Flock (28 page)

Brigid couldn’t break through, not alone, anyway.

I’d vowed to renege on Safira, but, without a disruption to the
essentials
of the agreement, the pact held.

Marik, whose animus was one of those essentials, had offered to help me.

Furthermore, to survive here, Marik needed a soul. I delivered souls.

Birta — not knowing I could hear her — had mentioned an “autonomous bestowment.” Somewhere, somehow, the process had been achieved without Stork council approval.

If Marik got his soul, this would alter one of the essentials. If, by doing so and in going full-on renegade, I were temporarily suspended, this would also be a sabotage of the spell. There was Jaelle, too. Why not help her out in the process?

The plan wasn’t without its flaws. Leira’s compromised lungs and long-term prognosis were a concern. But I was making progress.

I face-planted onto my bed. My great master plan had more variables than a calculus textbook. It was all too much. I didn’t change into PJs, brush my teeth, or even turn out my light. I simply allowed the tug of sleep and my abilities to take over.

“Get up!” I yell at the zombified Jaelle, who, just as I last found her, sits on a log. Nothing. I shake her shoulder. Still nothing. Her eyes are open, and she stares ahead.

I take in the scenery. We’re at the shore. Waves crash over a sandy beach.

With quick glances left and right, I check on the boy and girl. They’re still there, but both appear agitated now. The baby girl sucks on her fist with her twitching mouth just one gasp away from a wail. The boy rocks back and forth with his knees folded into his chest and his eyes wide with fear.

Again the sand shifts under my feet, and I comprehend the precariousness of the situation. Unless I do something now, it will all slip away.

Spying a giant clamshell the size of a sink, I struggle through the collapsing terrain. The shell is massively heavy, and I lug it to the water’s edge on legs now cramping with each torturous step. A breaker slams a wall of cold water into me, but it also fills the shell.

The return trek is even more difficult. My outstretched arms grow weary with the weight of the makeshift basin, and it’s difficult not to spill.

Finally, I reach the still-catatonic Jaelle, and, with a heave-ho that almost bowls me over, too, I dump the seawater over her. She splutters, mumbling expletives; never am I so happy to be cussed out.

As Jaelle grumbles and pulls at her drenched nightgown, I gather the baby girl to my chest. She squirms, screaming with fear. I press her into Jaelle’s arms, and they both gasp and hush. A sob draws my eyes to the boy. He stands, wiping tears from his dirty cheeks and looks ready to run off. I hurry to him, grasping his warm, dry hand in mine.

A boom fills my ears as a giant roller crashes onto the beach. Water is rushing toward us. I scoop the boy up. Jaelle stands and the water reaches her knees. High ground is only a short jog away; Jaelle’s eyes are already focused there. I shift the boy onto my hip, readying for the climb, when I spot something floating in the water. I unclasp the boy’s hands from around my neck and thrust him — roughly, I regret — onto Jaelle’s back. “Run,” I yell, pushing her away from the still surging surf.

I don’t have time to contemplate what I’ve done, because it’s a body that’s borne by the current. I wade through the now-receding tide to find Marik facedown. I roll him over and can’t tell by his closed lids if he’s sleeping or unconscious or dead.

As I reach out to check for signs of life, a bird flits into view. A gull. It darts in and out just above my head so that I have to lift my eyes to swat at it. With the expanded view, I notice the beach is dotted with dozens of giant clamshells, all closed except for three that are hinged open and contain infants, gurgling and babbling.

I am momentarily filled with joy until the sound of an approaching wave roars in my ears. I watch as the shells close while another swell floods the area. I lift Marik under his arms, keeping his head above this newest deluge. When it recedes, the three shells not only remain closed but have been scattered and are indistinguishable from the others, now numbering in the hundreds.

The gull continues to hover and pester me. I bat at it until it wings away to a nearby shell, upon which it lands and begins cawing.

A sign? I rush over, the bird flies off, and I wrench the massive shell open. It’s empty. I fall back on my butt into the wet sand and survey a beach littered with closed shells. It’s a shell game, an impossible shell game. I scream in frustration.

Waking, I sat forward with a gasp. I had physically joined Jaelle with two children. In the dream state, I had never before bodily united the potential mother with the hovering soul before. Was it an autonomous bestowment?

And what about Marik? He’d been lifeless. Equally distressing was the fact that I hadn’t accomplished anything on his behalf. As if aware of this setback, he appeared particularly run-down, and even a little withdrawn, that day.

After school a whole crew of us headed over to Pinewood to set up the gymnasium for Friday night’s show. I drove Penny, Jinky, and Marik.

From the backseat, Penny moaned. “I can’t believe we’re even cooperating with them on this Design Show. Why isn’t it in our gym?”

Theirs was bigger and had a built-in PA system, ample electrical outlets, and an adequate supply of folding tables, but I kept my mouth shut and punched at the radio dial.

If the balance of power with the setup crew was any indication of how things would be after the proposed merge, Norse Falls was going to be serfs to Pinewood’s landed gentry. Mr. Derry, Ms. Bryant’s counterpart from Pinewood, made a brief appearance to warn us against scratching the shiny new floors, dinging their mascot-painted walls, or grubbing up the foyer with our Norse Falls foulness. OK, so that last part was a fabrication, but, sheesh, the guy was one nitpicking old noodge. Ms. Bryant had explained that he was counting down to his pension party, but that didn’t explain why the students weren’t pitching in. Meanwhile our gang, chaperones included, hauled tables, set out the display boards, hung signs, and mapped out the room plan according to Ms. Bryant’s schematic.

It was a bear of a job, one for which Marik’s (albeit diminished) brawn, Ms. Bryant’s brain, and my dad’s brand of humor came in handy. He was pretty good at impersonations, and Mr. Derry did have an Elmer Fuddish quality to his voice. With everyone helping out, we had the room looking show-worthy in just under two hours. The teams were then allowed to store their boards and display materials under their assigned table.

“Ooh. Ooh. Ooh,” my dad had said when he saw a box full of our items. “Playtime.”

Ms. Bryant laughed like he was joking, but I happened to know that he had a bizarre fondness for any and all toys. A little odd for any forty-something man. It wouldn’t have mattered; I was pretty sure Ms. Bryant was at that bedazzled stage when the other person can do no wrong. Not that I was tapping into her thoughts. I was getting much better at drowning her out when my dad was around. I slipped once, though, right after his comment about toys. Ms. Bryant mused how fun and high-energy he was but odd that such a young soul would father an old one. Hearing that, I just about blew a lung. I knew she could guess people’s ages, but young souls and old souls? The latter a category she filed me under. Was I? And was my dad a new model? How could that be? And, more importantly, how could she know it? Such thoughts were interrupted by my dad continuing to thumb through our box of items. He pulled out a fireman’s helmet and plopped it on his head.

“Let me guess,” he said to Marik, “Kat has dedicated a section of the store to dress-up.”

I opened my mouth to protest his teasing tone, but what was there to say? I had planned for a costume corner, because what little boy doesn’t want to strap on a holster or little girl want to wrap a faux mink stole around her shoulders, or vice versa?

“No discussing the project,” I said in mock irritation. “We haven’t been graded yet.”

“Party pooper.” My dad removed the hat, replaced it in the box, and tucked the box flaps one over another.

I didn’t have time to defend myself or to further contemplate Ms. Bryant’s interesting thoughts because my head started to itch, indicating I had a date with council.

Figuring a meeting summons meant disciplinary action was upon me, I had to get out of that gym for a bracer of fresh air. I told the others to wrap up and meet me out front, where I’d pull up.

Walking to my car, I was so lost in dread that I didn’t notice the figure leaning against my driver’s-side door until I was just a few steps away.

“Jack. What are you doing here?” I looked left, right, and behind me. The last thing I needed was Marik coming out now.

Jack’s eyes chased mine. I could see the hurt and anger spark in them.

“I don’t buy it for a minute, you know.” His hands were dug so deep into his pockets that his pants rode low. A ribbon of taut tummy was visible between his jeans and his T-shirt.

“Buy what?”

“Any of it. Something’s up. Something’s wrong. And you don’t want a break any more than I do.”

“Well, you’re wrong. And I do,” I said with all the steel I could cut into my voice. “Now, can you move away from my car?” Fearing the others wouldn’t wait at the front doors, I shot a look over my shoulder.

“Is that really what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll go, but I want you to know one thing.”

“What?”

“I still got your back.”

I turned away from him, squeezing my eyes shut. “Just go, Jack.”

Behind me I heard footsteps. And then nothing.

That evening, my heart wouldn’t stay put. It yo-yoed from my throat to my bowels with wrenching lurches. I took my seat at the council meeting and immediately noticed a somber mood. Hulda was the last to arrive. She trod wearily from the door to her first chair, stopping to brace herself on the backs of several of the seats en route. I sucked in a big stash of air.

Even roll call had a melancholy tone to it. I wasn’t the only one picking up on some heavy vibes.

“Our first order of business will be to discuss the findings of the World Tribunal as pertains to the impasse involving Sister Katla’s recent bestowment. There have been, I am informed, developments which necessitate a new course of action.”

Developments? I could only guess.

“It seems,” Hulda continued, “that the two hovering souls have found placement.”

True to form, the old gals reacted with a cacophony of squawks and honks of alarm.

“Your attention, please.” Hulda pounded her fist on the table. With that single gesture, I knew what was to follow.

“Sister Katla, did you have anything to do with this turn of events?”

“Yes.”

Hulda’s entire frame deflated with my reply. Even her eyes seemed to shrink into the crinkled folds of her lids. “And did you place the essences with a vessel of your own choosing without council approval?”

“Yes.”

I heard more than one of my counterparts utter shocked reactions: “Beyond her abilities.” “Such powers are unheard of.”

Hulda stood and motioned for me to do the same. My heavy chair scraped across the slab floor. She then unrolled a tube of brown paper, one I recognized from Fru Dorit’s fall from grace.