I have no idea how wrecked I look, but Celia asks no questions. She hands me a washcloth and a bag with a clean shirt in it. “This should fit you,” she says, leading me to a large bathroom.
I wash the sand and dirt off my face, finger-comb my hair, and pull the shirt out. It’s just a shade darker than the one I’m wearing. I change into it and take a damp paper towel to my shoes. I wipe off as much of the dirt and scuff marks as I can.
“Much better!” Celia remarks when I come out. “Here’s a sandwich,” she says, handing me a paper bag. “You need to eat something. Here’s a sandwich for the ride home.”
“I feel a bit better.” Not entirely true, but at least not looking like a total wreck will help keep my mom off my back. And I am hungry.
Celia walks me out to the car, rattling off the hours and days I’m expected to work. Monday to Friday, nine-thirty to four-thirty. She mentions something about a weekly stipend, and then opens the car door for me.
“You’re okay to drive?”
“I’m okay.” Another lie. I am miles from okay. I pat the paper bag. “Thank you for the sandwich.”
She nods. “You’re welcome. I’ve set some time aside for you on Monday before you’re scheduled to start. It’s important for you and the girls to have another chance to connect and establish trust. I’ll have someone pick you up if you’d like. Let me know by Monday, okay?”
I nod. “Mom said I could use the car if I got this job.”
She smiles. “Excellent! We’ll see you on Monday, then.”
I put the car in reverse and back out of the driveway. I call my mom to let her know I’m on my way and drive slower than the speed limit as I eat the sandwich in about three bites.
I need to think. For the second time in one day, I want to stop time from moving forward—to shout, “HOLD everything, folks,” until I can make sense out of it all.
I spot a parking area where a section of the bike trail starts, and pull over. I’ve been along this part of the trail before on my board. It runs along the river by my house and all the way up to Maine. I had no idea it ran past Miss Maggie’s mansion. Was that because of the shielding she was referring to? Was that why I’ve driven past here a thousand times before and never noticed the center?
I sit for several long moments in the car. My insides feel heavy and full, like every emotion, ever, is in there waiting to come tearing out. I look around. There are no other cars. I take a deep breath and let out a scream. It’s weird screaming in the car alone. I feel self-conscious. But the scream doesn’t want to stop. Soon, I don’t even notice that I’m sitting in a parking lot alone, screaming at no one, in my car.
I pound on the steering wheel like a maniac, yelling at Pasea, Atesu, Dhan, my mom, god, whoever. I know it doesn’t change anything, but it helps me feel just a little bit better.
After I’m done, I slump in the seat, tired out. A few minutes of ringing silence later, I pull my skateboard out of the trunk, slip off my heels, slide my phone into the small pocket in my pants, and grab my iPod. I turn to a heavy, tribal fusion song and take off.
I know I must look strange as I sail along the path. This brown girl in bare feet, too old to be on a skateboard, with burgundy streaks growing out of her long-ass hair, and wearing an interview outfit.
But I feel better. Emptied. I’m sailing through the wind with no one around me but the trees. For this one moment, I am in control. I snake the board along the path, keeping time with the music.
Images of Pasea, Dhan, and Atesu run through my mind, followed closely by the unbearable thought of never being able to see them again. I can’t even venture into the part of my brain that knows why, and what’s supposed to happen to them in their future—my past.
My past.
What is my past, exactly? I remember so little of it. England. My mom with her arms stretched out in the swimming pool. Rain. I remember lots and lots of rain. Green moss crawling up trees, the gray of the sky and buildings and roads.
I see a small opening in the trees up ahead and turn into it. I jump off my board and walk, taking care not to step on anything sharp, down a narrow footpath leading into the woods. I love being barefoot. If it weren’t for all the bottle caps and broken glass, I’d do it more often at home. I stop at a clearing by a stream. In the periphery of my vision, a deer bounds away.
My past. England. Biodad. Mom and I “escaping” to America. The all-girls’ school. Mom working nights. Zanum.
Dr. Mace.
My pulse goes into overdrive. Some of our sessions were a complete blank. I would forget about them as soon as I walked out of his office. But others I remembered in stark relief.
In one, I’d just turned ten. “I don’t remember anything we do here.”
He smiled that non-smile, his vacant eyes sparking for just a moment as he reached for the file with my name on it. “Here,” he said, sliding it across the table between us.
I flipped through his notes, surprised to see detailed accounts where I told him everything. Every single moment I spent in Zanum, every discussion, a description of everyone I’d ever met there.
All the blood had drained from my face as I closed the file and put it back on the table with trembling fingers. “I—I don’t remember ever telling you any of this.”
A pitying look. His voice dripping with fake compassion. “It’s one of the ways our mind protects us, Parminder. It blocks out painful memories.” Then he’d looked over his shoulder, as if for approval from someone I couldn’t see.
I sit down on a log and focus on the sounds around me, but keep getting pulled back into the scenes running through my brain.
When Zanum came back it was the beginning of a complete and utter separation of my worlds. The biggest secret I’ve ever kept.
A secret that a stranger now knows.
Miss Maggie’s world has collided head-on with my carefully maintained secret. She has been “following my progress” since I was seven.
A chill races up my spine. How do I know I can trust this rich lady who takes girls out of hospitals and puts them in her own facility?
I don’t know, exactly, what Miss Maggie wants from the girls at the treatment center, and from me, but I know about keeping secrets.
And the girls. Could I ever work with girls like that? They seem so… I don’t know, hard. Etienne is verging on cruel, though in a different way than the girls I went to school with. The girls at school hit on my shame spots—not having the right clothes, the right shoes, the right whatever. And that I’m not giggly and acting like a moron at the sight of every male. But Etienne… she’s cruel because she has known cruel.
Gayla is the only one who seems semi-normal. She’s kind of like me, only white and with glasses. She seemed a bit jittery at the meeting, but hey—so was I.
And Sharlene. From looks alone, she resembles the girly-girls in my school. Sharlene would fit right in with the popular girls, with her attitude and amount of bared skin. But she’s not like those girls. I can go just about anywhere I want to, without leaving this place.
“How do I go home and act like everything’s fine? Or like I was before Miss-Maggie-the-human-asteroid hit my planet?” I whisper into the trees. “What am I supposed to say to Dr. B. and Mom when they ask how it went?”
I turn down my music and listen to the woods. Jays fly overhead. A woodpecker in the distance somewhere. The stream meandering its way back to the ocean.
A clear, solid thought begins to form somewhere deep down, and I realize there is one thing I know for sure. Keeping Zanum a secret since I found it again has been like trying to hide my own skin.
I am going back to that center.
It’s the one place I might find others like me. Others who have had to keep a giant secret stuffed up inside. Others who look at the options around them and don’t see themselves fitting anywhere.
I don’t know if I fully trust Miss Maggie and her stalking, spying ways, but those girls are like me… Ables. They see the whole iceberg—what’s under the water and above it—while the rest of the world sees only the tip jutting out above the surface. I’ve spent almost all of my life feeling like a freak. And with those girls at that center… well, at least I’m not the only freak.
I stand up, dust myself off, and walk back to the bike trail. My phone buzzes as I set my skateboard on the ground.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Pammi, where on earth are you? Are you feeling better? Did you eat something?”
“I’m fine, Mom. I was just a little woozy. Celia at the treatment center made a sandwich for me. I stopped to skate along the bike trail for a bit and think about this new job and stuff.”
“Okay, well, thank goodness you’re all right.”
I mumble that I’ll be home soon and then fight the urge to get in the car and drive all the way to Canada. I hate that I have to act like this was a regular job interview and I’m a regular gal deciding whether or not to take a regular job.
At dinner, Mom and Dr. B. are all over me about the interview.
“Tell us all about it, Pams!” Dr. B. says.
“Well,” I begin, choosing my words carefully. “I really think I’ll learn some valuable skills working with those girls.”
“Splendid!” he says, grinning. “I knew it would be a fantastic fit.”
“Have they told you which days of the week you’ll be working?” Mom asks, reaching for another paratha.
“Monday through Friday,” I say. “And I get a stipend.” I work hard to play the part of an excited graduate with a new job for the summer.
“Good,” she says, sounding satisfied. “That should keep you busy.”
Mom’s face is aglow and Dr. B.’s smile could charge up a city block. Nothing out of the ordinary here, folks.
I’m relieved when Dr. B. changes the topic. “Kinder, do you remember that clinic I told you about—the new one down the street from the studio?”
Mom nods. “The women’s clinic that your friend started?”
“That’s the one. It was raided the other day. The National Medical Association is charging Pat with running an illegal practice.”
Mom shakes her head. “That’s awful! She seemed to be helping a lot of women.”
“Yes, that’s the problem. She was using herbs and food to help women who couldn’t otherwise afford medical care.” Dr. B.’s nostrils flare in anger. “Much more profit in keeping people sick, isn’t it?”
“Oh, come on, Bubs,” Mom says. “There you go with that conspiracy line again.”
He spoons more raita onto his plate. “I grew up brown and Indian in Britain, Kinder. If I didn’t believe in some sort of conspiracy, I’d be a complete fool.”
Mom leans across to kiss him on the cheek. “And that you are not.”
I let them carry the rest of the conversation, smiling and nodding in all the right places, until I’m done. Then I excuse myself, saying I’m tired and want to chill out before bed.
I watch a romantic comedy online, check people’s updates on PictureMe.com, then brush my teeth and say goodnight to Mom and Dr. B. “I’m beat. I’ll probably be comatose tonight.”
Mom gives me a look, but squeezes me in a hug. “Sweet dreams, darling.”
Dr. B. gives me peck on the cheek. “Good work today, Pams. We’re really proud of you.”
When I’m finally in bed, I slow my breathing to a steady, consistent rhythm. Calming my mind is almost impossible and it’s much harder to concentrate knowing that someone is out there following me now. I cast about in the darkness for some indication of this other person and sense nothing. This relaxes me somewhat. Whether it’s a false sense of security or not, it helps me move into the Dark.
Soon, the silky, shimmering strand comes into focus through the darkness. I feel the familiar calm as I move through the veils of time. I hear the sounds of Zanum in the distance, coming closer, until I’m in the cot in my room inside Pasea’s hut.
“Mika, you’ve been asked to reduce your visits here!”
I sit up, throwing my legs over the side of the cot. “I know,” I say. “But I didn’t feel anyone else in the Dark with me.”
“You will not feel him,” she says, her eyes sparking. “They know how to shield their presence!”
Icy talons creep along my insides. What if he was there? What if I’ve led him straight here—again?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, closing my eyes. “I keep screwing up.”
She stares at me for a moment before her eyes soften at the edges. “Come,” she says, grabbing my wrap and draping it around my waist. “Since you are already here, you can help. Villages to the north of us have been conquered. The invaders, guided by Haram and the others, move ever closer.”
My heart does a free-fall into my stomach and I allow her steady gait to carry me along. “Where are we going?” I ask, after a few minutes.
“We are helping to fortify the wall around the city. We must move quickly.”
“But aren’t there other things we should be doing?” My voice comes out raspy.
“Do not question the wisdom of an elder, Mika’Arini,” Pasea tosses back, not breaking her stride.
“I’m not questioning, just wondering. Wouldn’t I be more useful in other ways? Especially now that there’s more important—”
Pasea stops short and turns. “I said do not question the wisdom of an elder,” she says again. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough with your disobedience?”
She couldn’t have stunned me more if she’d slapped me across the face. Pasea has always been warm and gentle, never harsh. But I see the tension in her stooped shoulders as she hurries ahead of me. And I look around at the faces we pass. Every one of them is the same. Etched with fierce determination, but tinged with worry.
This is big. Bigger than anything I’ve ever known.
I stumble behind as she continues to lead me to the edge of the city. The warmth of her hand, holding firmly onto mine, is comforting.
Once we reach the outskirts of the city, I see that Zanumites of every age are helping to move large, smooth stones onto rolling boards and pushing and pulling the boards to the wall. A system is set up with a pulley and levers to hoist the stones up, creating a high wall barricading invaders out.
Or Zanumites in. In the distance, before the endless rolling dunes begin, I see one of the serpent guardians—the black cobra—up and hooded, watching everything.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise and I’m suddenly very afraid for all these people. And even though things are getting done, I wonder if cranes and bulldozers might be faster than the energy work used by elders and high priestesses to move things through space without touching them. But everyone is toiling together like a single machine. Women and men smooth stones and carry water; groups of men and women wheel large, perfectly-formed stones to the wall; the elderly and very young are closer to the center of the city, preparing food and tending to infants.
I see woven baskets full of offerings—grains, fruit, wine, dyed cloth, jewelry. These will be sent down the river at night to honor the ancestors and Divine Mother, and to ask for their protection and guidance. A tree has been chopped down from near the river and stripped of its branches. It’s decorated with bright adornments and strings of berries, like a Christmas tree. Another appeal to powerful, unseen forces.
A shriek pierces the air. Pasea grabs my hand, half-dragging me into a large, dome-shaped building.
There are gold accents and fish shapes etched into the deepest shade of blue on the walls. The door is thick and made of stone, but moves easily when Pasea pushes against it.
A woman’s moans fill the halls, one running into the next, and we follow the sound into one of the center chambers. Several women are there, scurrying around getting things, cleaning things, hurrying.
The woman who screamed is leaning forward and rocking from side to side with her arms around the shoulders of another woman. Still another woman is behind her, massaging her back, and a young girl of about thirteen stands by a large tub of steaming water, holding a pitcher.
“It is Armenra’s time,” Pasea says, as she goes to stand next to the woman massaging the screaming woman’s back.
The woman says something in a voice too low for me to hear above the moans.
Pasea grabs a rag and wipes Armenra’s forehead, murmuring something in her ear.
Another scream. The women quickly move the screaming woman to a sort of squatting stool where her knees rest against two padded planks and the area beneath her bottom is open. Someone is on each side, holding her up, while another woman squats in front of her, alternately offering encouragement and shouting commands.
The intensity of the moment presses against all my anxiety—about the future of the city, about the hunter following me through the Dark, about Dhan. My insides are at a complete standstill.
More screams, deep and primal, until I see what looks like the wet black head of a baby.
I grip Pasea’s hand. We watch, transfixed, as the screams usher in this new life.
Armenra’s final scream is the loudest and longest and deepest, by far. A baby spills out of her body, into the hands of the waiting midwife.
“Bring in the father,” the midwife commands, and the youngest of the women runs out.
A few minutes later, a slight, dark-skinned man with a shaved head hurries in. He’s carrying a potted plant in one hand and a small pitcher of water in the other. He carefully places the potted plant at the new mother’s feet, touching them with trembling fingers, and whispering softly. A prayer, or blessing, maybe. Then he stands and places the pitcher of water on a table near his wife’s head.
He dips his fingers into the pitcher and sprinkles water on her belly. “In this moment, you are Divine Mother incarnate. May your blessings shower upon us, this great city, and the new life you have allowed through the greatest of Gates, and preside over us in wisdom, longevity, good health and prosperity.”
One of the women hands him a spoon with some sort of golden concoction in it. The father takes this spoon, bends over the baby and chants something.
“Now,” Pasea whispers into my ear, “after offering the honey and butter oil to the child, the father will whisper the baby’s secret name into her ear. This is a name he and Armenra have chosen beforehand, but it is revealed to the child only at her first initiation.”
“No one else knows what it is until then?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “It is kept secret to protect the child from malevolent spirits.”
Then the father cuts the cord and the baby is bathed and massaged by the midwife. After handing the child back to Armenra, the midwife ties a talisman around the baby’s neck and the father takes the umbilical cord outside.
“To bury it,” Pasea says. “It is a death of sorts.”
All at once, the stillness inside me gives way and I have to sit down. Life, death, and rebirth are all around me. This new life seems so vulnerable and fragile in the midst of preparations for battle outside.