The Replaced

“Tyler?” I called when I was close enough, and I thought he’d hear me.

Not so much as a flinch.

He was completely engrossed in whatever he was doing, and as I approached, more slowly now, I studied him . . . taking it in.

He was drawing.

He was using the sharp edge of some sort of stone to draw on the sheer face of the cliff wall. I watched, stunned. Completely and absolutely speechless.

I had no idea what it was, but it was a masterpiece.

Lines intersected curves that crisscrossed over clearly marked points and more lines. There were circles, and shapes, none of which made any sense but surely had a purpose . . . at least to Tyler.

And the entire time he kept saying, “Ochmeel abayal dai . . . ochmeel abayal dai . . . ochmeel abayal dai . . .”

I put my hand on his shoulder, and he jerked to a stop.

I nodded toward the wall again. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered. “What is it?”

He looked back at it. “Ochmeel abayal dai,” he said again, and it was weird, so weird, because it almost didn’t sound like him. The voice—his voice, I had to remind myself because it was his—had a strange wheezing quality, like he needed to clear his throat.

But his response totally threw me off.

I gripped his arm. “What does that mean?”

Tyler cocked his head before opening his mouth again. He looked confused, and then he reached up and rubbed his brow. He blinked at me then, the faraway look in his eyes coming into focus, as if he only just realized I was standing right beside him.

“The Returned must die,” he said at last.