months of arguing with me? Telling me I should stay with my minimum wage job at Shoppers or try to get a call center position with benefits while he took on the “burden” of pursuing his own career. He was working at one of the many hotels in Charlottetown, trying to climb his way up to a management position. There were discounts and benefits and a sense of job security. Certainly more worthwhile and realistic than anything I thought I could accomplish.

  Instead of answering, I exited the conversation and went to my other new text.

  Emily: Keep me posted on how the big meeting goes! And try to sneak some pics of big shiny diamonds for me

  She concluded her text with a series of sparkle and diamond ring emojis. I started to type out a reply, but, at the sound of approaching footsteps, hastily shoved my phone in my pocket and stood.

  A man in simple black dress pants and a light blue button-down approached. The fluorescent lights gleamed off the bald patch exposed by his thinning hair and his wire rim glasses teetered on the edge of his long nose. He had a friendly smile at the ready when he reached me, hand extended. “Amber, is it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said as I shook his hand, hoping my h
andshake wasn’t too weak and my palms weren’t too sweaty.

  “I know we talked over the phone briefly, but let me introduce myself again. I’m Alan Jardine, curator for the gems collection here at the Freidman Museum of Natural History. I’m going to give you a quick tour of our little collection and then we can get to business discussing how we can bring this all together for your thesis. Sound good?”

  I nodded. If I spoke, I was worried my voice would crack or give out into an embarrassing squeak.

  Mr. Jardine led me further into the building, away from the public areas with their dioramas and displays, toward a door labelled authorized personnel only. It led to a long corridor with at least a dozen doors. Mr. Jardine stopped at one on the left partway down the hall, pulled out a set of keys, and unlocked the door. He ushered me inside.

  The room was a narrow rectangle made narrower by the metal cabinets and drawers that lined it, towering up to the ceiling, all neatly labelled. In the far corner, a small desk was piled high with worn old books. Even though I knew it wasn’t much quieter than the rest of the relatively empty museum had been, the room seemed reverently silent to me. I slowly walked forward, looking from one side to the other and trying to take everything in.

  “As you can see,” Mr. Jardine said as he shut the door, startling me out of my state of wonder, “we have a bigger collection than you might at first expect.”

  He guided me through the space, explaining how it was organized, why the stones were stored the way they were, how they expanded their collection over time, and the educational and scientific purpose of such a collection.

  “Which is where you come in,” he said, smiling down at me.

  I laughed and grinned back. I was feeling a lot more at ease — soaking up knowledge and being lectured about topics that interested me always helped quiet my anxieties and self-doubt. It helped that Mr. Jardine — er, Alan, as he had insisted I call him — was proving to be easy-going and an excellent talker. Certainly not as dull or incoherent as some of my professors were. Between his friendliness and the inert rocks surrounding us, there was nothing to be nervous about.

  “Why don’t you tell me a little about your thesis? Then we can get a better idea of how the collection can be of use to you. And hopefully vice versa!”

  My gut twisted a little. Okay, so there were still some things to be nervous about. “Well, right now my topic is pretty broad, but my advisor wants me to narrow down the focus.”

  “Fire away. Maybe I can help.”

  “Okay, so… have you ever heard of healing crystals?”

  His smile suddenly had a touch of skepticism.

  Trying to hold on to the confidence I’d felt earlier, I rushed to explain, “My friend Emily swears by them, and it got me thinking: What mystical properties did ancient cultures prize certain stones for and what, if any, scientific basis is there for those beliefs? And I could also look at the role of belief in the effectiveness of healing crystals. And I’m also curious about the ethics of using these types of stones. Where do they come from? Whose labour is being exploited and what environmental impact is involved in extracting, cutting, and transporting these stones so that people have access to healing through placebo affect? And, if there is any legitimate restorative properties to these stones, how does the cost of their extraction and production weight against those health benefits?”

  Alan raised his eyebrows, laughing at little as he said, “I’m starting to see what you mean about needing to narrow down your topic.”

  My heart swelled with hope. He wasn’t outright dismissing my ideas. That was a good start.

  “Well,” he continued, “I certainly think the question of ethics is interesting to explore, though that will of course look different depending on what type of gem you’re considering. The history and process of diamond extraction is different than that of, say, lapis lazuli or jade. Is there any stone that’s particularly popular or considered a sort of basic, er, ‘healing crystal’?”

  “Quartz. Emily even makes me carry some.” I suddenly wished I had thought to bring it — Emily had even told me I should carry it in my backpack or purse at all times. But the little, semi-translucent pink stone was sitting on my bedside table in my apartment.

  “We have quite an extensive assortment of smoky quartz.” As he spoke, Alan moved to open a cabinet beside me, revealing a tower of drawers within. He opened one, which had about half a dozen small boxes inside. He lifted the lids off a few so I could see their contents: stones in a variety of shapes and sizes, some grey, some black, some brown. There were several uncut hunks, but also a few rounded and polished pieces, similar to my rose quartz. Alan pointed out one in particular, explaining that it appeared to have been cut for some sort of jewelry and how it had come into the museum’s possession. It was about the size of a quarter, but fat and round — not a facet in sight. The stone was a semi-translucent, dark, murky brown that gleamed slightly under the fluorescent lights.

  Emily told me, years ago when she dragged me to a little store in Summerside full of occult and Celtic items, that the stone you most needed at that moment would call to you. It had sounded stupid — I had rolled my eyes and refused to touch anything — but I couldn’t deny the intense draw I felt in that dimly lit museum collection. The air around me hummed with an energy that was foreign and nostalgic all at once.

  “Can I touch one?” I blurted. I wasn’t even sure if I had interrupted Alan. I’d been too entranced to notice if he was still talking.

  I vaguely heard him say, “Sure,” as I picked up the stone. It was cold and smooth. I started running my thumb over it, searching for a crack or a dimple or some other imperfection. It warmed in my hand surprisingly quickly. Too quickly. It was almost too hot to hold within moments.

  “If it feels hot,” Emily had told me, “that means the stone is resonating with your energy.”

  I turned to Alan to tell him this, but in that instant the stone flared to its hottest. It was like holding a burning coal. A scream surged up from my chest as the world burst into blinding white.

  And then the ground was gone and my ribs were seized with vicelike pain as something exploded above me, pelting me with unseen debris. Wind whipped against my face and I knew, distantly, that I was outside.

  The last thing I heard before my consciousness slipped away was a bestial roar.

  ~

  Someone had wrapped me in a blanket. It felt like I was moving, getting jostled and bounced around — but it also felt like I was lying on a couch, my body pressing against something cushy but solid. Every muscle was aching and stiff as though I had worked out intensely yesterday and they were seizing up. But far worse, because it was every muscle. My head hurt, too, a throbbing pain that pulsed with my heartbeat. The sound was so loud that I didn’t notice the voices at first.

  But when I did hear them, it was all I could focus on. It sounded like two women. Their voices were hushed, but I could tell they were arguing. I couldn’t make out any words, though — it didn’t sound like English. It wasn’t French, either, and I hadn’t had exposure to many other languages growing up.

  Where was I? I tried to open my eyes, but they felt like lead. Straining to hear had intensified my headache, too, sapping me of what little energy I had. I fought against the exhaustion sweeping over me, but it was like trying not to get blown over by a tornado.

  The world grew muddled and distant as I slipped back into the illusion of dreams.

  Chapter Two

  Something was shaking me. A soft voice was speaking. My sleep-addled mind slowly pieced the sounds into words: “Come on, wake up. You’ve had plenty of sleep. You really need to eat and drink something.”

  My eyes slowly opened, fighting against the comfortable weight of sleep. It took too long for my eyes to focus on the face staring down at me. Her dark brow was furrowed in concern and a curtain of long, thinly braided hair swept over her shoulder.

  I tried to speak — to ask her who she was, where I was, what
had happened — but my tongue felt thick with dryness. I suddenly realized just how thirsty I was.

  She must have noticed me struggling to talk because her concern melted into an understanding smile. “Hold tight. I’ll grab you some water.”

  Then she disappeared from view. While I lay there, waiting and wondering, my disordered and disoriented memory slowly put itself back together. I remembered half-waking to movement and talking.

  There had been another woman, hadn’t there? I faintly recalled hearing two voices. I struggled to look to the side, but every muscle along my neck, shoulders, and spine screamed in protest. All I could tell from my periphery was that I was on a worn-out sofa with springs poking out from the stained green upholstery. It carried a musty, storied scent that immediately reminded me of an elderly woman’s house. There was a dim light coming from somewhere behind me. Across from me was a dusty table with a half-broken leg, propped up on what looked like an old milk crate. It was still crooked. There was no sign of the other woman — at least not as far as I could see.

  As I lay there, too sore and exhausted to move and only half able to see my surroundings, it occurred to me that this could be bad. Very, very bad. I vaguely remembered being at the museum — there had been something hot and bright and loud, something that had knocked me unconscious. And there had been an explosion, right? I had felt debris hitting me.

  What if I had been caught up in some kind of attack on the museum?

  But why? What would they want with me?

  The girl came back into view again, carrying a water bottle with a strange, cylindrical device through the center. A filter, maybe? She propped me up, helping me fight my screaming muscles so I could take a drink. I downed the whole thing before collapsing back onto the couch.

  “Could I have more?” I managed. The water had helped uncement my tongue, but my words were still slow and clumsy. Plus, just sitting up and drinking had worn me out enough that I was breathless.