The Gathering (3 page)

Vivian nodded her head and set her tiny pinched mouth, obviously meaning business.
 
As Vivian walked towards Janeen's office, she thought about the Crystals.
 
They had named their colony Crystal Shade and they had built it on the remnants of the Crystal Cathedral in what was once Garden Grove.
 
The Crystal Cathedral had gone pretty quickly when the bombing began.
 
Vivian would make sure that Lia Fail's confections were the best they had ever been.
 

As Vivian turned the corner, Alia took Sean by the arm.

“I want you to watch those boys as well.
 
I really want to kick some Crystal butt this year and if they steal any of the cakes again…"

"I know," Sean replied, "it's my ass."

"Damn straight.
 
Walk me back to the castle.”

“You are nervous.”

Alia smiled and placed one hand over her other in the crook of his arm.

“A little” she said.
 
“I just hope that everyone behaves themselves.
 
Some of the other colonies can get so sanctimonious.
 
The last thing we need is to have to deal with their stupidity.”

Sean placed his hand on hers and smiled.

“Not to worry, Al.
 
We'll be watching.”

Alia nodded and smiled.

"I know.
 
You're angry we didn’t come and get you for the hunt, aren't you?”

“Me?”
 
He looked surprised. “No.”

She looked at him.
 

"After all," she started, "it was a late meeting last night and I do realize that you're getting older, so I thought…"

“Older?”
 
He asked, feigning hurt.
 
“I just figured after the last hunt, you all couldn't take being shown up again…”

They walked towards the castle arm in arm and laughing, unaware of the events the Gathering would bring.

2

The fall morning was beginning to warm, a welcome change from the cold of the night before.
 
The wagons of St. Paul's moved steadily through the old San Fernando Valley towards the Santa Monica Mountains to Lia Fail.
 

Ian Turner kept his horse at a walk next to the lead wagon.
 
He stared lazily at the back of the steed’s head, wondering if she was thinking about him.
 
He could picture her long dark brown hair, straight and smooth, as she brushed it away from her cheek and set it behind her ear, the slight upturned corner of her mouth when she was about to smile.
 
Wham!
 
The sudden smack of the tomato stung Ian’s cheek as he grabbed his head and felt the juice running into his ear and down his face, bits of seed hanging from his long blond hair and dripping on to his shirt.
 
He spun around and saw his younger sister, Hannah, and two cousins, Jerry and Liam, peeking out from the canvas of the wagon and laughing.
 

“Funny, huh?
 
How old are you?”

"Fifteen," Hannah replied.

Jerry and Liam looked at one another.

"Thirteen."

"Eleven."

They all looked at each other and laughed.
 
Ian urged his horse backward and grabbed a handful of boysenberries from a basket by the rear of the cart.
 
He spun around and hurled them as hard as he could at the children, who screamed and ducked into the wagon for cover.

“So, how'd you like that?”

From behind the wagon cover, Ian’s mother emerged, covered from head to foot in boysenberry.
 
Ian’s face dropped as he attempted to stammer out an apology.
 
Ellen Turner was a quiet woman, and she merely put out her hand, shaking her head in frustration as she pulled the curtains shut.
 
Ian hung his head down and pulled the bits of tomato from his hair.
 
He moved his horse forward and looked sheepishly at his father, who had witnessed the entire event with a small smirk.
 
Ian turned around to see his sister laughing at him from inside the wagon, with another tomato in hand, when… Wham!
 
From inside the wagon, Ellen Turner had flung the handful of boysenberry she had just been doused with at her daughter.
 
Hannah shrieked.

“Look at my dress, Mama.”

“You’re old enough to act like a lady, Hannah.
 
Fifteen is old enough.”

“But…”

“Enough of this!
 
Listen to your mother.”

The loud voice came from the front of the wagon.

“Get cleaned up.
 
We’ll be there in a few hours.”

Grant Turner was a good man.
 
Now in his early fifties, he had been a wrestler in college and retained the stocky, yet flexible build.
 
His thinning hair was light brown and his eyes were the color of a London-blue topaz. He was the president of St. Paul’s, the reform Catholic's village.
 
Grant and his wife had begun to build St. Paul's not long after Paul and Alia Stark had started to build Lia Fail.
 
The Turners had started at Lia Fail before leaving to begin their own colony in the area that was once called Acton.
 
The Grants and Starks had remained friends, via the ham radios each colony used to communicate, and since the two groups were only twenty odd miles from one another, they often referred settlers to each other's colonies.

The Turners had made this trek many times in the last thirteen years, but Grant found himself thinking about the visit three years before, when Paul Stark and his children had been murdered.
 
They had brought Father McHugh, St. Paul's head priest, to preside over the funeral.

"You ok, Dad?"

Grant was shaken from his thoughts as his son rode along side of him, pushing his damp hair away from his face.

"I'm fine, Ian.
 
I was just thinking about the Gathering.
 
You seemed to be thinking as well, before your sister so rudely interrupted you."

Ian started to blush.

"Yeah… well, I guess I was thinking about someone."

"Someone?
 
Who might this "someone" be?"

Ian looked away from his dad at nothing in particular.

"Just someone.
 
Not important."

Grant smiled and nodded.

"Fair enough.
 
Why don't you ride back and see how the other wagons are holding?
 
Let McKay and Garrett know that we should be there in a few hours."

"Sure."

Ian stopped and turned his horse around, then rode towards the rear wagons.
 
Grant was proud of his oldest child; he had a square head on his shoulders.
 
Grant knew he would do well as president himself one day.
 
He watched as the twenty-one-year-old rode off.
 

"A good boy,"
he thought.
"No, not a boy, a man."

For Grant Turner knew exactly about whom his son had been thinking.

3

As Alia walked into the foyer of the castle she shared with her children and several aides, from the far door she heard a squeal.
 
She looked up to see her four youngest children race around the corner.
 
They all had large cups of water in their hands.

"What is this?!" Alia demanded.

The children spun around and tried in vain to hide the cups.
 
A young man with light brown hair stepped forward and shrugged.

"Sorry, Mom."

Alia shook her head as several nannies came bustling through the doorway.
 
They were soaked.

"Pardon me, Highness."

Helen, the senior nanny, stepped forward and pointed at the brood.

"Forgive the way we look, but we were ambushed in the hallway."

The young man, who was no more than twelve, shifted his feet and stared at the ground.

Alia moved forward.

"Brian Grant Stark!"

The boy moved forward, trying to avoid eye contact.
 
Alia moved her head around trying to get him to look at her.
 
She then stopped and looked at the other boy and girl.
 
They were each about ten years old.

"Lisa?
 
Brandon?
 
Today?"

Alia then looked at the smallest, Amanda, and shrugged, throwing her hands in the air.
 
She returned her gaze to Brian.

"Brian, take these cups back to the kitchen and help Helen and the other ladies get everyone into the baths… please.
 
The Gathering starts today!"

Brian Stark started to gather the cups, when Alia grabbed his shoulder.

"And," she whispered, "apologize to the ladies for ruining their dresses."

"Yes, Ma'am," he whispered back.

"Please try to behave, alright?"

He nodded and moved towards the nannies with the other children and bowed his head as he apologized.
 
The ladies just scowled after them and followed them slowly down the hall.

"Why do I have to take a bath?
 
I'm already wet."

The little blond girl was now standing directly before Alia, staring up defiantly, her tiny arms crossed in front of her.
 

"Did you use soap?" Alia asked, her head cocked to one side.

"No, but I didn't ask to get wet either."

Amanda Stark was six years old and wise beyond her years.
 

"Bath, Amanda!"

Alia pointed in the direction of the baths.
 
Amanda gave a big sigh, stomped her tiny foot and furrowed her brow, much like her mother was known to do, and began to walk.

"Alright, but I'm not going to like it!"

"That's fine, Sweetie, just as long as you're clean."

The little girl turned to see her mother giving her a big, mock smile.
 
Amanda just shook her head and walked on.