Exodia (12 page)

Abruptly Mr. Luna stands. “Come with
me, Dalton” he says. “We need to talk.”

Sana mumbles to herself, “Witch let
doom, amen. Walked to teen.”

I have a creepy feeling, but I rise and
follow Mr. Luna outside, leaving the girls, and my bags,
behind.

* * *

The moon has yet to take charge of the
night, but the stars provide sufficient light. Raul Luna is a
star-reader. He tells me this with his hand stretched upward,
pointing to the handle of my favorite constellation, a
constellation that my nanny had a hundred stories to
explain.

“
It’s not astronomy or
astrology,” he says. “Star-reading is undefined, no manual to learn
it, no group to affiliate myself with, no way for me to teach it to
my daughters.” He lowers his hand, moves to my side, and pats me on
the back. He reaches up to do so since he is not a tall man.
There’s comfort in the patting. I imagine it to be a father’s
gesture. His hand remains at rest on my shoulder. It doesn’t match
the obligatory false affection my grandfather has shown me in
public, hard quick open-handed gestures designed to mimic
tenderness and caring. This is warm and real, a truly unconscious
move on his part. Mr. Luna could ask me to clean the sheep’s pen
right now and I’d run to do it, not as payment for the fine dinner
and hospitality, but as gratitude for this paternal act.

Raul explains his view of
the religious oppression that decades ago resulted in the burning
of Bibles and the smashing and ripping of ancient scrolls. His
voice lulls me in the same way my tutors’ lectures did. I catch one
strange phrase: he says, “… many shattering Torahs …”, and the
letters float before my eyes, reforming into
thorns against my heart
.

Thorns against my
heart.
I have a déjà vu feeling, more of a
sorrowful premonition, of a tender father-son moment. Of myself
with a son of my own. The troubling moment passes and I realize
it’s been a few minutes since he’s spoken.

“
So … are you a gemfry,
too?” I ask. I’m setting myself up for mortification if my question
is impolitely out of line here, but I note the corners of his mouth
lifting in pride instead of irritation.

“
Indeed I am,” he says.
“First generation. Born on the west coast. Old California. My
parents moved inland after I was born. We were gypsies, moving
further east year by year, setting our sights on the Mid-Land.” He
squeezes my shoulder, points with his other hand. “There. See that
shooting star?”

I do see it. It takes its time
traveling in an arc across the dark night sky. A final dip and
flare and it’s gone.

“
Did you see how it passed
between the second and third star of the dipper’s
handle?”

I nod though I didn’t really notice
that.

“
My daughters’ gifts connect
with mine in ways that are truly amazing. Deandra guessed that you
would be here a while. That was a guess that I can confirm. Two
years is what I see.”

Two years?
I want to argue with the man, but his hand is
still on my shoulder, grounding me.

“
And my daughter, Sana, has
revealed uncanny truths: red enemies trot and rioter meets end. I
see this in the stars now. I know who you are, Dalton Battista.
There’s a bigger battle than you can imagine coming your way, our
way.” He finally drops his hand. I still feel its weight. “There’s
a timeline here. Two years and our rebellion will begin in earnest.
We are the Red enemies of your grandfather’s regime. He is the
Rioter who will meet his end. Perhaps he’s already met his end. I
saw the death star last night.”

Raul Luna, dark-haired father of seven
blond daughters, stops talking. My ears are left ringing. Who am I
to argue with prophecy, star-reading, gemfry guessing, and the
touch of Kassandra.

I decide I want to stay two years. I
want to live with this family. I want to escape the punishment of
my crime.

But I don’t believe that there could
ever be a rebellion strong enough to stop Bryer Battista’s
government.

I remember the last set of anagrams and
say them aloud, “‘Witch let doom, amen.’ ‘Walked to teen.’ What do
those mean?”

He scans the skies. “Nothing that I can
see. Not yet, anyway.” I can tell he is holding back something.
Something big.

“
What else do you see?” I
prompt.

He hesitates, clearing his throat. “One
of my daughters.” His voice is tighter now. He breathes deeply,
still shying away from revealing something he apparently
dreads.

I wait.

“
Dalton,” he sighs again,
“you’ll have to figure out which one. Certainly it’s not Araceli,
Sana, or Flor, but one of the older girls.”

“
What?” For some reason I
can feel those thorns prickling against my heart.

“
The one you will marry …
soon.”

* * *

I lie in the bed that their mother has
made for me and think of marriage. I’m six weeks away from turning
seventeen and though it’s common to marry at my age, it’s not
something that I’ve considered. I know from my studies that the
marriage laws had swelled in number to over a hundred twenty
separate regulations by mid-century, but now, under the Executive
President’s orders, there’s not one federal law or tax that has
anything to do with marriage anymore, except the one about
intermarriage. People marry, divorce, remarry according to their
church, family, or community customs; the government doesn’t care.
Most people get married at least twice since there’s a certain
shame to being single.

Fewer first marriages are arranged now
since the collapse of technology, but there are still human
match-makers. Like my mother. I ought to have given this more
thought. My mother’s been hinting around the subject, suggesting
that her frequent trips away are not totally political. I have the
weirdest feeling that she has probably returned home expecting to
tell me about some perfect girl for me and instead has found that
I’m wanted for murder. I don’t want to imagine the scene between
her and my grandfather.

I close my eyes and listen to the night
sounds of this odd house. I hear faint voices, sisters giggling,
footsteps, windows creaking open or closed, a tap on a door
somewhere. It’s not my door, but if there was someone at my door,
which sister would I hope to see? Not the rude twin or the quiet
one. Not Katie–too bossy. Lovely, tall Kassandra, the oldest one,
that’s the girl that makes the most sense though her gemfry ability
is a bit scary.

I think of her pretty face, and then I
hear another sound, a lamb’s bleating. My eyes pop open and I catch
a glimpse of candle glow as someone passes by my door. I realize I
want that someone to be Lydia.

I immediately feel bad. Do I have any
say in this marriage thing? Mr. Luna’s predictions can’t be a
hundred percent true. He wasn’t even sure which daughter I would
marry.

There’s a soft knock and this time it’s
at my door.

“
May I come in?”

“
Sure.”

I sit up and start to rise as Kassandra
enters holding a candle that flickers gold onto her skin and makes
her eyes look like sparks. She’s wearing a short gown of flimsy
cloth. I see that she’s barefoot and I notice something else too–a
sign that she’s cold.

I can’t help but think of
sex.