The Rise of the Fourteen (6 page)

A cool breeze blows as the fading sunlight arcs over the
gravestones. Mortas walks slowly to the family plot, savoring the fresh, earthy
smell of the night air. Only the sound of crunching grass can be heard. All
else is silent.

Most graves have dead branches or moss on them. Some have
even eroded enough that the epitaphs are illegible. But three graves remain
pristine. Mortas heads over to them and brushes off the dead honeysuckle
flowers. She cleans away the old bouquets and replaces them with fresh ones.
She leans over the nearest gravestone and moves her hand over the scrollwork.

***

“Mortas, there was nothing you could do,” her father says as
the pallbearers walk past. “Do you hear me, Mortas? It’s not your fault.”

No, it’s yours,
she thinks. Mortas runs from his side
to the front of the throng, clutching the folds of her black dress. Her father
calls after her, but she is already lost in the crowd. Mortas watches as the
coffin is lowered into the ground, a film of tears glistening on her face.

“Today we commit our sister, Lalia, to the ground; earth to
earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless her and keep her, the Lord
make his face to shine upon her and be gracious unto her, the Lord lift up her
countenance upon her and give her peace. Amen.”

***

Mortas shivers involuntarily despite the warm night. She
brushes the rough denim of her jeans to reassure herself.
No black dress
.
She turns back to the grave. “Mama? Mama, can you hear me? Something amazing
happened today ….”

Mortas tells her mother all about the World Studies
Scholarship she won at school, her voice bubbling with excitement. “And my
friend Ferula is coming too. You remember him don’t you? His family always hosts
the school fundraiser.”

As the sky begins to dim, Mortas grows more animated. “And
we’re going to visit all sorts of places around the world! I know we’re going
to visit China, and Russia, and I think Turkey, and maybe even France! I know how
much you love French food!”

Mortas stops abruptly, and a frown flits across her face. “The
thing is, I’ll be gone for a month. I won’t be able to visit you, or Granny
Taylor, or Firefly. Mama, I’m gonna miss you. I mean more than I do already.”
Her eyes brim with water and tears begin to drip down her cheeks.

***

The hospital room smells like Clorox and suffering. Mortas
sits by the bed, holding her mother’s hand. “Mama don’t go, don’t give up!”

A sweet smile masks the pain. A weak hand caresses her face
and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I will always be with you, Mortas.
Never forget that.”

The funeral was last week, and Mortas sees another coffin
sink beneath the earth. The hospital never told her the official diagnosis and
Mortas never believed they couldn't have saved her.

***

Mortas wipes her cheeks, flicking the salty water away.
“Mama, I hope what you said is true. I hope you stay with me.” Mortas gets up
and turns to speak to her grandmother. She had seen some Star Thistle Honey in
the market, which was always Granny Taylor’s favorite. She places a vial of
honey at the top of the stone. “Hi Granny, it’s been a while. I wanted to thank
you.”

***

The days after the funeral were the worst, the reading of
the will to be specific. Everyone was expecting to get a share of Granny's
money. When most of her money went to helping Mortas with her education, chaos
ensued. Mortas just sat silently; Granny was genuine, not like the others, and
Mortas was honoring that memory.

***

 “Granny, thank you for the money. If it hadn't been for
you, I might not have even gotten to qualify for the World Studies Scholarship.
It paid off, no pun intended.” Mortas laughs in spite of herself. She remembers
Granny's laugh
—a
warm, throaty chuckle,
sure to draw attention from onlookers. Mortas smiles at the thought. Granny was
always so full of life. Was. She stiffens at the thought. After making sure the
honey won’t tip over, she moves to the third grave.

“Firefly, girl, how’ve you been? Got plenty squirrels of
chase now? You don’t have to be careful anymore.”

***

It happened in the early hours of the morning. That’s what
the officers told us. Firefly wouldn’t have felt a thing. It was quick and
painless. That did nothing to stop ice fingers tracing up her spine and threatening
to spread through her whole body. Her once lively dog was a crumpled heap of
bloody fur. Firefly flies no more.

***

“Here’s some jerky, girl. I got it from the store this
morning. You can have the whole bag. You don't have to nose around the pantry
anymore.” Mortas recalls the many times she spent cleaning up ripped-open bags
of dog food. “I gotta go, girl. I won't be able to come back for a while. Be a
good girl for Mama and Granny.” Mortas pats the gravestone affectionately, as
if petting her dog once more. She blows Mama and Granny goodnight kisses and
begins to walk, brushing dried grass from her calves.

“That black dress is so grown up, Mortas! Where did you get
it?”

“Granny Taylor gave it to me.”

The pallbearers begin to file past. They carry a large oaken
coffin.

Granny was the hardest. She was the first. After she had
died, all the funerals began to blend together. She could barely pick out faces
in the throng. Sometimes it was only her, only Mortas sitting by three fresh
graves.

She sees a familiar beam of light that breaks her out of her
reverie. She waves to Richard as she makes her way to the gate. Richard has
been the graveyard keeper for as long as she can remember. It was him, not her
father, who helped her through her first visit. It was Richard who kept the
gate unlocked for her at night. Richard waves back, his eyes full of pity.

Mortas exits the graveyard and walks down the gravel path.
On a funeral day, one can hear the clicks of hundreds of pairs of high heels
but, on most days, the path is silent. Only a few people make the gravel
scatter as they pass beneath the rusted gate.

Ferula is waiting for her, leaning against the hood of his
car.

“You ready to go?” he asks.

“Yeah, thanks again. Most people don’t want to take the
time.”
Namely a certain father who stays up crunching numbers and can’t even
be bothered to make dinner.

“No problem,” he says, opening the car door for her. She
buckles up as he enters from the other side. Ferula hits the gas, and they
speed off into the night.

Ámpelos is wasted. Ámpelos is very wasted. That much is
obvious from his stumbling. He doesn't even make an effort to open the door
quietly, his keys jangling as he swings the door open. As a fleeting
afterthought, he decides to tiptoe up the stairs.
See? I’m being
careful
,
Ámpelos muses to himself.

That doesn’t last long, however. All thoughts of caution
flee from his mind as bile begins to rise in his throat. He races to the
bathroom, where he begins to vomit profusely. His retching noises can be heard
throughout the house. The stench of vomit fills the air and only serves to add
to his already growing nausea. He remains beside the toilet for quite some
time. As a result, he does not hear the lights click on in the bedroom a few
doors down.

“Stefan, he’s getting out of hand. He’s going too far! You
know that!”

“Now, dear ....”

“Think about what will happen when he turns eighteen!”

“Castalia, now is not the time to get hysterical! We will
speak with him when he has had a chance to reflect.” The light clicks off, and
the room is plunged into darkness once more.

When the vomit finally stops flowing, Ámpelos half crawls to
his room, trailing the stench of regret and tequila. He groans softly as he
pulls himself up onto his bed. He doesn’t even bother to close the curtains as
he reaches for his covers. Everything has been drained out. Only weariness
remains. It does not take long for the dark shades of sleep to cover his eyes.

A groggy Ámpelos awakens several hours later. As he tries to
stand up, he feels faint. Dark specks dance around his eyes, threatening to cut
off his vision. He holds onto a chair for support, but the dizziness is
overwhelming. He slumps into the chair and tries to breathe.

Slowly, like icing dripping out of a pastry tube, the
swirling lights leave his vision, and he can stand again. But a burning thirst
lingers, drying up his mouth and throat until there is a salted slug in place
of his tongue. He makes his way down the stairs in the search of some water.

The water pitcher is to the left of the sink as it always
is. Ámpelos reaches for a glass in the cupboard when he sees something at the
corner of his eye—his father, sitting at the kitchen table and perusing the
newspaper over a fruity Jamaican blend.
Act casual. You have nothing to be
guilty about
.

He clutches the glass tightly, his knuckles whitening
.
Then there is the gentle patter of delicate slippers as his mother enters the
room.
Not good, not good.
He pours some water, trying his best not to
spill everywhere. He attempts to whistle in a nonchalant manner, but his dry
mouth will not permit it. He chugs the water as fast as he can and then pours
another glass.
Hangovers are when one appreciates the life-giving properties
of water.
He sighs gratefully after setting down his fourth glass.

“So, why were you out so late last night?” his father
inquires.

Ámpelos nearly drops the glass as he puts it in the
dishwasher.
Cool, natural. A simple lie. Nothing major.
“Didn’t I tell
you? It was movie night down at the community center. Didn’t you get the
flier?” They hadn’t been to a movie night since Ámpelos was eight.
How could
I have been so stupid?
He looks up at his parents’ faces. They clearly
aren’t buying it.
Mission abort, mission abort!

“At this point, I'm not sure if you're still hung over, or
you're just a terrible liar,” his mother says icily. There is a brief worry in
her eyes, but it is quickly replaced by anger.

He's not going to be able to get out of this one. Ámpelos
cautiously approaches them. Any sudden movements, any perceived slight, and
he'd be in a world of trouble. “Who said that I was hung over?” he asks,
suddenly taking a keen interest in studying the fruit bowl at the center of the
table.

“If you would just come clean, this would be so much easier
for everyone!” his father snaps. “I should think that half the neighborhood
could hear your spewing with the noise you made. And the smell! I should truly
recommend that anyone who goes anywhere near that bathroom should wear a gas
mask!”

Ámpelos hunches his shoulders
. Feign innocence. Look
weak. Look vulnerable.

“You know what difficult times we’re going through. Do you
know how much I struggle at work each day? And that’s not including catering to
your wild midnight extravagances!”

Ámpelos tenses, like a rabbit preparing for flight. He
closes his eyes in a grimace. Jumping through a flaming hoop couldn't compare
to dodging this bullet. He bows his head in meek surrender, comforted only by
the thought that feigned innocence would only hurt him more in this case. “I am
truly sorry for staying out so late. The traffic was quite bad, and I was
unable to make it back before curfew. I also had some food that didn't agree
with me. That is why I was vomiting.”
If they believe that, I will believe
it to be a God-sent miracle.

“Do you expect us to believe those lies?”
And Atheism now
has a new convert.
“We know you’re hung over. We know you were out late
partying, and we also know that you spent 65 euros on shots of tequila!”

Somehow, drunk Ámpelos had thought that it was a good idea
to use his credit card to buy drinks. It wasn't like his parents monitored his
purchases or anything.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Ámpelos stands
silently, his lips pursed into a fine line. “Well?”

Ámpelos just stares down at his shoes. He barely hears his
mother warning him against being an alcoholic or his father telling him about
the responsibilities of life. All the words wash away in a stream of blood,
rushing to his face. And so the walk of shame begins. The short flight of
stairs seems to stretch miles into the clouds.

Ámpelos shuts the door behind him and leans against it, his
face hardening into a sneer. His parents don't understand. At these parties, he
feels so alive. He gets energy from the chaos. The chaos that pushes others
away, he thrives on.

Redemption is on the way. His sixteenth birthday bash is
coming up soon, and it's about time that planning started. His parents are
thinking of nothing of the sort, but Ámpelos grins.

His features light up as he digs through his school bag to
find his laptop. Party planning was always his strong suit. And using his
father's government position would help to pull a few strings. He eagerly begins
to find caterers and DJs and all sorts of entertainers. He is so engrossed in
his search that he does not hear his door click shut.

“Do you think that locking him in his room will help?”

“Castalia, he needs to have some sort of confinement if he
is to reconsider his actions! Doesn’t he?”

“I guess you’re right. When will you let him out?”

“When I’m ready.”

Castalia gazes sadly at her son’s door, worried about his
future, but Stefan has already gone downstairs to make a fresh pot of coffee.

Luna’s tea is cold. It's cold, and it has sugar in it. The
taste sours in her mouth as she dumps the tea into the kitchen sink. It gurgles
as it trickles down the drain, in a way echoing her mood. After the “Soylent
Green” fiasco, Arden hadn't remained in the same room with her for more than a
minute, and their mother had suddenly become engrossed in a hot new lead for
her latest story. The fact that Luna had never told them that the slimy
substance was just spit may not have helped. When Luna isn't sulking in her
room, she goes out for midnight walks. The frigid night air and the endless
drizzle are warmer companions than the ones she has at home.

Luna fills up the kettle and begins to boil more water. She
waits by the stove as the water heats up, gazing into the gas flames with a
listless stare. A floorboard creaks and jerks her out of her stupor. Arden
stands in the kitchen doorway, shivering despite his thick green jumper.

 “When that water's done, could I have a cup?" Luna
nods distractedly. The “family reunion” seems to have affected him more than
she first imagined. On good days, he is nervous and quiet, especially when Luna
is around. On bad days, he is sullen and high-strung, ready to blow up over
every little thing.
But one thing stays the same every day. His eyes are red
from crying.

 The kettle begins to whistle, and Luna lifts it off the
stovetop. The metal base scratches the countertop, but Luna ignores that and
moves to turn off the burner. The little black nubs have long stopped
functioning as proper stove switches, and it takes some elbow grease before the
uneven Egyptian blue flames finally die out. She turns to look at Arden and
stifles a snort.

“No silly! You have to pour the water into a teapot first!
And what about the tea leaves?” Luna grabs the kettle out of his hand and sets
it on the countertop. She sets about finding one of the many chipped teapots
out of a cupboard and its matching tea cozy.

She is barely aware of her surroundings as she puts in the tealeaves
and grabs the strainer, but as she pours the hot water, something catches her
eye.
Is that ….
She almost burns herself as she puts the kettle down. As
the tea is steeping, she turns to face her brother. And he’s smiling.

They had only been nursing their tea for a few moments when
they hear the sound of squealing tires.
Looks like someone has finally
decided to come home.
Arden grabs his cup and stands up, nearly knocking
his chair over. He mouths “going upstairs” and quickly shuffles out of the
room. Luna can hear him hissing as the hot tea sloshes over the edge of the
cup, streaking burns down his fingers.

The problem with this family is that no one wants to talk
to each other.
Luna has a pitying look on her face as she turns to look at
the kitchen doorway once again.
Neither of us wanted this, especially not
him.
She hears the front door swing open and bash against the coat stand
like it always does, and her features change. The pity is gone, replaced by a
cool mask.
The stillness before battle is unbearable.

When Ms. Hughes walks into the kitchen, Luna has set aside
her tea. Her knees are curled up against her chest, and she rocks back and
forth slowly as if trying to calm her fraying nerves. Ms. Hughes lugs a massive
tote bag full of files across the kitchen floor and dumps it unceremoniously on
the chair next to Luna's.

“Good afternoon, dear!” Ms. Hughes says, gently patting Luna
on the head.

“Where were you all day? It’s a Saturday. You don’t have
work, do you?” Luna’s face is withdrawn and expressionless. Her pupils seem to
be engulfed in a wash of brown as she stares at the table, not looking up to
talk to her mother.

“Luna, you know I’ve been following a lead for my new story!”
Ms. Hughes is not a very good liar. Her voice always goes up two octaves at the
end of each false sentence. Luna doesn’t even bother to jump on her for it.
She
won’t tell the truth either way.

There is an icy cliff on the way up a mountain, a mountain
so tall that the peak soars through the cloudbank. Luna faces a choice.
Continue to suffer and climb the mountain. Or take the icy plunge. “Why, Mom?”

“Why what dear?”

“Why didn’t you tell me, tell us after all these years?”

“Luna, sweetheart, you have to understand
—
”

“Don’t you sweetheart me! Arden and I didn’t want this! Only
you!”

“Luna! Where is all this coming from?”

“Don’t play the innocent!”

Their yelling goes on for some time. Arden can hear them
from upstairs. He’s grateful because Luna has the guts to say what he cannot.
But he is also forlorn, about his family, about his life, and who he has become
—
someone who is not Arden
Lewis.

“Well?” Luna says shrilly. “What’s your answer?” Ms. Hughes
looks off into the distance blankly. Luna could have been a hundred miles away.
“Oh, forget it!” Luna tramps up the stairs in a huff, kicking the bag of files
as she goes. Her tea, long forgotten, sloshes from its cup and drips off the
table. The cup jiggles slightly as she brushes past.

Ms. Hughes sighs wearily and sinks to the floor, gathering a
handful of tea-stained papers. One of them is a yellowed photograph of two
babies, one swathed in pink, the other in blue. Beside them are the happy
parents. Another paper says Royal London Hospital, in big curvy letters at the
top.

Luna Lewis Wt. 3.4kg
.

There is an emerald slash through “Lewis” and a hastily
scrawled “Hughes” next to it.

When Luna comes back downstairs, it is dark, and the whole
house is quiet. Arden has been asleep for ages, and Ms. Hughes has just dozed
off over an engrossing paperback.

Luna pulls on a rain slicker and some galoshes. Usually,
when she goes out, she closes the door slowly, so only the faintest click is
made when it locks. Tonight she slams the door shut behind her. The window cutout
in the door shatters, but Luna doesn't look back; she keeps walking.

Ms. Hughes bolts upright, startled. She moves to her bedside
window, frightened by the thought of a break-in. She sees a lone figure in a
yellow slicker retreating into the shadows. Then the figure pauses and turns
around to look back at the house, and a flash of recognition passes over Ms.
Hughes's face.

Luna realizes that she has lingered too long and begins to
run. She runs until the shadows engulf her and the harsh streetlights no longer
glare against her yellow slicker. Ms. Hughes puts her palm against the window,
gasping as if struggling for air. “Luna” forms on her lips, but her throat
feels sticky with the taste of lemon drops and shame.

She presses her face against the window as raindrops begin
to slap the glass.
It’s like the day Arden first came here
. Ms. Hughes’s
body begins to shake with racking sobs. She does not notice Arden peering
through the door crack, nor does she see him sprinting back to his room.

Luna is wishing she was wearing a warmer jacket as cold
droplets stroke her face and hands. She tries to wipe her hands on her jeans,
but they are damp too. The trees that line the streets do little for warmth and
shelter, but Luna still takes the time to pause at each one for some imagined
wisp of warmth. She thinks of the fire at home.
The hearth must be black and
ashy now.
Luna pushes away the thought and trudges on.
Mother would ask
my destination
, she thinks
. Going is all I need, where is not important.

Arden is gazing into the pages of an embossed cream-colored
photo album. There is a picture of him and his dad sitting by a beach bonfire.
Arden’s dad is playfully ruffling his hair while Arden stares in glee at a
flaming marshmallow. That was only three years ago.

He flips the page. It’s a picture of a glorious beach
sunset. The sky is filled with hues of deep plums and ambers. The water is
crimson around the sunken half circle.
If only teleportation were real. Even
a sunset is brighter than this bleak prison. If only there were more light.
Arden continues to flip through the album absentmindedly. His bronzed fingers
are shaking as he turns the pages. The bronze is slowly turning to a glowing
gold.

 At this point, Luna would have been happy to walk home and wrap
herself in blankets, Mum or no Mum, but her resolve has hardened like cooling
steel. Pressing forward is the only path. As she steps into a patch of
moonlight, she feels the most peculiar sensation.
Is it … warm?

Luna holds her hand out to test it. Glowing pearly tendrils
snake down her arm. They wrap around her torso, faster and faster until her
whole body exudes an eerie glow. Luna ties to rip the strands away but fails
miserably. She claws furiously, but she is only further enveloped. Her limbs
slowly absorb the coiled shining threads. Luna is grateful for the warmth but
terrified of the “living moonlight.”

“She’s ready Demetri! Look!”

“I can see you know.”

“Oh, don't rain on my parade!” Two people drop down from the
trees. A pale woman with steely gray eyes and a man with coppery tints in his
hair land softly on the ground in front of Luna. Luna delicately takes a few
steps back.
They’re not the sort of people you see wandering around London
any time of the day, and certainly not at one in the morning, no sir!

“Luna, I’m sorry for us to show up like this
—
” the woman begins.

“Sorem, we don’t have much time as it is; enough with the
chatter!” Sorem sticks her tongue out at him. “Luna, you have to trust us. You
are very powerful for one so young. Your magic will send out a ripple of power.
That
ripple will have the
Maghta
running here in moments.” Luna
is tempted to ask if
Maghta
is a type of throat cancer based on the way
the word sticks in Sorem’s throat, but instead just raises an eyebrow. Sorem
throws her hands up in frustration. “The Maghta? The dark deities that
threaten to destroy you and everyone you love? You must come with us so that we
can train you. And we must get your brother too.”

 Luna wonders if Sorem is talking about more literal demons,
such as being crazy or unbelievably drunk, when her thought is interrupted by
a sudden, deep, chestnut glow. A flare of light goes up near the center of the
city, stretching hundreds of meters up into the sky. It casts a russet
effulgence over London. Little branches fork off the flare and expand. A
sparkling sepia dome covers the city as the trio looks on in amazement.

“Demetri, that must be Arden!” Sorem exclaims, pointing
upwards.

“Then there’s no time,” he says grimly. “We must run.”

“Arden? What does he have to do with this?”

“Luna, if you want your mother and brother to live, you will
come with us.” Luna sprints alongside them. A part of her really hopes that
Demetri is joking. But his voice says that he isn’t.