Violet (7 page)

His head drops slightly, and he exhales
loudly.

“Don’t you know?”

Again, I am silent. David turns around to face
me and closes the already small gap between us. His face looks
pained.

“If he knows, he’ll make you leave. You’ll
change your names again; you’ll disappear. I’ll never see you
again, Violet. I’ll never know if you’re safe. Don’t you see? I’ll
do anything to protect you; I don’t care what it is. I’ll do
anything.”

To say that I’m shocked is putting it mildly. I
want to tell David the way I’ve been feeling about him, but then I
stop myself. David didn’t say he has feelings for me. I know that
he is fond of me; I know that he values our friendship. But he just
wants to know that I’m safe. Because we’re friends. I drop my
head.

“All right, David. I won’t say anything to
him.”

He smiles. “Okay. Good. And Violet, there’s
something else.”

“What?”

“I think you should give me your
sketchbook.”

“Why do you need to see my sketches?”

“Who knows? Maybe the images in your dreams are
some kind of repressed memories. Maybe some of them could tell us
why you and your father had to go into hiding. If I can compare the
images with my research, maybe something could come up. Maybe.” He
shrugs.

I pull my sketchbook from my satchel and hand it
to David.

I am awake. I’ve been dreaming more and more,
but these dreams don’t do me any good; I don’t know what they’re
about. I sigh in defeat, but I cannot help but feel more cheerful
about this situation as of late. I suppose I don’t feel so alone
now that David knows everything. I swing my feet over the side of
the bed and head out to the kitchen.

This morning, just like every morning, I look at
the pictures on the mantle, hoping, praying that this time I will
remember. This time, when I peer into my own eyes staring from the
photograph, I will remember. I will know who I am. But my hope
dissipates immediately. I know that the person in the photograph is
me, but I do not remember her. I understand what my father meant
when he said that he’d lost his daughter; I had not been
Violet-his-daughter since the day I’d woken up. I’d only been
Violet-the-stranger. Violet-the-confused. Violet-the-disappointing.
No wonder he had grown even more distant. I don’t think I would
want to be around me either. I am a constant reminder of what he’s
lost.

When I reach the kitchen, my father is not
there. This is not surprising; we have hardly spoken since I
learned of his lies. I’m sure that my father doesn’t know about my
investigation, but he must sense a change in my demeanor. I’ve
closed myself off to him. I don’t want to hear much that he has to
say; how can I know if anything he says is true?

David and I are being very careful not to
discuss my current predicament at Nineteen or anywhere else that
someone might overhear us. We have decided that we will only talk
about it in the meadow. This may be more security than is
necessary, but still we have not discovered why my father and I are
hiding, so we don’t want to take any chances.

Last night, in the clearing, David and I sat
together on the soft meadow grasses, looking out at the sky.
Usually, I would enjoy this time alone with him, but it was
different. Something was wrong. I’d had an ominous feeling all day,
and it seemed that it was contagious. We had no new information. We
had no leads. The knowledge that my father and I were in hiding had
brought with it an intense burden; everyone that we see may be an
enemy. Anyone could be watching us.

The night was clear and the moons were striking.
David and I sat in silence looking at them for a long time.
Finally, David began to speak.

“Do you ever get the feeling that everything is
out of our control?”

“I never feel in control, David. I don’t know
who I am. Literally.”

“That’s not what I mean. I don’t mean
philosophically. I just mean, in this world, on Cerno, we’ve
created a system that we cannot control. We’re looking for
information about you so we can find out what really happened, but
what can we do about it? Even when we find out, it’s not like we
can change anything. You and your father will still be fugitives.
You’ll still have to hide forever.”

“Maybe there’s something that we can do. We just
need more information. Besides, the fact that we’ve escaped from
whatever it is means that we do have some level of control. We’re
not completely helpless.”

“Violet, you don’t understand. The Vox will
never be outdone. You’ll never be allowed to stop running. If they
want you, they’ll take you. There’s nothing you can do about
it.”

I sat in silence thinking about this. David was
almost certainly correct; if The Vox wants us, they won’t stop
until they have us, or until we’re dead. And they probably don’t
care which it is.

Again, David’s voice broke the silence, but this
time it was quieter. He seemed defeated.

“Did you know that our moons have names,
too?”

I remembered what David told me about the name
of our planet. Cerno means “to sift.” The purpose of this planet
was to separate the desirables from the undesirables.

“What are they?”

He gestured first to the moon on the left, and
then the one on the right. “That one’s Deimos, and that one’s
Phobos. They mean ‘dread’ and ‘fear’.”

I was taken aback by these definitions. “David,
I thought they changed the names? How do ‘dread’ and ‘fear’ have
anything to do with being elite?”

“They didn’t change the moons’ names, Violet.
They’ve always been called that.”

“But why? Why would The Vox want us to think of
dread and fear every time we look at our sky?”

“I don’t know. Maybe to remind us of where we
came from. Maybe to remind us that they brought us here, and they
can send us back.”

* * *

The ride to Nineteen is passed in silence, as
usual, but today I’m not admiring the landscape. I’m not thinking
about the beauty of nature. I’m not watching the sky swirls. I just
can’t get David’s words out of my head. I can’t shake the feeling
of apprehension that I’ve had since our meeting last night.

When I arrive, David is waiting for me. He leans
against the archway, clothed in his customary black. Today we begin
with Madam Aldine’s lesson, so as I pass where he is standing,
David falls into step beside me. We proceed wordlessly along my
usual trek; David does not mind getting dew on his boots. There are
not many students around, but it’s early. We proceed toward the
building and enter through the doors on the far end of the hall. As
we are walking toward the classroom, David stops short. He grabs my
hand and pulls me around the corner into a study alcove.

“David, what are you—”

“Shh!” David gently but firmly puts his palm
over my mouth.

“Be very quiet. Listen carefully. Did you see
the man speaking to Madam Aldine?”

I shake my head. David gestures for me to peek
around the corner. Tall man, muscular, dressed in dark grey from
head to toe, his hair shorn in the unmistakable style of The
Vox.

“The Vox.”

“Yes. And did you see the patch on his
shoulder?”

I had. A blood red capital V was sewn onto his
sleeve. Floating slightly above and to the right of the V were two
orbs. Dread and Fear. I nod.

David continues, “V1 Cadets wear white. Red
means he’s an Inspector. At least V3. Inspectors for The Vox don’t
just waste time piddling around in regions like Nineteen. He’s here
for a purpose. He’s questioning Madam Aldine.”

Immediately, I feel like I cannot get enough air
to my lungs. They’ve found us.

“David. We need to get to my father.”

The next moments are like a blur; we move
stealthily between the buildings of Nineteen. David is in the lead.
We pause before turning corners. Always, my hand is gripped by his.
Finally, we reach the student lot and climb into David’s vehicle.
There is no question that his vehicle is old. It has been
refinished in black, but chips on its surface reveal that it was
once red. Vehicles in Eligo are equipped for the outdoor life that
most citizens here lead, and David’s is no different. The top is
open to the air, the passengers protected by metallic beams that
create a grated ceiling.

David and I both struggle to control our nerves
as we pass slowly through the downtown area surrounding the
academy. We do not want to draw attention to ourselves. As we reach
the outskirts of town, David increases the speed. My hair whips
around my face, into my eyes and mouth, but I don’t care. I find
myself wishing, pleading for my father’s safety.
Please let this
be nothing. Please let him be all right.
I’m very upset with my
father. He lied to me about everything I know. But still, he is my
father.

Finally, we’re almost there. David whips his
vehicle sharply onto the small dirt road that leads to my home, and
we pull up as close to the front porch as we possibly can.
Immediately, something is wrong. The front door is several feet
from being latched; I know my father wouldn’t leave it like this.
The aged wood has swelled and as a result, we almost never enter
from the front.

I rush up to the front steps, but David holds me
back. He gets my attention, and motions for me to be quiet by
placing his index finger against his lips. Together, we mount the
stairs one by one, and enter the house.

When we walk into the house, we notice that it
is very dim; the lights are off and all of the shades have been
drawn. Despite this, we can still see, though not with much detail.
Much detail is not required to see the state of my house. Chairs
are overturned, papers litter the floor. Forgotten boxes that we
stacked in a corner have been dumped, their contents scattered
around the room. My mother’s porcelain heirlooms lie broken on the
floor, crushed by passing boots. David and I move to the main room,
the living area. Everything is much the same. Cushions have been
shredded, their stuffing torn out. More papers on the floor. More
broken glass. The state of the kitchen is the same as the other
rooms. The contents of the cabinets are no more than shards of what
were once bowls, plates, and cups. Even my father’s antique wood
table has been disassembled and broken, rendered as useless as
firewood. There is no question. Someone has been here, and he was
looking for something. But where is my father?

David and I continue to the next room, which is
my father’s study. There is a dim light emanating from beneath the
door, and I brace myself for what I will see. I want to look for my
father, but I am afraid of what I will find. I cringe as I push the
door open and hold my breath as I survey the room. I see papers all
over the floor, furniture overturned, drawers dumped onto the
hardwood. I do not see my father. I exhale in relief; if we do not
find him, maybe that means he has escaped. He is hiding somewhere.
He will come for me.

My relief is short-lived. As I walk closer to
the desk, I see him. He is sitting on the floor with his back
against the wall and his feet stretched out in front of him. His
head is cocked sideways to rest on his right shoulder. My father is
dead.

Even in the dim light, I can see that he has
been badly beaten, but there is something else. The skin around his
mouth is swollen and blistered, and there are remnants of something
on his lips. His tongue is the color of a deep bruise and has
swollen to fill his entire mouth. I drop to my knees beside him.
There is something in his hand. I pry open his fingers to find a
plant. I have seen this plant before.

When my father began his hobby of classifying
plants, I would spend time with him as he meticulously documented
their characteristics and researched their origins. I remember
seeing my father’s drawing of this plant as he created an entry for
it. It has a thick, fibrous stem covered in nodules. When the plant
is in bloom, large sweet-smelling purple flowers burst from the
nodules, obscuring the view of the stem. I picked up the plant to
hold it in my hands and watched as my father wrote “Bahaya” in
delicate script. He had spent many years in labs surrounded by the
latest technology. In the days of his retirement, my father was
content with an ink pot. As I fingered the delicate petals, I read
aloud as he wrote. “Bahaya. Is that how you say it?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s poison.” I immediately
released my grip on the plant and allowed it to fall to the
floor.

My father laughed. “It’s not poison
right
now,
V. That’s what’s remarkable about it. Bahaya is completely
harmless until it interacts with human saliva. You can touch it all
you want. You can put it in your moisturizer; you can bathe in the
petals. But if you put it in your mouth, you’ll be dead before you
have time to chew it.”