I rested at a house bearing our welcome ornament. Those who can see have the kindest hearts.
Lucinda Myer
1786
I drove us back to the cottage, snatching glances at Tens. When we arrived, he collapsed on the bed.
“Stop staring at me, I’m fine,” he mumbled against the pillows, his eyes squeezed shut.
I turned my back and tried to noiselessly tidy up the kitchen. The space was tight and I found it impossible to be quiet. The more I tried, the louder I became. Finally, I dropped a glass and it shattered. Cleaning it up was even noisier.
Tens covered his head with a pillow and growled, “Too much noise. Go shopping, wander—buy something to wear tonight.”
“Rumi’s dinner party? I don’t think so. I’m canceling.” I’d forgotten about it, but no way was Tens up to being social.
“No, you’re not. I’ll be fine once I get some sleep. Go away for a little while. Please?” He whined the last bit.
He was right in a weird way. The only clothes I had were ones we’d picked up at chain stores. Things that came in packages of three or were under five bucks a pop, items that we could grab and go. Jeans didn’t quite fit; T-shirts either hung loose or were too tight. Not a skirt to see, since I’d ditched my old private-school uniform at Auntie’s. “Are you sure?”
“Uh-huh. Positive. Go wild. Buy me a new shirt, too. Whatever.”
“How about boots?”
“If you can find fourteens.”
“Is that big?” No clue here. Sammy was just out of boys extra-small.
“Yeah, good luck. Focus on the possible. Now go.” He turned his back to me. “Custos, keep an eye on her.”
I wagged my finger at Custos. “Stay.” If I wasn’t here to protect him, she needed to be. Especially if she had a red phone line to the Powers with powers.
Thankfully, cute boutiques lined the streets of Carmel. I found a little black dress that was comfortable and classy but still leaned toward sexy. Perfect for impressing Tens embarrassing the old people at dinner.
I searched for boots for Tens, but only found ones that went up to a twelve. The shirt was easier. I bought a dressy rugby shirt in a cotton-cashmere blend that mirrored the blue of Colorado’s sky. It was a selfish purchase because Tens would look amazing and be irresistible to touch wearing something so soft and cozy.
That night while he showered, I admired myself in the mirror. The black knit dress fit my blossoming curves. Thin screamed ill to me, so filling it out felt right—it felt healthy and alive. I no longer resembled a starvation victim. I guessed there’d be a time or a point when I might want to stop gaining weight, but I was nowhere near that yet.
I pinned my hair up and put on the chandelier earrings I’d bought. They made my neck look long and graceful, but quite bare. “Are you sure you feel okay?” I asked Tens, as he came out of the bathroom dressed, his hair tousled and damp against his collar.
“Yep, sleep helped.”
I thought he was lying, but I let it go. “Do I look all right?”
“Hmm.” Tens studied me. “You’re missing something.”
“A sweater?” It might be colder than it looks. January isn’t July.
“Maybe, but open this.” Tens handed me a gift bag exploding with colored tissues and ribbons. The Helios crest decorated the outside of the bag.
I reached in and immediately knew by feel that this was the stunning emerald green velvet scarf I’d coveted when we’d first arrived. The one Joi had purposefully commented on with a wink for Tens.
“I was saving it for a special occasion.” Tens wrapped it around my neck and let it drape carefully across my collarbones and over my breasts.
“Thank you.” I leaned up and kissed him quickly, adoring the feel of the velvet on my bare skin. It fluttered as I moved and grew warm, as if I carried a living creature twined around my neck. Hugging him, I knew I’d made the right shirt choice—he rocked the blue.
He gazed down at me. “You’re beautiful. Always beautiful, Supergirl.”
“Even in SpongeBob flannels?” I teased.
“I’m terribly disappointed those no longer fit.” Tens’s voice dropped to a gravel pitch and hinted more than a little.
“Those were sexy.” I laughed until my heart seized with the memory. Sammy gave them to me.
“You miss him, don’t you?”
I didn’t pretend to misunderstand Tens. This was one of those times he knew my heart better than me. “More than words. I hope he’s okay.”
He rested his head on the crown of mine. “I’d know if he wasn’t. I’m sure I’d know.”
“You think?” I breathed in his warmth, his steady heartbeat.
His tone completely confident, he rushed to assure me. “I’m sure. I’m supposed to protect you. How can I do that if things like that sneak up on me? Maybe we should try to find them?”
“Maybe.” I tensed. Can I take that? Can I talk to my mom and not scream at her, or hate her, or say all the things I’ve shoved deep?
“When you’re ready, okay?” He backed off.
“Not yet.” I was still blindingly angry with my mother. I wasn’t as upset with my father, who’d been kept in the dark as much as me. What did he think when the dead piled up around me? When I seemed plagued with illness and injury and ghosts? I knew what he’d thought. The same things I’d assumed, the names I’d heard whispered at my back. Freak. Sideshow act. Witch.
My mother was the one who’d never told us. Not until it was too late and the Nocti had already found me. Us. Not until I’d been shipped off to Revelation and my parents took my little brother to run to points unknown. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to forgive her blatant omissions of what could have saved us all so much pain and suffering. If only she’d told me.
“It might help to hear what she has to say.” Tens stepped away, pulling me toward the door.
I shook my head. “We’re going to be late.” Changing the subject abruptly, I twined my fingers in Tens’s and we hurried on foot to Meridian Street and Rumi’s home. The air felt heavy with moisture, like we were standing beside the ocean.
Rumi’s living quarters were in the back of his warehouse studio and gallery. The entrance was a sliding glass patio door.
We hadn’t even knocked before he slid the door open. “Come in, come in.” Soaring strings played in the background, and candlelight danced behind forged iron lanterns and candlesticks. Scents of grilled red meat and hot bread, along with those of hyacinths and paperwhites, drifted over us. The lively chatter of guests wasn’t off-putting, but instead relaxed me immediately. The whole evening felt friendly and open.
I was unsure of what to expect because I rarely had good experiences in groups of people. I avoided crowds.
The soaring ceilings of the industrial space seemed like the only way a man of Rumi’s stature wouldn’t feel confined. Tibetan prayer flags hung from the rafters. I glanced around quickly, surprised to see very little glass, very little of anything. The decor was almost monastic. Few electronics, save a small stereo system, and bare walls dotted with wood mandalas and natural elements like driftwood and bird-feather wreaths that brought the outside in. The palette was browns, greens, and creams. Calming and meditative. The furniture was wood or iron, or a combination of both. It was the opposite of the candy-bright breakable clutter of the glass studio beyond the dividing wall.
I tried to hand Rumi a bag with his archives in it. “We’d like to look at these again if it’s possible,” I whispered.
“Just keep them for now,” he answered in hushed tones, and set the bag with our coats. “Let me introduce you to my friends.” Rumi circled the group and made introductions. Everyone else seemed very familiar with each other. With the exception of one woman, Nelli, who worked for the attorney general investigating abuse and neglect in the Department of Child Services, they all looked like they’d been AARP eligible for decades. Which didn’t mean they appeared infirm, or diminished in any way. The opposite was true; this was the vibrancy I had seen in Auntie beyond the window, not the dying person I’d met in Colorado. I was only beginning to understand how much work, how hard it was for most people to die.
Rumi referred to all of them as Ms. or Mr. and their first name, as if he owed them a respect that couldn’t be achieved on a first-name basis alone. None of them seemed to find it odd that a couple of teenagers were joining what felt like a regular gathering.
We sat down to eat almost immediately. The table was an impressive expanse of solid burl wood, topped with glass. Each place setting matched itself, but the items clearly came from different artists, working in different mediums. Even the silverware was to each its own pattern. Juicy, garlicy meat loaf, creamy scalloped potatoes, blanched greens with slivered almonds, French bread, and salads full of bright colors and textures were placed on the table and passed around family style. I sat by Tens, and Rumi and Gus took the ends, which left Faye, Sidika, and Nelli across from us.
The conversation was pleasant but not heady, until Rumi asked all of us to share a little more about ourselves.
Gus began, his full white mustache that curled at the ends bracketing his mouth. “I’m a retired history professor from Butler University. These days, I teach occasional classes. But mostly I’m a reenactor.” He pushed his wire-framed glasses up his nose with every other word.
“I’m sorry?” Tens asked my question, while everyone else nodded.
“I dress up and reenact battles from Indiana’s past. Jolly times. Uniforms, guns, cannons. Good fun.” He rolled up his sleeves, exposing sinewy, freckled forearms.
“Like the Civil War guys?” I asked.
He beamed, flashing cigarette-stained teeth. “Exactly, only around here there are more options than blue versus gray.”
Faye chuckled and shook her electric-red chin-length bob. “If you consider sleeping on the ground and eating hardtack fun … maybe.” Her manicure was an unmarred coral and she wore multiple rings on each finger. Her olive complexion hinted at Greek or Italian roots, but her accent was one I was coming to associate with Hoosiers.
“Ah, you’re just jealous of our state-of-the-art washing facilities,” Gus teased her.
She spoke directly to Tens and me, gesticulating wildly. “They’re making them use Porta-Potties for the environment these days, or they’d still be peeing behind trees. I’m so happy I’m not a pioneer woman with all those layers of skirts. Can you imagine trying to defecate with dignity back then?”
I snorted cider bubbles up my nose. Not what I had expected to hear from that wrinkled, good-natured mouth. I shook my head because she seemed to be waiting for my answer.
The conversation lulled while we ate. But at Rumi’s urging, the introductions continued: “It’s terribly hard to follow that mental image, but I write historical Indiana fiction, mostly about teenagers.” Sidika’s white hair reminded me of dandelion fluff. Her eyes sparkled with humor and her pastel pink chamois shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a chain with a gold wedding band hanging close to her heart.
“Fabulous novels,” Rumi boomed.
“You’re too kind.” She blushed with an honest humility and patted his hand.
Nelli, the youngest adult, picked up the conversation. “I’m Gus’s niece, and I worked for Rumi when I was in high school.” She laughed. “I tried to keep him stocked in pens—”
“Now, now!” Rumi interrupted. “Don’t be telling all my faults.”
Nelli’s dimple flashed. “I used to carry around a little dictionary to sort out his vocabulary, but while I was trying to find one word he’d throw out the next one and I’d get all confused.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Don’t bother, just go with the flow and if you don’t understand a word ask him for a synonym until he says a word you know.”
Rumi’s laughter erupted. “That’s the impertinence that got you fired.”
“I went to college.”
“Same difference!” he called.
Gus turned his full attention to Tens. “Tell us about your name. Is Tens short for something?”
Tens wiped his mouth with his napkin and set down his fork. “Hmm, yeah, it’s, um … Tenskawtawa.”
Gus’s face lit up, as did Sidika’s. “Oh. For Tecumseh’s brother?”
“Who?” Tens asked, his eyes widening in question.
“Are you from around here?” Sidika clucked.
“No, I grew up mostly in Seattle.” His expression said that wasn’t quite the whole story.
“Your parents, then, must be from the area?” Gus asked.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Strange. Do you have Native American ancestors?”
This question helped Tens relax a minute amount. He hated being in the spotlight, but I couldn’t rescue him because I didn’t know the answers to give. Frankly, I was just as curious as everyone else about what he might say.
Tens nodded. “My mother’s family. My grandfather was Cherokee and my grandmother was Shawnee. My grandmother named me, I think.… ”
Gus nodded his agreement. “That’s it, then. You’ll see a lot of Tecumseh’s name around here. On schools and roads and monuments. The brothers formed a town called Prophetstown. Up until the interests of Tecumseh’s people clashed with those of the fledgling American government—this wasn’t a good thing. His brother, Tenskawtawa, is much less understood and documented.”
“Figures,” Tens muttered.
“What else?” I asked, to keep the conversation heading in this direction.
“His name came to be synonymous with ‘the Prophet,’ and he had quite the band of followers. He was steadfast in his beliefs, not given to compromise, didn’t see the need to change for the sake of his people. He was an all-or-nothing kind of guy. Some might say he was not quite right in the head. Others suggest he had religious visions. But that tends to be what historians conclude when they’re writing from the opposite point of view of their subject.”
The entire table nodded. “True. Much easier to say someone is crazy, then it is to try to understand their perspective,” Sidika concurred.
“And if I may ask your last name, child?” Gus gesticulated with his fork.
“Valdes.”
“With an accent mark, or no?”
Why does that matter?
“No,” Tens answered.
“Cuban?”
“I think so. Maybe. It’s murky. My father’s parents came from there. I don’t know much.”
I needed to bring Tens to dinner parties more often. Who knew he’d open up when questioned by other people? Why didn’t he answer my questions this easily?
“Do you know the history of your surname, then?”
“No. Is there one?”
“Of course. All names have history. That’s what gives us scholars something to study.” Gus smiled.
There was a collective chuckle and Rumi proposed a toast to scholarship and study. “You don’t grow old when your mind is busy,” he added.
“Pshaw. My knees and knuckles grandly disagree with you!” Faye said with a smile. “Now, tell us more about this Valdés history, Gus.”
He swallowed and wiped his spotless mouth precisely with his napkin before saying, “Infants at a particular orphanage were placed in a turnstile door and a bell was rung. The nuns would come out to retrieve the baby; they’d take care of him and educate him until he reached adulthood. It was founded by Bishop Valdés of Cuba. Male children were taken in on the condition that boys who were raised at Casa de Beneficencia be given his surname, but without the accent on the e.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“That way, his biological relative who kept the accent would remain recognizable. They did this until the nineteen fifties, when they started picking surnames randomly from the telephone directory. Much less romantic.”
“So perhaps your paternal grandfather was an orphan?” Sidika asked.
Tens shrugged. “It’s possible, I guess.”
I knew he wasn’t trying to be evasive.
“And Meridian, where are you from originally?” Faye seemed to deliberately direct conversation away from Tens’s obvious discomfort.
“Portland.”
“And are you still in school?”
“No, I’m taking some time off.”
Rumi turned the conversation to the town’s politics and public education. Then a heated discussion erupted about the war, the attorney general’s new investigative branch into child and elder care, and an even hotter dissection of global warming legislation.
I enjoyed listening. I admired passionate people with strong opinions. They made life more interesting. I found the more I let myself be myself, the stronger I felt about almost every subject. I didn’t know if that was being a Fenestra and getting pieces from other people, or if that was me alone claiming my own skin. What my father might have referred to as growing up. I wasn’t sure I knew how my father or my mother felt about any of these issues. They didn’t just ignore my Fenestra fallouts, they kept our interactions as shallow as possible. Fear made people do the unthinkable.
Rumi asked Nelli about her current caseload. She was slammed with reports of missing children lost in the system. Her job was more puzzle and private investigator than social worker at the moment. I started to eavesdrop, but didn’t catch much before Faye turned to me and asked, “Will you be going to the Feast of the Fireflies along the Wabash?”
Tens and I shared a questioning glance. “What is that?”
The other conversations died away as everyone gave their attention to our ignorance. I think we were the entertainment for the evening in the way visitors allow residents to be tourists for an hour, or a week.
“It’s a grand celebration that commemorates the French and Native American traders who met together annually at Fort Ouiatenon in the mid–seventeen hundreds.”
“There’s more to it than that.” Rumi refilled the adults’ glasses with wine and ours with sparkling cider. “Miss Sidika, tell us the story?”
“Oh, well—”
“Please. A favor to me. Our new arrivals should know the histories we celebrate in these parts.” Rumi winked at me.
She settled back in her chair, contemplated where to begin, and said, “Okay then, the lore says that a French settler child got lost in the woods along the Wabash River. It was late winter, around this time of year, and unusually snowy, quite cold.”
Gus interrupted. “So cold, the Wabash itself froze over solid.”
Sidika nodded and continued. “The animals all went to earth or fled. Food was not plentiful in the best of winters, but in this one, food was scarcest. Bark was boiled for teas; people even started to make mud griddle cakes, simply to put weight in their bellies.
“Now, the division of labor was rather simple in those days. Gender roles were clear when possible, but not always. The hard life on the frontier made it so everyone, all ages, carried a huge burden for survival. The children checked the traps for small animals like muskrats and beavers, while the men went out after bigger game like deer, bear, or wild turkey. These kids—who we’d consider young, probably between ages seven and ten, maybe younger—bundled up in furs and set out as usual. Hungry, cold, but determined to bring home some tiny morsel of food for their families.”
“Stayed behind tending the youngest, but also very much in charge of security at the fort. By that time there was nothing worth stealing, except lives.”
Sidika paused for a sip of wine, then picked up her story. “The men set off in the opposite direction from the kids, trying to follow deer tracks. Hours later, all the boys came home, save one. No one remembered seeing him and they’d stayed tightly together, so not one of them knew when he’d become lost.
“Now, this lost boy was the son of a lieutenant, the mayor of sorts for the fort. He was the son of an important man, a man who understood and respected the ways of the indigenous peoples. The boy, and his father, had several friends among the local tribes. At first, the settlers believed that he must have set off to visit his friends.”
“A typical kid.” Rumi smiled his words and sighed.
Sidika shrugged. “He was in big trouble, but no one worried too much until the men came home. With them was a warrior. He was said to be brave and strong and connected to the spirit world. He came to find the men because fireflies had appeared to him. They’d told him that the boy was injured and had an important destiny. It was too early in the seasons for fireflies to appear, but this man didn’t make up stories, so the lieutenant believed him.”
“What was the boy’s destiny?” I asked, imagining all kinds of possibilities.
She smiled at me and waggled her eyebrows. “That’s part of the story. By this time, the winds had picked up, and blown snow into chest-high drifts, which made footprints and tracks impossible to find. It was very dangerous for anyone to set out in the storm, but the boy’s father refused to abandon him. The rest of his family had perished the winter prior; his son was all he had left. So the father left the fort, knowing he might very well freeze to death before finding his son.
“The warrior knew the pain this father felt as his own; he asked the fireflies to guide them to the little boy.
“A swarm of fireflies appeared and lit up the sky. They created so much light and so much heat that the two men didn’t need their lanterns; instead they followed the glow of the insects, along the banks of the Wabash. They hiked over downed trees and through thickets of brambles. The father thought they were going too far—what little boy could walk that far in chest-high snow and survive? But giving up was not an option. He kept plowing on, taking turns with his friend to break the path, trying to find his child.”
I pictured Tens and me, searching for Celia, the little girl lost in the woods behind Auntie’s home in Colorado. Celia had been lured into those woods and tricked into stepping into a brutal foot trap. The trap mangled her leg. By the time we found her she was dying from loss of blood and hypothermia. She tried to use me to pass into the afterlife, but we found out afterward that Perimo had sucked her through to hell—which was why she hadn’t killed me in her attempt. I will never see Dora the Explorer without also seeing Celia’s twisted, shredded leg. I knew what plowing through the snow hoping to find a child alive felt like. I knew what finding a child critically ill and dying felt like too. Perimo had used my grief against me in the caves. Tens and I shared a brief frown—he’d picked up on my feelings.
Sidika continued. “In the distance, the sun rose. The father began to lose all hope. For what little boy could survive all day, and all night, out there alone? The man broke down and wept. The warrior pulled him to his feet and told him that the sun didn’t rise in that direction—the sun rose behind them, so whatever was glowing up ahead was not the sun. It was still night.
“The snow around them began to disappear, melting in patches. The closer they drew to the light, the less snow there was, and the more bare earth was visible. At the brightest point, where the fireflies numbered thousands their light was constant and not a pulse, fresh shoots of wild onion and greens broke the earth like on a June afternoon. Berries, already ripe, hung heavy on limbs of vines and honeycombs dripped in the hollows of trees. Persimmon and black walnut trees bent under their edible burdens. Birds sang in the trees and fat rabbits hopped under the men’s feet. They heard water rushing close by; unsure what they heard, it took them a moment to realize they’d forgotten the sound of the Wabash River at its springtime peak.
“There, surrounded by fireflies, lay the young boy sound asleep. He’d pulled his furs off to make a pillow; his face was covered with berry juice, his fingers sticky with honey. He’d clearly eaten his fill of the food he could reach, but one of his legs was stuck deep in the earth, so tangled in an old, rotted stump that he’d been unable to remove it.”
My stomach clenched. I knew what tangled legs looked like. But I prayed this story had a better ending than mine.
“The father and the warrior ate their fill, drank from the river until their thirst was quenched. While the child slept, they dug out the earth around his leg, the dirt gifting them with rabbits, beavers, and possums hibernating in that old tree. They piled the animals on their sledge to take back to the fort for the others to eat. Finally, they pulled the child’s leg from the log. He was unhurt.
“They picked berries and persimmons, dug onions and roots, harvested honey and wild corn, and added those to their sled. The fireflies waited, keeping the earth warm and the light blazing until the men could carry no more. By then, the snowstorm outside of their bubble had stopped, the sun rose in the east, and the men easily saw their trail back toward their home and Fort Ouiatenon.
“One by one, the fireflies disappeared until it was as if they’d never existed. The Wabash froze again, and the vines and trees and earth disappeared back under the blanket of winter.”
“I love this story.” Faye sighed. “Such a happy one.”
Sidika grinned at her. “Shall I finish?”
“Please,” I said, clearing my throat to get the word out.
“The trio arrived back at the fort, where another mother and child had starved to death in the night and the mood was desperate and somber. They unloaded the food alongside the tables. The lieutenant sent the warrior to bring his people to feast with them, because they, too, were suffering from the long, brutal winter.
“The first Americans came bringing wood and dried animal dung for bonfires. The settlers pulled out their instruments; there was singing, dancing, and rejoicing. The flow of food never ended. For three days and three nights, the stacks of food among the tables never diminished. The more they shared, the more food appeared. Word spread and more people arrived looking for their own miracle. Then, on the third day, the sun rose high in the sky and warmed the earth, clearing away the ice and snow from around the fort. The food lasted another month, slowly disappearing until spring was in full swing and the settlers didn’t need it anymore.
“When questioned, the boy said he’d seen a firefly and followed it, thinking it was his mother calling to him.”
Gus broke in. “So every year we Hoosiers from around the state, from all kinds of backgrounds, gather at the fort and along the banks of the Wabash to feast and rejoice at the nearing of spring. We burn big bonfires to chase away the darkness and welcome in the light. There’s eating and drinking and whatnot. People dress in costume and reenact the search for the boy, and children dress as fireflies.” He shook his head with regret. “Most people don’t even know why we’re there. Not really.”
“Don’t sound bitter, honey.” Faye patted his hand.
“History teaches us things about ourselves, but you have to listen for the lessons. You have to be really still to hear the whispers.”
My mind was stuck back on the little boy and whatever this destiny of his was. “What was his destiny? Just to feed all the people?”
Sidika answered. “That, and he grew up to advocate in the fledging American government for the rights of the indigenous people. He purchased land so his friends had a place to live out their lives their own way. He organized and spoke about tolerance and respect. He signed the Declaration of Independence and then traveled to France to help in their revolution. He did many great things that he’s very well known for, but that winter he was simply the boy who’d followed his mother’s soul in the firefly.”
Gus added, “So we remember him as such.”
“Animals are spectacular creatures,” Rumi declared.
“I like it.” I saw the story play out as a movie in my mind.
Tens asked, “When is the Feast?”
“Soon, coming right up. I sell my glass there. Beads, vases, delicate butterflies and fireflies, and the Spirit Stones, of course. It’s a good way to meet all kinds of people. Blacksmiths and history nuts, plus there’s a big concert on the final night. Dolce vita.”
“Sounds lovely. Of course we’ll have to go.” I knew Tens was thinking the same thing.
“Who’d like dessert?” Rumi stood.
“Please.” Tens raised his hand and made the table laugh.
“Oh, to be young again.” Gus smiled at me.
“Speak for yourself. My wisdom is ageless.” With a grin, Faye lightly swatted him.
“Yes, but your metabolism isn’t.”