Flock Page 18

  “Unusual?” Hulda’s head angled to the side.

  “Twins, and other multiples, are not unknown to us,” Grim interjected. “You yourself were present when Fru Svana placed twin girls.”

  “Except,” I said, “there is only one vessel, someone who is known to me, someone whose desire for a child is known to me, someone whom I want very much to help.”

  “What are you saying, child?” Hulda asked. “It almost sounds as if you’re describing a situation in which you have two souls vying for a mother you’ve selected. A situation you’ve orchestrated on behalf of the mother —”

  “That’s impossible,” Grim cut in. “It’s quite the reverse of our purpose. The focus is always on the hovering soul. More importantly, such powers are beyond . . .” Here Grim stopped herself as if unwilling to suggest I was capable of anything special.

  “Sisters, please,” Hulda said, “hold your comments.”

  And, yes, it did gratify me that it had been one “sister” in particular who was being shushed. If I was going rogue, I wasn’t opposed to having Grim’s bitter pucker as my parting glance.

  I stood and turned to Hulda. “Indeed, Fru Hulda, I believe this to be the case. I realize that it’s not standard practice, but, yes, on behalf of a predetermined mother, multiple essences presented themselves.”

  Hulda sat back in her chair and flopped her arms over its sides. Many moments passed.

  I remained standing, not knowing whether to continue or wait for her to comment. And my sister Storks — generally quick to fly into squawks of alarm — took me in with stretched lips and bulging eyes. I finally decided to take my seat. I sensed it was best to keep a low profile and preserve my strength.

  “This is quite unprecedented,” Hulda said finally. “Never have I heard of such a thing. Not here. Nor at my many visits to the World Council.” Again, she went ashen. I didn’t know what to do. “You best continue,” she said. “I feel quite certain that we will not know how to proceed until all the information is known to us.”

  “But Fru Hulda, this is clearly an act of willful defiance,” Grim said. “Would you have us encourage such behavior?”

  Hulda, when turning to Grim, looked tired, the gray of her woolen cardigan the same shade as her neck and face. “Fru Grimilla, I have asked our sister Stork Katla to continue. Would you defy my authority?”

  Grim’s head snapped back so far I heard the ping. It sounded like a bullet dropping into a chamber.

  All eyes swiveled back to me. How did I never learn with Grim? Her hatred of me was now so complete I could read the fill line at the top of her brow scrunch. But I supposed the bigger question was how did I never learn, period.

  “The mother is confident and assertive.” I wasn’t about to use Grim’s choice words of “gung ho and brassy” to describe Jaelle, nor did I have to. Her slitted eyes conveyed her comprehension. “And the souls, as I described earlier, are separate and distinct. I well remember Fru Svana’s placement of twins; those essences presented together and remained united during all dream sequences.” I looked off to the sconces lighting the room. They flared as if censuring me, too. “The two even present as different ages —”

  “How so?” Hulda cut in, biting back her lips as if reproaching herself for interrupting.

  “One is a baby girl, frightened and helpless. One is a boy, two or possibly three years of age, brave and inquisitive.”

  I paused, sensing a shock-and-awe reaction to my announcement. Not a one of them moved. Even the walls seemed to close in, as if leaning in to hear better.

  “I recommend number one, the baby girl,” I continued. “A preference for a girl is known to me.” I looked around the room, realizing they were all gaping at me like my head was on backward. I touched my nose just to be sure. They were all still staring. “Should I go ahead with the vote now?”

  Hulda stood, pushing her chair back. It scraped across the slab concrete floor. “It occurs to me that, per Stork protocol, once multiple candidates have been presented, a vote must follow.”

  Stork protocol? A memo I never got.

  “Fru Hulda, this refers to multiple maternal or vessel candidates,” Grim added.

  “I believe,” Hulda said, “you’ll find the wording to be nonspecific. Fru Birta, if you would be so kind as to check.”

  I’d never really pondered the thickness of Birta’s book before, even after we’d had to replace it after the infamous vandalism incident — by Brigid, no less — to our meeting space. It would appear, however, the way Birta now ran her finger over pages and columns, that it was a reference tome, as well as an attendance log.

  “Fru Hulda is correct,” Birta said, removing her round, wire spectacles. “The wording simply states ‘When a minimum of two candidates have been presented, a vote must forthwith proceed.”

  Hulda looked at me expectantly. I took it as a “Carry on” directive.

  I raised a single shaky digit. “Who votes with me for essence one, the gentle baby girl?”

  Half the room raised their index finger.

  “And who votes for essence number two, the brave young boy?” I had made my choice clear as well as stated the mother’s preference for a girl. It was no surprise, then, that Grim pumped her bony arm into the air, raising two fingers and leading a rebellion that was quickly joined by the other half of the room, Hulda — to my complete and utter shame — included.

  I had a hard time perceiving what happened next. My vision had gone all wavy.

  “A tie,” Hulda said, stroking her chin. “Fru Birta, would you please read protocol regarding a tie?”

  “We all know what to do in the case of a tie,” Grim added, her voice struggling to tamp down her irritation.

  “Fru Birta, please,” Hulda said, overruling Grim’s interruption.

  Fru Birta trailed a bony digit along the bottom of a page. She’d always been a bit of a mumbler, but the voice she used as she scanned the text was positively crumbling. I had to strain, leaning forward in my seat, to hear her. She murmured bits of phrasing and then skipped ahead as she searched for the relevant clause. Though her articulation was grainy, like an old phonograph, I made out that she was under the section heading “Extenuating Circumstances,” from which she read: “‘Overlapping jurisdictions, unforeseen physical conditions and limitations, and autonomous bestowments,’ as if we’d want to put any more ideas in Katla’s head.”

  I hardly knew what to make of the last comment. It wasn’t like Birta to be so outspoken.

  Finally, she perked up and said, loud and clear, with her lips actually moving this time, “‘In the event of a tie vote between two potential vessels —’”

  “Stop there,” Hulda broke in. “In this case, the book clearly specifies ‘potential vessels.’ Thus procedural instructions regarding a tie do not apply in the case at hand, one where we’re deciding between potential essences.”

  “But what does that mean?” I asked, scooting forward in my seat.

  “It means,” Hulda said, sadness apparent in her voice, “that we are without precedent.”

  OK, but that didn’t answer my question.

  “So what do we do?” I asked, a more direct question this time.

  Hulda folded her hands in front of her. “Sister Katla, you have presented us with a very difficult situation. One that, in disservice to all involved parties, leaves us at an impasse.”

  “What do you mean by an impasse?” I asked.

  Hulda shook her head slowly from side to side, taking a long time to answer.

  In the interim, I pondered the term impasse, as in obstruction or roadblock, nothing that a little elbow grease — and possibly a stick of dynamite — couldn’t surmount.

  “I shall take the matter to the World Council. This, in combination with the events of last night, merits further consideration.”

  Before I could react or object, Hulda had issued her customary “peace be,” the meeting was adjourned, and my sister Storks were filing out past me with lo
oks ranging from pity to fear to outright contempt.

  I didn’t mean to stay after, necessarily, but half my body was paralyzed by shock and the other half by plain old embarrassment. Hulda had voted against me. Forget Dickens, it hurt like Faulkner. And Jaelle’s bestowment was on hold. This couldn’t be good, either.

  Finally, only Fru Hulda and I remained.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She didn’t respond. Ouch.

  I dropped my chin to my chest. “You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. You take on too much.”

  Ouch again.

  “You should know, however, Katla, that when you came to us one year ago, I knew it was a sign of change. Your age, your impulsiveness, your unwitting but lodestone or magnetite quality of attracting other powerful beings, all combined to portend transformation of our ways. All of this I suspected and resigned myself to, but I wonder now . . .” Here she laid her hands flat against the smooth surface of the wooden table, seemingly studying the fretwork of veins on the backs of her hands. “I wonder at your recklessness, your disregard for advice and counsel, your willful independence.” She paused, looking long and hard at me. “I don’t suppose you have anything more to tell me about recent events or your sudden interest in Norse legends.”

  Tears stung at my eyes. How did I tease out the stuff that she could help with from the stuff that would endanger her, that would endanger other loved ones? And, finally, how did I even begin to describe the plan taking shape in my head? I simply couldn’t. Nor did I ever want her to think she missed an opportunity. “No,” I said; my throat was dry and my words raspy.

  “I didn’t think so.” Hulda stood. She looked weary and sad. “Katla, should the World Council move to discipline you, I would have very little in the way of mitigating information.”

  “I understand,” I said, my voice actually cracking now.

  I don’t recall Hulda exiting the room. I only remember finding myself, some minutes later, alone in my grandfather’s back room. It had reverted to its utilitarian purpose, and I sat in a simple folding chair. Gone was my Robin’s chair. Gone was our massive oval table. Gone were the candles and sconces. Gone were my sister Storks.

  I’d known I was on my own since the moment Marik had delivered his message, but now, having alienated both Jack and Hulda, I felt frightened and lonely and glum. And what did I have to look forward to? Possible disciplinary action. Man, I really knew how to screw things up royally. Royally, ha. As if I needed a pedigree to go with the doghouse I was in.

  I had every intention of going to school on Monday morning, in spite of my lack of sleep and rock-bottom mood. My decision to walk that day and stop at Starbucks were supposed to be the jolts I needed to get my head back among the living. By now, the baristas and I were on friendly terms. They knew my usual, and I knew their names. It was a pleasant, if a little superficial, relationship. I was surprised, then, when Norah, even while smiling, muttered, “Must have been a rough night,” as she handed me my change. I know my face soured in reaction; I felt my mouth push into a crimp. She had the brass to smile, turn, and address the next customer in line.

  I had had a rough night. Rough week. Rough year. But I hardly needed passing acquaintances pointing out my tangled ponytail and swollen eyes. It must have been a Monday-morning thing, because people, in general, were acting batty. I thought the guy standing next to me waiting for his beverage was on the phone; at first he was listing off the day’s commitments: “Meeting at ten, lunch with Joe at twelve, report due by three.” He wasn’t, though; he was seemingly standing there reading aloud his appointment book for us all to hear. Things got odder still when he observed with a double blink and a throaty “Well, good morning, girls” that barista Monica was sporting a too-tight T-shirt. Odd that she didn’t react to his comment. She didn’t seem the type to take that kind of ogling from anyone. More Monday weirdness, I supposed.

  I took my drink from high-beam Monica and exited the shop. I was in a bit of a fog; the people in Starbucks adding to my morning dementia, paranoia, even, because I had the weird sensation that someone was following me. I was halfway down the block before realizing I was headed in the wrong direction. I should have turned around; there was still time to make it to first period on time, but I didn’t. I kept on going, eventually ending up at the old train tracks behind Afi’s store.

  The line had been abandoned years ago, and the rails were pulled up in sections with weeds and grass reclaiming the land. With the woods to one side and the backs of the downtown shops to the other, it was a good spot for a private walk and afforded plenty of space to think. The area reminded me of Jacob, the soul I’d reunited with his original mother. It had been here that I’d felt his presence strongest, here that we came to an understanding. This brought me around to thinking of Jaelle, and I tossed my head in annoyance. An impasse was an unwelcome delay, if not a complete breakdown. It was not what I had expected. And with the possibility of disciplinary action coming my way, who knew what that would do for Jaelle’s cause?

  Rounding a bend and coming to the huge fallen log where I’d once read to Jacob, I heard footsteps behind me. Turning, I was more than a little surprised to see Marik heading my way.

  I wasn’t in the mood to see anyone. Him especially.

  “Are you following me?” I asked, noting his school backpack slung over his shoulder.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “You seemed lost.”

  “Trust me, I know my way around here by now.”

  “Not land lost,” Marik said, coming to a stand beside me. I noticed that he limped and held one hand to his side gingerly. “Lost in spirit. Empty. Hurting. I thought maybe I could help. I’ve decided, in fact, that I want to help.”

  I brought a fist to my mouth, trying — but failing — to fight back emotions. Marik, who pretty much had an expiration date stamped on his forehead, was reaching out to me.

  “Why would you want to help me? I’ve screwed up in every possible way and hurt some really good people in the process. You said it yourself on Saturday. And I’m scared and confused.” I collapsed onto the log, splaying my legs in a wide V in front of me.

  “Because what you pledged on Saturday was brave. If unwise, at least it was for all the right reasons. I admire that.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you implied it was selfish. And probably pointless.”

  “It may be pointless. She will do anything — anything — to procure an heir. Leira, she felt, was her last hope. I fear her reaction will be reckless, disastrous even.”

  “You’re worried she’ll join forces with Brigid of Niflheim.”

  He dropped onto the log next to me. “I don’t like to think about it.”

  “Because together . . . ?”

  He shuddered in reaction.

  “Marik, what if I told you I was working on a substitute for Leira?”

  “What? Who?”

  “I can’t say. Not yet, anyway.”

  He kicked a toe into a scruff of weeds. “She’ll accept no second-rate substitute. Lineage and birthright and prophecy are critical.”

  So that last one would be a bit tricky. But it was my prophecy, after all, and a fabrication to begin with. The crazy thing was this wasn’t the biggest of my obstacles. What I had ahead of me was a logistical puzzle the size and scope of Kennedy’s man-on-the-moon mission. At least he had a team of scientists. All I had was a failing merman.

  “Then I’ll have to make sure my substitute’s a good one.”

  He dug a look so deep into my eyes I had to blink him away.

  “And you won’t get in my way?” I continued.

  “Not if you keep Jack out of mine.” His voice went gruff just mentioning Jack’s name. “That storm Saturday night almost killed me.”

  “He’s hurt,” I said.

  “He’s reckless,” Marik replied.

  I’d always been his undoing.
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  “We’re taking a break,” I said, hanging my hands between my knees. “There shouldn’t be any more of his . . . displays.”

  “Good.” He exhaled with relief.

  But nothing was good. Not for any of us.

  “Come,” Marik said, holding out his hand to me.

  “Where?”

  “School.”

  “School? You’ve got to be kidding.” My hand stayed put.

  “Our project is due this week. We have to finish it. Ms. Bryant is allowing class time all week to work on it.”

  “You think I care about a Design project with everything else going on?”

  “I think you need this project —” He held his hand out farther.

  “Need it?” I interrupted.

  “Need the distraction.”

  “How will that help?”

  “It will keep you sane while you work this out.”

  “I gave up on ‘sane’ about four stops back,” I said.

  “If not sane, then busy. In doing so, I believe you’ll come up with something.” Clearly having given up on my accepting his assistance, he reached down and pulled me to my feet.

  “I warn you,” I said. “This could be a bumpy ride.”

  “I have no doubt of it. You are some sort of giant mayhem magnet.”

  “Someone else called me a lodestone.”

  “You do seem to attract more than your share of trouble.”

  As we walked back toward school, I had to admit I felt slightly better. Just having one person say, “I believe in you,” made a difference, even after being called a “mayhem magnet.” Granted, I’d have preferred it to be Jack, would have expected it to be him, but the situation didn’t afford for that. I’d just have to make do with Marik. Even if he was just another piece of space junk I’d pulled in like some huge strip of cosmic flypaper.

  While walking up the front steps, I heard an engine gun. I turned around to catch the tail end of a truck — a beat-up old green thing — fishtailing around the corner.