The Rise of the Fourteen (19 page)

The
Fairy Chimneys of Cappadocia

That is the next stop on this insufferably long bus ride,
according to the brochure. Mortas and Ferula have made up, but only in the
strange way that close friends do.

They have not spoken, but Mortas will always save a seat for
Ferula on the bus, even if she pretends not to. Ferula will ignore her during
the journey, but will still buy her a bag of chips at every rest stop.

Such is the nature of their friendship. But this is also the
source of Ferula’s concern. He does not know how her “withdrawal” has been
going. But, judging by the circles beneath her eyes, not well. He turns again
to watch the raven-haired girl beside him. She stares out the window, gazing
loftily over the rocky landscape. He sighs in frustration and sparks briefly
shoot out from the tips of his finger before dissipating into the air.

The weary group of students exits the bus after it grinds to
a halt in front of a series of stone pillars. The bus driver sneers as they
walk by, hiding his expression with a cup of coffee.
Insufferable wretches,
the lot of them. No matter. Soon, the two mahi will be dead.
He exits only
after the last student has gone down the steps and locks the door behind him.

“Now,” the driver says to the assemblage of people, clapping
his hands together with mock excitement, “I want to give you guys some time to
explore these beautiful rock formations by yourselves before we talk about the
geological history of this site.”

The man inhales sharply, as if restraining himself. “I want
you guys to split into pairs and meet back here in thirty minutes. After all,
we don’t want anyone getting hurt.” His gaze seems to linger on Mortas for a
moment too long. It is barely noticeable, but it is enough to perturb Ferula.

“Hey,” he calls to Mortas. “Partners?” He desperately hopes
that his probably paranoid concern doesn’t show in his face.

“Sure,” she replies, a weak smile on her face. They walk off
together down a rocky trail.

The bus driver curls his lip in satisfaction as he sees the
pair retreat into the distance.
He thinks he is protecting her. What foolish
thoughts. Mahi are so predictable.
Stealthily, (seemingly impossible for a
pudgy, elderly bus driver) he slips behind a nearby SUV.

What emerges from the shadow can only be described as a pale
wraith. Barely visible, perhaps only as a shimmering of the air, and explained as
the effects of the extreme heat, the translucent specter rushes to follow
Mortas and Ferula, leaving a rush of hot wind in its wake.

Mortas, I’m sorry about what I said. Mortas, I’m sorry.
Mortas,
a hundred different variations of an apology must have flown
through Ferula’s head as the gravel crunches beneath their feet.
I should
just say I messed up. I just gotta. I just
—

“You okay?” Mortas asks. She raises her lightly tanned hand
to adjust the collar of Ferula’s shirt.

Ferula is suddenly very self-conscious and reddens slightly.
Just apologize; you can do it.
“You look like you’re
—
constipated, for lack of a better word,”
Ferula snickers. This is the Mortas he knows and loves; the one who can read
him like an open book.

Mortas’s face turns a little more serious “Listen, I’m sorry
about how I reacted. I … didn’t mean it.”

“You totally did, don’t deny it.”

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t mean to be rude about it, not to
you anyway.” They laugh together this time and a little color returns to Mortas’s
face.

“We cool now?”

“Of course.” Mortas’s eyes then narrow slightly, as if
straining to look at something in the distance. “Ferula, look.” She points to a
series of shallow scoops on the side of a shadowy rock face. “They lead up to
that cavern.” She points to an opening in the rock face.

Ferula looks at her worriedly.
She’s about to do
something stupid, isn’t she?
She walks up to the rock wall in a trance-like
state and runs her fingers over the rough edges of the scoops. She places her
foot in the one lowest to the ground and begins to climb.
I hate it when I’m
right,
Ferula thinks. Mortas gropes for another handhold and pulls herself
up higher, gradually getting further and further from the ground.

“Mortas, this could only end badly and in several different
ways.” Ferula calls after her. She ignores him, her ebony hair swishing in
defiance. She’s nearly to the top when Ferula realizes she’s not coming back.
“Oh, wait for me,” he says, his defeat evident. With great reluctance, he
reaches for the first handhold and hoists himself up after her.

When he reaches the opening, he is surprised to discover it
is indeed a cavern, even if it is a very strange one. A stone floor slopes
downward from the opening towards a sandy bed. The walls are unnaturally
smooth, as if cut by diamond blades. The entire cave glows with a milky white
light, far too bright to just be supplied by the meager illumination from the
entranceway. Ferula cautiously makes his way towards the sand at the far end of
the hollow where he finds Mortas cradling the body of an old woman.

“Oh, there you are,” Mortas says sharply. “Give me your
water bottle.” She holds out her hand impatiently.

“What?”

“Her brow is on fire,” Mortas says, gesturing at the old
woman “I have to try and get her fever down.” The woman moans softly. Ferula
silently reaches into his bag and removes a blue Nalgene bottle.

Mortas all but snatches it from his hand. She removes a
shawl from the old woman and proceeds to wet the fabric and dab the woman's
brow with it. Ferula stands over her and studies the old woman. She appears to
be wearing a multitude of worn shawls in shades of gray and red over a dirty
skirt that might once have been white. Her face is withered and cracking,
framed with a curtain of stringy white hair, and her eyes are shut tight.

The woman moans again and begins babbling in a strange
language.

“Did you just
—find her here?”

“No, I pulled her out of my
backpack, Ferula
.”
Mortas says, still dabbing at the woman’s forehead. Ferula
has no response to that, and watches wordlessly as Mortas grows visibly
distraught.
“Her fever’s getting worse.” She dips the fabric into the
water again, her motions shaky with agitation.

“Mortas, you don’t even know this woman. You don’t know what’s
wrong with her, or how long she’s been sick.” Ferula says. “I mean
—”

“I can’t let her die.”
Mortas glares at him
defiantly, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “Not how I let …
them
die.” She returns to her nursing duties as Ferula watches sadly.

She sees her granny Taylor in that woman. She sees her
mother in that woman.
The woman cries out again and begins shivering.
But
I’m afraid that, like her mother, the woman will die. And if that woman dies,
Mortas will never forgive herself.

The woman continues talking, repeating her words (if they
could be called that) over and over.
Is it a name? The name of someone
she
cannot help?
He rips off another piece of cloth and dips it into their
dwindling water supply, bracing himself for a grueling next few hours.

The woman dies slowly, lapsing further and further into
incoherence. In the end, she’s not even speaking. As Mortas holds the woman in
her arms, the woman’s lips only move open and closed, her thoughts a soundless
whisper. Her eyes have not opened in the hours they have spent there. And they
will not open again. With a few last shuddering breaths, the woman goes limp
and still.

Mortas releases her grip on the woman and backs away,
letting the body sag to the floor. Her breathing is heavy and fast. If Ferula
could see better, there would surely be tears dripping from her face.

“I couldn’t save her,” Mortas says breathlessly. “I let her
die.”

“You did everything you could, it wasn’t your
—
”

“Of course it was my fault! They all died because of me! You
better leave, Ferula, or you’ll die too!” Her last words are choked out, her
voice thick with anguish.

“Mortas, don’t
—
”

“Dead. Dead, dead, dead!” She stomps about the cave, kicking
up sand as she goes. Ferula cover his eyes, shielding his face from the flying
granules.

In the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of a pale
glow. “
Mortas,”
Ferula urges.

“What?”

Ferula gestures towards the end of the cave. They both watch
in horror as a shimmering ether rises out of the woman’s mouth. “Are you sure
she’s dead?”

Ferula and Mortas both freeze in place, their throats dry.
The wisps of light are just beginning to coalesce. Soon, a ghostly man in white
flowing robes is sitting by the woman’s body, clapping enthusiastically.

“You are the last I see. Good, good! You are the ones who
must guide the twelve! Your powers are truly remarkable,” the apparition says
affectionately, as if looking down at his grandchildren. Ferula splutters,
producing noises, not words, in his attempts to comprehend the current
scenario.

Mortas, on the other hand, cautiously steps towards the
specter. “What do you mean, powers?” she asks, her firm tone not betraying her
quaking knees. The man frowns as if the answer to her question should be
obvious.

“You are to guide the other twelve
mahi.
It is only
practical you be gifted with the powers of fire and death.”

“Fire!” Ferula exclaims.

The man frowns again, as if his statement should be
imperative. “Fire and death, of course. Fire to light the way and death to
darken the path behind it.”

“Death,” Mortas say calmly, in a dreamlike state. “So, that’s
why they died.” She is smiling and crying as she hears his words, suddenly
understanding everything.

Mortas is eager to know everything. She walks over to the
shimmering being, drinking in his presence.
He can tell me why
she
thinks gleefully.
He can tell me why they died. And he can teach me how to
control it.

She sits willingly, letting the spirit’s words wash over her
as he explains the history of the
gift
and the arrow challenges. She accepts
everything unquestioningly, blinded by her thirst for answers, even as the
specter explains her ultimate purpose.

“You and Ferula must accept your arrows of power or the
other
mahi
cannot perform the ritual and the
gift
will not be
restored.” Mortas grins, tears no longer falling.
My deaths had a purpose. I
do not have to be a shade of cairns.
She holds her hands up, and an onyx
arrow materializes, the stone inlaid with a golden cornucopia
—a
symbol of life.

Ferula watches this exchange with disgust. He sees the light
in Mortas’s face. He sees the hope that the apparition’s words give her.
And
they’re all lies. Surely, this is just some trickster with no special effects
budget. Right? I can’t let her listen to this.
But, as Ferula watches
Mortas accept her arrow, he knows that he may be too late.

“Ferula, you must come too.” Mortas gestures encouragingly,
eager to share her newfound wisdom with her friend.

Ferula walks over to stand protectively in front of Mortas
and addresses the alabaster man.

“What is your name? You who spins lies to hurt my friend?”

His eyes burn with defiance.

Mortas punches Ferula in the arm for his impudence, but the
old man replies calmly. “I am Sapienter, the protector of the gift and the last
survivor of the golden age.”

Ferula gives him a disinterested look. “Am I supposed to be
impressed?”

The specter seems to double in size, bursting with fury. “You
should be! I know more of your destiny than you may ever know. I have survived
all of the horrors of the dark ages only to be mocked by a mere child.”

The man pauses, as if taking a second to breathe, then
continues with his tirade. “Learn your power fire
mahi.
Light your way or
suffer in the dark to the ruin of all.” The spirit vanishes and the pale glow
that once encompassed the cave flickers and dies.

“I can’t do it, Mortas.”

“Yes, you can!”

“Mortas, I can’t.”

“Well, maybe you could if you stopped acting so
self-righteous!” The conversation had been going in circles like this for some
time now with Mortas continually insisting that Ferula use his “fire power” and
Ferula continuously refusing.

“How many times do
I have to tell you Mortas, that
thing
was just playing tricks with us. You
don’t have magic any more than I do
.”

“Don’t you dare say that!” Even in the dark, Ferula can
imagine the hurt expression on her face. “Magic
has given me an answer.
I know only now that there is purpose in life and
in death. I know only
now
that my deaths were not in vain. Don’t you ever turn your back on
magic Ferula Smith,
on the magic you know is inside all of us! Do not
let the world seem twisted because of magic. Your magic is what you make it.”

Ferula feels a firm hand grab his own. It gives his hand an
encouraging squeeze. Ferula lets out a deep breath, one that he didn't realize
he had been holding. The breath travels down his other arm, the energy
extending past his limbs until a flame begins to grow in the palm of his hand.

Still grasping Mortas’s hand, he holds the flame high and
leads the way out of the chamber. The sloping pathway has been replaced by a
stone door, which opens at Mortas’s touch. They spill out of the cave, taking
great gasps of sweet night air.

“I knew you could do it,” Mortas whispers, her hand still
holding his. With a sputtering, the flame flares up and dies out. It is
replaced by a red arrow carved with fiery symbols. Ferula holds up his arrow,
and it glows brightly, sending up sparks of red. Mortas in turn holds up her
arrow and sends ebony sparks up into the sky.