“But the thing is, I think I was on Mogadore, which, by the way, is just as disgusting as I imagined it would be. The air was so thick it made my eyes water. Everything was desolate and gray. But, how did I get there? And how could this one huge dude on Mogadore seem to sense when I was there?”
“How huge?” Sam asks.
“Huge, like more than double the size of the soldiers I saw, twenty feet tall, maybe more, far more intelligent and powerful. I can tell just by looking at him. He was definitely a leader of some sort. I’ve seen him twice now. The first time I was overhearing information relayed to him by some little peon, and it was all about us and what had happened at the school. This second time I saw him as he was preparing to board a ship; but before he was on it, one of the others ran up and handed him something. I didn’t know what it was at first, but just before the ship’s door closed, he turned towards me to make sure I could see exactly what it was.”
“What was it?” Sam asks.
I shake my head, ball up my paper towel, and burn it on the palm of my hand. I look out the back door at the setting sun, a blaze of orange and hot pink like the Florida sunsets Henri and I watched from our elevated porch. I wish he was still here to help make sense of all this now.
“John? What was it? What did he have?” Six asks.
I lift my hand and grab my pendant.
“This. These. He had pendants. Three of them. The Mogadorians must have taken them after each kill. And this massive leader guy, or whoever he is, he put them around his neck like Olympic medals, and then he stood there just long enough so I could see. Each one was glowing bright blue, and when I woke up, mine was too.”
“So are you saying it’s a premonition, like you just saw your fate? Or could you have just had a weird dream because of how stressed out you are?” Sam asks.
I shake my head. “I think Six is right and these are all visions. And I think they’re all happening right now. But the thing that scares me the most is that when that guy got on that ship, there’s a good chance he was headed this way. And, if Six is right about how fast a ship can travel, it won’t be very long until he’s here.”
Chapter Eleven
THE THINGS I REMEMBER ABOUT COMING TO SANTA Teresa are mostly just snippets of a long journey I thought would never end. I remember an empty stomach and sore feet and being impossibly tired most of the time. I remember Adelina begging for change, for food; remember the seasickness and the vomiting it caused. I remember disgusted looks from passersby. I remember every time we changed names. And I remember the Chest, as cumbersome as it was, that Adelina refused to part ways with no matter how dire our situation became. On the day we finally knocked at the door Sister Lucia answered, I remember it being on the ground tucked snug between Adelina’s feet. I know she stowed it away in the shadows of some obscure corner of the orphanage. My days of searching have turned up nothing, but I still keep looking.
On Sunday, one week after Ella arrived, we sit together in the back pew during Mass. It’s her first, and it holds her attention about as well as it holds mine: not at all. Aside from class, she’s pretty much been by my side since the morning I helped her make her bed. We walk to and from school together, eat breakfast and dinner together, say our nightly prayers together. I’ve grown very attached to her, and by the way she follows me around, I can tell she’s grown attached to me as well.
Father Marco has droned on for a good forty-five minutes, and finally I close my eyes, thinking of the cave and debating whether I should bring Ella along with me today. There are several problems with it. First, there’s zero light inside, and there’s no way Ella will be able to see through the dark in the way that I can. Second, the snow has yet to melt, and I’m not sure she’d be able to make the trek through it. But most of all, I worry that bringing her would be putting her in harm’s way. The Mogadorians could arrive at any moment, and Ella would be defenseless. But even with these obstacles and concerns, I’m eager to take her along anyway. I want to show her my paintings.
On Tuesday, minutes before we were to depart for school, I had found Ella hunched over on her bed. Still chewing on a breakfast biscuit, I looked over her shoulder to see her furiously shading a perfect drawing of our sleeping quarters. The details, the technical accuracy of each crack in the wall, her ability to capture the faintest of squares of sunrays that dropped through the windows in the morning, was astounding. It was as if I was looking at a black-and-white photograph.
“Ella!” I had blurted.
She had flipped the paper over, trapping it against her schoolbook with her tiny smudged hands. She knew it was me but didn’t turn around.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” I’d whispered. “How did you learn to draw so well?”
“My father,” she whispered back, keeping the drawing turned over. “He was an artist. So was my mother.”
I’d sat down on her bed. “And here I thought I was a pretty good painter.”
“My father was an incredible painter,” she’d said plainly. Before I could ask her more questions, we had been interrupted and then ushered out of the room by Sister Carmela. That night I’d found Ella’s drawing under my pillow. It’s the best present I’ve ever received.
Sitting in Mass, I think that maybe she can help me with my cave paintings. Surely I can find a flashlight or lantern somewhere here to take with us. And then my thoughts are interrupted by a fit of giggles beside me.
I open my eyes and look over. Ella’s found a red-and-black furry caterpillar that’s in the process of crawling up her arm. I bring my finger to my lips in a sign of silence. It stops her for a brief moment, but then the caterpillar climbs higher and she begins giggling again. Her face turns red while trying not to laugh, but the fact that she’s trying to stifle it only makes it that much harder. And then she can’t help herself and a string of laughs escape. Every head snaps around to see what’s happening, and Father Marco stops his sermon in midsentence. I snatch the caterpillar from Ella’s arm and sit upright, staring back at those staring at us. Ella stops laughing. Slowly the heads turn back around and Father Marco, clearly flustered at having lost his spot, resumes his sermon.
I sit with my hand around the caterpillar. It tries wriggling free. After a minute I open my fist, and the sudden movement causes the furry little thing to curl into a ball. Ella raises her eyebrows and cups her hands together, and I place the caterpillar in them. She sits there smiling down at it.
I scan the front row. I’m not at all surprised to see Sister Dora glaring sternly in my direction. She shakes her head before turning back to Father Marco.