Flock Page 20
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.
“Katla Gudrun Leblanc, you are under investigation for the abuse of Stork privileges.”
At the ensuing gasps, I hung my head.
“The Tribunal’s decision,” Hulda continued, “is an immediate suspension of Stork affiliation and privileges pending trial. While you will continue to possess your magical abilities during this interim, you will be powerless to access them. Is this understood?”
“Yes, Fru Hulda.”
I should have been happy. I had, after all, achieved my goal: one of the three essentials to the pact was altered. The spell was broken. The bonus of which was that Jaelle would soon have news to share. But I wasn’t. I was deeply ashamed. And disappointed to have failed on another score. Even with my eyes on the toes of my shoes, I could sense their shocked faces and disapproving glares.
“Katla, we must ask you to leave now,” Hulda said.
With this, the mass in my throat expanded, constricting air and bringing tears to my eyes. I ran from the room without uttering a word in my defense or even glancing back. If all went according to plan, they’d know my motives soon enough. And it wouldn’t matter.
On Friday, it was cruddy out and unseasonably cold, which matched my overall mood. I kept reminding myself that the suspension was temporary, and of my own doing, but it didn’t help. My body attended school that day; my mind however was in another dimension, one I’m sure will eventually prove the existence of zombies.
In Design, Marik and I made our presentation. Much to my surprise, he stuck to the script and nailed it. The way he articulated both our name and slogan —“The Toy Box, because today’s games are the building blocks of tomorrow’s discoveries,”— had even Ms. Bryant nodding appreciatively. I, on the other hand, sucked. I couldn’t concentrate and probably now have the record for most “umms” uttered in a five-minute span. Go me. It hadn’t helped that we followed Penny and Jinky, who were superb. I saw the way Marik looked at Penny as she breezed her way through a flawless delivery.
Afterward, in the hallway, I saw him double over in pain. The effort of our speech had cost him. It was another indication that we were game-on.
Once school let out, I found myself slumped over my steering wheel with inertia buckling my backbone. A light rain pinged upon the roof, and the sky was the color of ash. I was expected at Pinewood; we were allotted a half hour to move our display items onto the tables, after which the show was open and the appointed judges would be circulating with their first-, second-, and third-place ribbons. Though I tried not to, I thought of Jack. I missed him so much. Funny thing about the word miss is that it would seem to indicate a sensation that something was lacking, the way your head feels lighter after a haircut. Missing Jack was instead this heavy thing that lodged in my throat, making breathing difficult, and slowed my reactions, making operating a vehicle a dangerous prospect.
On the drive over to Pinewood, the horizon seemed squatter than usual, as if the clouds hung lower and the band of space between the earth and the sky were compacted. I attributed it to my shriveled mood and the gloomy wet weather.
Having put the finishing touches on our project setup, a somewhat recovered Marik and I waited silently by our table.
“Do you think we got the blue ribbon?” Marik asked.
“I do.” And I did. With its primary colors and sample toys, our project was visually stimulating. And to highlight our slogan, we had an array of block-themed toys. My favorite — something I’d taken to calling Andi, given its androgynous nature — was a stack of four blocks in a vertical case that assembled a human figure in four parts: head, upper body, lower torso, and legs. By flipping the six-sided cube, one was able to alter the image radically. I tended to favor the head of the girl with pigtails, a bikini top, tutu, and Dutch clogs with knee socks. Marik, to my annoyance and with some fairly deft hand movements, went for the guy with a ’fro, jacket and tie, swim trunks, and army boots.
“I do, too.” Marik rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“Though it wouldn’t hurt for you to use some of that magic charm of yours on the judges.” I couldn’t believe I was suggesting he influence the outcome. It was testament to how badly I needed just one thing to go right.
“My magic what?” Marik asked.
“You know, charm, hocus-pocus. What you’ve used since you got here to turn the girls to mush and even had someone like Mean Dean playing nice.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on,” I said.
He stared at me.
“You mean to tell me,” I continued, “all that was genuine?”
He continued to eye me blankly.
“And people just . . . like you?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Marik said. “I like them. I like everything. No magic necessary.”
I sat contemplating this news. It was rather startling. And while amazingly simple in theory, still incredible all the same.
A judge walked toward us. Marik sucked in his breath but let it go with a big sputter when we were passed by. Instead, the official affixed the blue ribbon to Jinky and Penny’s project.
“I guess that proves it,” Marik said with a wink. “No hocus-pocus involved.”
I watched Penny and Jinky hug in celebration of their win. Their project was good, darn them. The floor plan called for an aromatherapy corner, an herbal-remedy section, a book nook, and a metaphysical wares area. Even with all its voodoo gimmicks, it was tastefully done and deliberately treated in soothing pastels, soft lines, and nature-inspired images, the handiwork of Jinky and her artistic eye.
“Reporting for chaperone duty,” my out-of-breath dad said.
I thought he may as well just term it a date with Ms. Bryant but held my tongue.
He tapped one of our sample items, one that Marik had found somewhere. It was a can labeled MIXED SALTED NUTS. When you opened it up, a toy snake sprang up and even made a rattling sound. It wasn’t my favorite item, mostly because Marik still liked to brag about how he “got me” that first time. “Oldest trick in the book,” my dad said, “but a classic. You kids are looking good.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but we didn’t place.”
“What?” my dad said. “You guys got robbed.” He began fiddling with Andi. He put cowboy boots where the
head should go, a poodle skirt where the shoulders belonged, the head of a freckled boy below that, and a football jersey as the base. “This project is top drawer. And, come on, a toy store. What could be better than that?”
“Penny and Jinky’s wiccan wares. It took first.”
“Wiccan?” my dad asked. “Really?”
“No, not really, but New Age with a focus on healing and the metaphysical.”
“That sounds very unique,” my dad said. He had moved on to our magnetized Lincoln-Logs, but the way he had left Andi bothered me. I found the misplaced body parts grotesque and a little unsettling. My dad watched me replace the pieces into their anatomically correct locations and flip a few to the girly selections. When I was done, he gave me a must-you lift of his brow.
“What?” I asked, ready to defend the natural order of things. “It bugged me.”
“For someone who I’ve personally witnessed pair an army jacket with ballet shoes, it doesn’t make sense.”
“Not the accessory mash-up. That doesn’t bother me. But the mutations. Ick.”
“Sometimes you gotta think outside the box,” my dad said. “Take a fresh look at things. Besides, it’s a game; you gotta play the whole board.”
Box. A fresh look. Play the whole board. Holy Hasbro. My dad was a freakin’ genius.
“I think I see the lovely Ms. Bryant,” my dad said. “I think I’ll offer her some nuts.” He took off with the gag gift and a goofy grin on his face.
OK, so maybe not a genius in the strictest sense, but a master gamer and fun-loving, which had its applications.
How had I never thought to confer with my dad on the anagram in my dream, even surreptitiously? He was the scramble king, after all. The blocks and his mention of “box” made me think of “parcel.” I had taken “parcel” as is, but on my vision quest, the girl — Idunn — had thrown all the letters up in the air to scatter them, “parcel” included. The phrase was never intended to remain as “parcel dinky pal.” All the letters were meant to be reworked. “Dinky pal” to “pink lady.” And “parcel” to . . . I grabbed a pen and paper from my backpack and scribbled furiously. Carpel. Holy crap, “parcel” scrambled to “carpel.” And “pink lady” wasn’t a house, wasn’t the cameo, and wasn’t the Bleika Norn; it was a type of apple. Pretty much anyone had heard of that variety, but only a girl with an apple-farmer boyfriend would know that carpels were the seed compartments inside apples. Naturally, I was that girl. Break or no break.