Sacred: Eslura's Calling Read online

  “Don’t waste it again,” Fran growled with a finger just as thick and greasy as the sausage link Bea downed in one bite. No one smell could churn Bea’s stomach more than the smell of eggs. Although she attempted several times, she could not unsmell their sulfury stink. She poked at the goopy, yellow horrors with her fork and tried not to gag.

  “You should be grateful you have food on your plate,” Fran said. Bea should have known the comment was coming; the old woman said it every time Bea hesitated to stick her fork into whatever plated monstrosity Fran shoved in front of her. Grateful. Yes, of course! How could she not be grateful for her wonderfully perfect new caregiver?

  But no, caregiver was too warm of a title to give Fran Dildecker. The woman had made it known since the day Bea moved in with her a year and one hundred sixty-four days before that Bea was nothing more to her than a subsidy check.

  Bea narrowed her eyes at Fran, shoved a forkful of egg into her mouth, and drowned away the noxious taste with half a cup of water.

  After what felt like an eternity, Bea finished her meal and headed toward the sink with her plate. As she lathered the chipped stoneware with soap and hot water, she knew what loomed just above her head. She fought the urge to look up at the clock, fearing what it might tell her.

  Against her better judgement, she glanced up and found the numbers and hands of the small tree-shaped clock to be missing. Instead, a glowing symbol appeared on the face; its five golden circles woven together in an elegant design.

  Her stomach curled and she dropped her plate, scattering shards of glass into the sink.

  “Beatrice Tidal!” Fran placed her hand over her heart and gasped at the noise. “What in the world has gotten into you?” Joe tipped his paper down slightly, adjusted his toothpick, and mumbled, “Huh?”

  Bea stared at the water pouring out of the faucet. Her hands shook above the broken plate and she felt herself sinking. She caught the lip of the sink and leaned over it. Nausea gripped her stomach and she thought she might throw up.

  “You know what,” Fran announced. She stood up from her chair, its metal legs scraping against the floor. Bea flinched at the sound and turned around from the sink. “I think it’s about time you bring Beatrice to the bus, Joe.” Fran looked down at her husband for approval, but he was too busy picking at the stray beard hairs he had missed in his morning shave. Fran swiped the paper out of his hands and whacked him on his bald spot.

  “Joseph! Take Beatrice to the community center.” Joe winced and stood up. Bea thought by now he would have known better than to ignore the sea monster, but the old man surprised her more and more each day.

  “Gather up yer belongins, kid,” Joe said, his words cut apart by the toothpick he swirled between his teeth. “You’ve got a bus ta catch.”

  Joe pulled the old Dodge Dart around the bend to the community center and parked in one of the few open spaces. A horde of teenagers had already begun to flock around the bus. Their excited laughter seeped in through Bea’s open window. She rolled it up, only slightly muffling the noise. To her, the bus might as well have had Welcome to your one-way ticket straight to the pits! painted in bright red across its side.

  “Summer camp?” Bea mumbled. “She really thinks this is going to solve things?” She stared out the window. Several of her old classmates were scattered around the crowd, none of whom she had been particularly fond of, or vice versa. She felt queasy and clutched her stomach.

  “Come on, now,” Joe said. He placed a hand on her shoulder and attempted a smile, which looked more like he had a toothache. “Just try to have fun, kid. It ain’t all that bad.” He shifted the car into drive, Bea’s signal to leave. She knew if she did not get out of the car, Fran would arrive in an instant to drag her out by the tips of her toes. With that in mind, Bea grabbed her bag from beneath her seat and climbed out of the truck.

  “I’ll see ya back here in a week, all right?” Joe said as she started to close the door. A week, Bea thought, a week might as well be an eternity.

  Bea shut the door, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and walked toward the registration table. She glanced behind her and watched Joe pull the truck away, engine sputtering black clouds of smoke into the air. Bea shook her head and continued toward the table.

  “Welcome to Camp Tossbridge!” an older blonde teen, who, based on the colorful name tag, was called “Jamie,” greeted her. “What’s your name?”

  “Bea,” she said toward the ground. A lone ant crawled across the dirt into a tiny hole and disappeared from her sight.

  “Bea, Bea, Bea,” Jamie repeated as she ran her finger down a list of names. “Ah, there you are! Beatrice Tidal.” She smiled and put a checkmark next to Bea’s name. “You’re part of the pink group.” Pink. Oh, how Bea despised the color pink. Jamie plucked a pink circle off her sticker sheet and handed it to Bea. “Just put this on your shirt so that our counselors know who is and isn’t a part of their group. Though, I think you’re with Reagan Hideaway. She’s running a little late.” Bea put the sticker on her shirt, and Jamie stepped aside so Bea could step onto the bus.

  The other campers stood idly in the center of the aisle. They spoke loudly of their brief break between school and camp. Bea looked at them and wondered if she could just crawl into her backpack and hide. The reality of the coming week caved in on her as she squeezed between a pair of chatting girls and slumped into a ripped seat.

  Hot and sticky, it burned her thighs. Sweat rolled down her neck, tickling her back. The bus, a tin can on wheels, had no air conditioning to combat the intense summer heat. Desperate for one last gulp of fresh air, Bea cracked open the window. The rusty metal frame stopped the pane short, leaving her with a thumb’s width of breathing room.

  Bea curled her hands into fists, and her nails bit deep into her palms. She wished she could pull out the sketchbook tucked into the front pocket of her backpack. On its pages were the many lands she whisked herself away to whenever she could. Places far, far away. With her sketchbook, Bea could empty her mind onto one of its many blank pages and escape. She pulled her bag closer and sighed in relief, knowing that she would soon be able to pour herself into her art.

  “Hey, keep it down back there!”

  Bea looked up. The bus driver’s menacing stare coincidentally met with hers in the rear-view mirror, and his eyes squinted in an irritated glare. Bea’s thoughts of escape quickly faded. She tore her gaze away and rested her head on the seat in front of her. Eye contact was more painful than the chaos around her.

  She focused on the little cracks in the green vinyl rather than up where she might catch someone else's eyes. The stitching had come apart at the seams, and a one-inch gap sprouted pieces of stuffing. Years of bussing rowdy teens back and forth did not treat it well; the collage of graffiti a testimony to its wear. Its age shown by the many different phrases scribbled on it. Some told of love, some of hate. Some were poetic verse, while others were clearly written by those who had not quite found their voice.

  Her eyes drifted toward the bottom of the seatback where they discovered a familiar symbol scribbled in what looked to be yellow sharpie. Its circles were slightly wobbly and the middle one looked more like a capital D, but it was there all right.

  Again? Her muscles tensed, toes curling in her beat-up tennis shoes.

  “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

  Bea jolted from her thoughts as a waft of overpowering citrus perfume filled her nostrils. She put her hand over her mouth to stifle a cough.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” a voice from under a pile of paisley bags said. “Mind if I sit?”

  Seeing there was no escaping her, Bea mustered a weak “sure” and slid a couple of inches toward the window. As her seatmate stepped on the seat to hoist her bags on the rack above them, Bea searched the seatback in front of her for the symbol but found no traces of it.

  A moment later, the girl flopped down into the seat next to Bea. She tossed her bright-red hair over her shoulders
and turned her freckled face toward Bea. “Oh!” she exclaimed, pointing at Bea’s pink sticker. “You’re one of my campers. I’m Reagan.” She smiled perfectly white teeth at Bea. “You must be…” She fished through her pocket and pulled out a plastic name tag on a string. “Beatrice? Jamie forgot to give you your tag up front.” Reagan handed her the name tag. Bea took it apprehensively, hoping her clammy hands would go unnoticed. She hung it around her neck, feeling like a dog.

  “You can call me Bea.” She gazed around uncomfortably and shifted in her seat, hands reaching for pockets that weren’t there.

  “Nice to meet you, Bea,” Reagan said. She put her knees up against the seatback in front of them and pulled out a thick book. Her hand, adorned with a collection of gold and silver rings, flipped open the cover and she dug into it.

  Bea watched Reagan tug at a gold chain that drooped into her striped crop top. After a few pulls, a purple crystal popped up from under her shirt and swung loosely from the chain. Bea stared at the crystal, drawn to its jagged, sparkling surface. She wanted to reach out and touch it, but merely leaned in to get a better look.

  “Have you read it?” Reagan flashed the cover of her book, which seemed to show a small eye inside a ring with three other rings in a triangle around it. Bea almost gasped aloud, but soon realized it wasn’t the symbol and leaned back in her seat.

  Face flush from being caught staring, Bea stammered, “U-uh, no.” She had regretfully chopped her hair into an uneven bob, which was now too short to hide behind.

  “It’s okay, fantasy isn’t necessarily a genre for everyone.” Reagan laughed and went back to reading.

  Bea forced a flat smile and turned to gaze out the window. She leaned her head up against the glass and exhaled. Her eyes—glazed over from the past week’s sleepless nights—fell shut as the bus engine sputtered to life and the window began to vibrate.

  Bea woke to darkness. She reached out her hands and grasped for something, anything, to hold onto. Sweat beaded on her neck and forehead. Her fingers trembled; her eyes hunted for light.

  The room burst to life, as if a mighty wave had broken through a barrier dam. Bea dropped to her knees and covered her stinging eyes. A ring of fire danced around her, its flames trapping her inside them.

  The heat seared her skin. Flames sent sparks into the air with echoing pops, the tiny embers landing on her skin.

  Distracted by the blaze, Bea almost did not notice the figure emerge from the conflagration. A man whose features were as dark as the cloak he wore strode powerfully into the circle of flames and stood before her, his white hair rolling out the sides of his hood and over his shoulders.

  Bea lifted her head slowly, shielding her eyes from the light. He tilted his hood-shadowed face down to her.

  “Beatrice Tidal,” the man said, his voice distant and hollow.

  “Who are you?” Bea asked.

  The man said nothing more. He turned quickly and disappeared whence he had come.

  “Wait! How do you know my name?” she called, but the man was gone. The flames faded, leaving Bea to wallow in the void.

  3

  The Last Olphin

  Barnaby had come to detest his life. Well, detest was a rather harsh word for him. Perhaps dislike would be more suitable. He had spent his whole life tucked away inside Tide Tale Alley, shunned by the outside world, and forced to live within the walls of old Pemadee’s bookshop.

  He was sick of the same sights—the musty books on the overstuffed shelves, the wobbly reading chairs, the scarred oak floor, the storefront window and its view of the crumbling brick wall across the alleyway. He desperately wanted to get out and explore the oceanside city. He had been told it was a grand sight, had even seen it in a local guidebook. But he had never actually been there, of course. An Olphin in the streets of Ovallia would cause a wave of panic.

  Barnaby took up his usual seat beside the front door, leaned his broom against the chair, and pulled out a tattered postcard from his pants pocket. The Eslurian Opera House. Nothing fascinated him more than that building—the very building that drew hundreds of Eslurians to Galecrest each year during the High Moon Festival. It was his dream to see its lush gold-embroidered curtains, its myriad rows of plush red seats, its glittering polished wooden stage...

  But you won’t ever let me see it, will you? He glanced up at the sign on the door, its paper yellowed and crackled. Olphin Present. The words were a warning to patrons and a constant reminder to him of who he was and would always be: an Olphin—the last free Olphin.

  It felt as if the name had been branded onto his forehead, hovering over him like his own personal storm cloud. Barnaby Britto the Olphin. He could never escape. Eslura would never allow such a creature to roam her lands freely. Not after what the Olphins had done.

  It was easy for Barnaby to hide the webbing between his fingers and toes and the scales that covered his body, even the little fins on his legs and arms could be hidden by his cloak, but the green fins that sprouted from his cheeks were a sure giveaway of who he truly was.

  Nevertheless, thanks to Pemadee, he had been spared, spared from the sentence that imprisoned his people in the depths of Morgaedion nearly fourteen years ago. They had chosen the wrong side of the battle by taking up arms with Obellius, the monster. Barnaby was thankful that his lungs still breathed the air of the oceanside city, albeit filtered through the smell of moldy books and varnished wood, and not the dark and musty air of the prison his people had been condemned to. Pemadee had fought for his freedom, and for that he was very grateful.

  But as much as Barnaby tried, his thankfulness always seemed to be drowned out by resentment. His life was a constant reminder of what his people did, a constant reminder of betrayal, suffering, and hatred. Yet, he yearned to be free.

  There was, however, one thing that made his life just a tad more tolerable: Mauz.

  The plump toad had found his way into Barnaby’s life as if by magic. Barnaby would do just about anything for that cross-eyed, fairy-winged amphibian. Yes, he was a toad, warts and all, but there was something in the way he puttered about the air, his tiny wings struggling to hold up his round, little body, that Barnaby simply adored.

  “Oh, Mauz,” Barnaby said as he watched the toad bob up and down near the front counter, his tongue swinging loosely below him, “what in the name of Aezaros are you doing?” He laughed, stuffed the postcard in his pocket, and got up from his seat at the window to walk over to Mauz and pluck the frog from the air. “I’ve told you, you won’t catch anything with your tongue hanging from your mouth like a dead worm. You actually have to try at some point.” Barnaby pushed the tongue back into Mauz’s mouth.

  “Barnaby,” Pemadee called from his office. “Come here, please.”

  Barnaby flung Mauz in the air and rushed toward the office, glancing at the broom still propped up against his chair, a reminder of the work he had not finished. “Yes, Mr. Pemadee?” He waited patiently outside the doorway of Pemadee’s office, adjusting his glasses and straightening the collar of his shirt.

  The shelves in the small office were stuffed with more books than Barnaby believed possible. A sole window on the back wall had also been jammed with books to fit its shape, leaving Pemadee to conduct his research under the light of a hanging lantern. On a side wall, completely surrounded by old tomes, stood a single glass display case containing a translucent grey stone.

  Sitting at his cluttered desk in the center of the room, scratching an indecipherable script with a feather quill on a sheet of yellowed paper with one hand and digging his fingers into his bald scalp with the other, was the closest thing to family that Barnaby had ever known. After a moment, he lifted his head from the paper and looked at Barnaby in the doorway. “I need some air,” he said, setting the quill down next to his inkpot. “Watch the store while I’m gone and keep on with your duties, understood?” He pushed back from the desk and the wood of his wheelchair squeaked into motion.

  “Yes, Mr. Pemadee,” Barnaby re
plied, nodding so feverishly he felt his gills flapping against his cheeks. Pemadee wheeled past him toward the door and Barnaby followed.

  The bell chimed as Pemadee rolled out of the store, leaving Barnaby in the doorway. A rush of cool air filled the store in his exiting. Barnaby sucked in as much of it as he could before the door clattered closed. He knew the sea was only a stone’s throw away; he could smell the salt, the fish, the sand and the seaweed. Long had he dreamt of plunging into the surf and letting the water filter in and out of his gills. He closed his eyes, envisioned the sea, and sighed.

  Croak!

  “Peppersnakes, Mauz!” Barnaby shouted. “Don’t scare me like that, you know how jumpy I get.” He turned away from the door…and his dream of the ocean.

  Croak!

  Mauz hovered over a piece of paper that the breeze must have swept off Pemadee’s desk face-down onto the floor.

  “What?” Barnaby asked the toad. Mauz croaked again, lowered himself down on top of the letter, and prodded the paper with his tongue.

  “Don’t be foolish.” Barnaby shook his head. “You know I couldn’t do that.” Although he desperately wanted to, Pemadee had stressed to Barnaby time and time again that his personal belongings were none of Barnaby’s business.

  “We’ll just put this back on the desk, okay?” Barnaby said. He scooped the paper up and turned to look back at the front door, which had not moved since Pemadee left. “Well,” he said, fluttering the paper in his trembling fingers, “you don’t think it would hurt to take a little peek, do you, Mauz?”

  Mauz croaked and Barnaby flipped the letter over to skim the page, his heart racing in the daring act.

  “What’s this?” A small, blue candy was stuck to the bottom of the page. Someone had drawn six red arrows pointing to it. Barnaby plucked the candy off the paper, lifted it to his nose, and inhaled its rich, fruity scent.