Wander Dust (15 page)

“Although extremely simplified, these two intersecting paths are literally road maps in which a Seer can view a relics life. The Wanderer and Protector will follow these routes to arrive at a predetermined time and place,” he explains.

“So, for example,” he walks forward, gesturing toward Sam, “if I were to give Sam this marker, she would meditate and discover that this relic is a quick path to China, about two years ago. Then Sera and Bishop can wander there with confidence.”

“Questions?” He flips off the overhead and returns to the podium.

“Yes,” he says, and points to the back of the auditorium. A girl with long black hair and dark eyes is standing. “When we wander and land somewhere else, what does a Normal see?” she asks.

“Excellent question,” he responds. It is. I wondered about that myself.

“Have you ever had that feeling when you think you see something from the corner of your eye? And when you look, someone is standing there and you hadn’t realized it before that moment?” he asks.

She nods, yes. We all do.

“
We
are those instances,” he says.

“No, a Normal will not see you leave with the earth rolling over you, or see you arrive from a swirling wormhole, or even your shimmering cloud of wander dust. They only see your solidified form. When a Normal takes a moment to blink every four to six seconds, they leave an open door for us to appear. We become that instance where they think they see something out of the corner of their eye. And then, in fact, they do.”

I try to remember the instances where I thought I saw someone appear out of nowhere. It hasn’t happened in a while. Specifically since my special gift appeared.

“Yes, Xavier,” Mr. Evanston calls out.

I look over at Xavier, standing next to Macey. “Why don’t we go back to save people from natural disasters or stop destructive events?” he asks.

“Ah,” Mr. Evanston ponders, stroking his beard. “There’s always someone who wants to be the super hero.” Everyone giggles, and Xavier takes his seat.

Mr. Evanston crosses his arms and paces the stage, contemplating his response for a brief moment. “We can, of course, affect the outcome of events small and large. But as a Society of Wanderers, it’s our duty to protect history’s events—good or bad. It isn’t our job to create destiny, it’s our job to allow it to run its true course. If you ever try such a thing, I must tell you that it’s illegal, and the Society of Wanderers will punish you. I assure you, the Society is not as forgiving as the court system you are accustomed to in your Normal lives.”

This is news that I’m not happy to hear. We aren’t allowed to change history. Therefore, my mission to save my mom is illegal. What will they do to me? What will they do to her? I squirm in my seat, thinking it over.

I pull my hood over my head to block my peripheral vision, but only so Bishop cannot see my worried face. Only Mr. Evanston faces me, but his gaze rambles, lost in the multitude of faces before him.

“We try to be as respectful as possible to history, only observing, retracing, and learning, but never modifying,” Mr. Evanston continues.

“Yes,” he calls on another student, but I stop listening. I need to find my mom’s bracelet. This is the key to seeing her again. There’s nothing else I’ve ever owned, at any point in time that can return her to me, even for a fleeting moment in history. History that I’m not allowed to alter. Not without serious consequences.

::22::
Relic Archives

“Excuse me,” a rude voice sings behind me.

Perpetua elbows my arm and pushes her way around me. She grabs Bishop’s wrist, pulling him in the opposite direction, against the stream of students. “I need to talk to you,” she says. Her voice twists in an annoyed tone.

“But you’ll be late to our next class!” Sam yells at him, aggravated. He turns and shrugs in her direction. They exchange what I think is a knowing glance as he and Perpetua slip away.
Did Sam and Bishop just say something to each other through their minds? Will I be able to tell when they do? Their inconvenient connection is so annoying!

Sam turns and looks at me with a scowl on her face, then she struts away. Again I follow, but not worrying when she walks ahead of me. I already know the location of the next class.

When I exit the lecture hall, the weather machine has produced another perfect and sunny day below the earth. Up above, residents of Chicago battle the howling, winter winds.

My palms brush along the pedals of the blooming azaleas that line the stairs. In the courtyard, the obelisk glistens gold, so bright in some spots, the glare turns into a blinding white out. I block my eyes with my free hand as I walk, stepping precariously until I reach the group of students standing at the base of the obelisk.

These students are gathering for Relics I. How will we spend an entire semester learning about relics and their life paths? It just seems like a glorified history class to me. I lean against the obelisk, waiting for the lecture to begin, humming a melody.

In front of our group, a teacher drags a heavy iron chair. The legs rumble across the stone piazza, screeching like fingernails on a chalkboard. Everyone groans, covering their ears.

“Excellent,” the man says, hoisting his portly body up onto the chair, elevating himself above the students. “Now that I have everyone’s attention, we can begin.”

“I’m Argus Matchimus, the conservator of the Relic Archives and your professor for Relics I.” His voice is rough as rocks. He clears his throat but it doesn’t help. “Now that you’ve had your orientation, we can delve deeper into what all this wandering business means. The reason our journey of studies begins with relics is because, after your team, a relic is the most important component to wandering. Do you recall the marker from Mr. Evanston’s lecture?” he asks, gazing around.

Everyone nods.

“Like the marker, anything that is not a living organism can be a relic. As you already know, you can use them to navigate the maps of time.”

“These clothes you’re wearing right now,” he swings his chubby hand, gesturing to the crowd, “they’re relics of today’s class. If you choose tomorrow to dress in one of these items, you can wander back to this point in time.”

A body flies forward, appearing out of nowhere in front of the class. All the students gasp, startled as a boy materializes out of a cloud of sparkling wander dust. Mr. Matchimus grabs the boy’s collar to steady him, right before he falls on the floor to his knees.

“Cool! It worked!” The curly hair boy announces, pleased with himself.

“Whoa!” An identical boy whoops in front of the group. He happens to be the Wanderer’s mirror image. They smile, a big horsey smile at each other and lift their hands to compare themselves.

“There’s always one jokester among us,” Mr. Matchimus crows, and his stomach jiggles as an independent entity.

Both boys are lost in their small victory when Terease swoops over, out of nowhere, and grabs the boy’s true and wandered self. With force, she drags them both across the courtyard and out the lion gate entrance. They pass in a blur, agitating the Animates as they leave. The lions stand up and growl, their claws swipe at the air.

My jaw drops, and every student stares. Even Mr. Matchimus seems dumbfounded by Terease’s brief entrance and haste exit. How did she get here so fast? And how did she know that the boy wandered
illegally
, by himself?

“Well then, perhaps we will see him tomorrow. Or not.” Mr. Matchimus throws his hands into the air. “Like we keep reiterating, we forbid jumping unsupervised, especially without your team.”

“There’s a way to get away with it, ya know?” Stu leans over and whispers.

“How?” I’m curious for future reference, of course.

He takes advantage and leans even closer, sniffing my body spray. “As long as you wander off of school grounds, they won’t have proof. Did you happen to notice the security room with all the TV monitors?” he asks.

I nod, understanding.
They watch everything.

“The eyes are everywhere, except students’ apartments,” he explains.

“Eyes?”

“Yeah, the Elusive Youth Electronic Surveillance. E.Y.E.S.,”
he says. I think back to all of the cameras I’ve seen mounted to the walls around the school. They’re everywhere.

“What about your Seer? Won’t they know?” I ask.

“Not if you go without your Protector. The Seer is only connected to you through them.”

Of course, the middle link of the chain.

Just then, Bishop slides around a nearby tree and into the group, somehow unnoticed. I wonder what the punishment would be for tardiness if Terease weren’t so busy disciplining that other kid. At the thought, I’m happy I didn’t try to make us late this morning.

“What about Bishop?” I ask, jutting my head in his direction. “Will he know?”

Stu steps closer, almost resting his head on my shoulder. “Only if you’re in danger. They sense it—like an animal.” He growls into my ear. I jump away. Students turn to look at us. This includes Bishop. My eyes lock on him. Muscles in his jaw tighten as his stone gaze assesses Stu.

I quickly turn my attention to Mr. Matchimus, who’s still speaking.

“Now that you’ve seen how it all works from our impromptu manifestation, let’s get down to business, shall we? Follow me.” Mr. Matchimus gestures with his fleshy hand and turns to walk away.

A line of students forms behind him as he waddles into a nearby tunnel. As we walk, I realize we must be somewhere underneath the west school building by now.

Mr. Matchimus stops and unlocks a small wooden doorway, one of which I’m positive he won’t fit through. He props the door open with a charred brick, then he enters the inadequate opening by turning sideways.

Students step single file into the murk, disappearing one by one. When I step through the door, footsteps and chatter echo around the boxed-in staircase. Steps wrap, without end, into the sinking darkness.

Brass candelabra’s flicker sparse warmth on each landing. The textured walls beneath, the colors of dingy yellows and sepias, remind me of old photographs. The tile steps are so worn that a smooth and shiny groove has been rubbed into each.

We descend slowly for several stories then exit into a new chamber. Just enough light pours over from the stairwell to see your neighbor. Bishop’s shoulder brushes mine. It electrifies my pulse on contact, but I don’t look at him. I’m determined to hold my feelings at bay. We stand shoulder to shoulder for several moments, until the lights snap on.

An enormous room, larger than a football field, sits before us. Hand-honed, timber ceilings travel the length of the space. I squint, trying to find the end of the room, but I don’t see it. Soot cloaked walls hint at more leftovers from a burned city. I breathe in the faint traces of charcoal. They remind me of a barbecue.

Rumblings roll through the group as everyone takes in the scene. One single aisle cuts the length of the room in half. Rows and rows of massive archaic shelves stand as a graveyard, holding ancient objects and artifacts. Objects, ranging from small to large, cover every available surface. A two story stained glass window leans up against a nearby wall. A miniature stone gargoyle sits at the window’s base.

The room reminds me of Mona’s home. “Eclectic chaos,” she calls her design theme. She’s a Seer, after-all, so now her choice of decor makes sense.

“Calm down everyone.” Mr. Matchimus centers himself in front of the group, pressing the air down with his hands. “This is one of the Society’s largest caches of relics.” He waves his hand at the room. His body appears small now, compared to the space.

“We all know what relics do, but only some of us can see their life paths. I’d like to ask for your attention over here,” he says as he waddles toward a huge covered object. He rips the cream canvas off the mass, revealing what I can only describe as a contraption. For what, I’m not exactly sure.

“This, class, is a
relicutionist
.” Everyone stands silent, waiting for an explanation. “This machine will do what only one third of your team can. It will read the life path of a relic.”

The
oohing
and
ahhing
start immediately. Stu worms his way to the front of the group to get a better look. He whips out his notebook and starts making notations of the oddly pieced together apparatus

“Now, now, don’t get too excited,” Mr. Matchimus says. The chattering in the room calms. “This machine plays a relic’s life path like a movie.”

“How old is it?” one boy asks.

“It’s over one hundred years old and a product of the late industrial revolution,” Mr. Matchimus explains.

“Now, let’s put it to use, shall we?” Mr. Matchimus looks over our group. “You there.” He points to Macey. Towering over everyone else, she really sticks out in a crowd.

She looks around, unsure of whom he pointed to.

“Yes, you,” he confirms. “Go and choose a small item from the archives.”

She skips off at first then seems to disappear in a streak of color. She comes back within seconds, holding out an object in her palms.

“Very nice choice, Miss?”

“Macey Du Bois,” she replies.

“Thank you, Miss Du Bois.” Mr. Matchimus nods, seemingly pleased with the selection. Macey skips back to her spot between Xavier and Quinn.

He turns to the relicutionist and lifts a slender glass dome. With white-gloved hands, he gently places the relic on a velvet tray. He returns the glass dome to its original position. It now encases the relic.

Mr. Matchimus turns to the large wooden control panel, littered with green lights. His pudgy fingers type a word on the ancient typewriter protruding from one side. Finally, he pulls the machine’s massive lever.