Authors: Alyson Noel
Fated (18 page)
Valentina Santos is the first—her name appearing at the highest possible point—scrawled in the space where the wall curves into the ceiling. Her writing faded, angular, with a dark-eyed raccoon drawn in intricate detail placed just beside it.
Esperanto Santos is next, and just beside him is a large black bat.
Piann Santos was guided by a fox—a red fox according to the color of the chalk that she used. While Mayra Santos was guided by either a leopard or a cheetah—she wasn’t much of an artist, so I can’t say for sure.
There are several more names that follow—Maria, Diego, and Gabriella, who were guided by a horse, a monkey, and a squirrel, respectively. And there, down toward the bottom, I spy Paloma’s strong, loopy scrawl, seeing how she went to great lengths to etch a very detailed white wolf with piercing blue eyes.
I lean back on my heels, struck by the enormity of what truly lies before me: family.
My family.
A long tradition of Santoses—both male and female—who survived the same ordeal I’ve only just started. (Well, I’m assuming they survived.)
I guess I’m so used to being a loner, so used to Jennika and my solitary existence, I never realized there was a whole other side beyond my quirky single mom, a black-and-white photo of my long-dead dad, and a few random stories about grandparents who perished well before I was old enough to form any lasting memories of them.
This is so much bigger than I thought.
So much bigger than enduring my tests and succeeding in my training as a Seeker.
I’m a Santos.
Part of a rich, deep, long-standing ancestral legacy.
A calling that stretches back through the centuries.
And now it’s time for me to add my name to the list, to claim my rightful space alongside them.
I reach for my bag, retrieving the chalk stubs Paloma tossed in, and taking great care to allow enough space between my name and Paloma’s, in order to acknowledge that Django’s is missing. Having decided that’s what the other blank spaces were for and feeling relieved to count only two.
I bite down on my lip, noting how my freshly scrawled name, standing on its own, without the addition of
Santos,
looks oddly alone. And yet it feels a little too weird to add it just yet. I’ve never gone by that name. Jennika and Django never married, never had a chance to, which means I’ve always been known as Daire Lyons—the surname stemming from Jennika’s side.
I grip the chalk tighter, start to add an
S
but don’t make it past the uppermost curve before I stop. I can’t write Lyons—can’t write Santos. For the moment, I’m just Daire—a girl straddling two bloodlines. One I was given—one I must earn.
If I live through this, I’ll add it. If not, then my first name and Raven will be my only legacy.
Not that anyone will venture in after me. If I don’t survive this vision quest, there will be no one to follow. According to Paloma, it all ends with me.
I take my time drawing Raven, adding pointed wings, a curved beak, a squared tail, long sharp talons, and glimmering purple eyes. Then I sit back to admire it, figuring if nothing else, this wall will keep me company.
My Irish side finally meeting my Hispanic side—I’m curious to see how the two get along.
I consider adding a few more doodles to pass the time, but it’s a fleeting thought I’m quick to discard. It doesn’t feel right, seems almost disrespectful. It’s like Chay said, this is a sacred space—any extraneous scribbles will only amount to graffiti.
I get up. Take another lap. In search of anything I might’ve missed the first time. But in the end, I’m just walking in circles. Other than the long list of names, there’s not much to it. So after going through a series of stretches, followed by a handful of yoga poses an on-set hair stylist once taught me, I take a quick peek outside, fail to see anything of note, then plop myself down in the middle of the cave deciding to do what Chay suggested: Go quiet and still and wait for something to happen—for a life-defining revelation.
Though I’m only a few minutes in when I grow hungry and restless and bored. I’m no good at meditating, no good at sitting still unless I have a good book. So I reach for the small bag, hold it upside down, and dump the contents before me. Counting the small book of matches, the slim white candle, the red bandanna, the three pieces of chalk, a small jar of white grainy salt like the kind that forms the border, the small rawhide rattle, and a folded-up note among the offerings. I check the bag again, turn it inside out, shake it as hard as I can, but that seems to be it.
No water.
No food.
Apparently Paloma wasn’t joking about the purification fast.
Hoping for a few words of wisdom, I unfold the note, and read:
Dear Nieta,
The directions are simple and few:
Do not leave the cave until it is time.
Do not venture past the white line for any reason whatsoever, until you are absolutely certain it is the right thing to do.
Use your supplies sparingly—they must last throughout the entirety of your vision quest.
Seek the truth.
Seek the light.
Release your attachment to old attitudes, as well as old beliefs and ideas, in order to make room for much-needed insight.
Go quiet, keep your activity to a minimum, and do what you can to connect to the mountain.
When the mountain has accepted you—approved of you—you will know.
Though please be aware that the mountain is tricky—it requires you to distinguish between the real and the false and see past the mirage.
Call upon Raven when you need him—he is always there to guide you.
Call upon your ancestors as well—a shake of the rattle will alert them.
But do not, under any circumstances, venture outside until you are absolutely certain it is time.
Godspeed.
Safe return.
Paloma
I glance between the note and the border beyond. According to what I just read, along with the warnings Chay gave me, they’re not exactly joking about my staying put until it’s time to move on.
And though I try to meditate again, it’s no use. I can’t silence my mind. Can’t silence my stomach from groaning in hunger. So I lean against the wall of my ancestors’ names, hoping it’ll make me feel less alone, remind me that I’m hardly the first to endure this ordeal. Making my way down the list, I call upon them for guidance—shaking the rattle as I do, which feels a bit weird, but then weird is all relative here—and when I reach the end, I call upon Raven as well.
Then I wait.
Stomach clenching so tightly, I reach for my soft buckskin pouch, squeeze it gently, and say, “Raven, please get me through this. Show me whatever I need to know. Put me to the test. And help me do whatever it takes to survive.” Barely reaching the end before my lids start to droop, becoming so heavy I can no longer lift them, and just a few seconds later, I’m swallowed by sleep.
I’m tired.
Hungry and thirsty.
Cold and lonely too.
Terrorized by a long stream of shadow dancers that swarm all around me—their lurid forms mocking—taunting—teasing—cajoling—tempting me to leave—to find my way out of the darkness—out of this cave—and it’s not long before I agree.
I never asked to be a Seeker.
Never asked for greatness or victory.
I’m more Lyons than Santos—not cut out to be a hero.
All I ever wanted was to be a normal girl with a normal life—living in a place of blissful ignorance where gruesome monstrosities—things born of darkness—no longer exist.
I scrunch against the wall, one arm wrapped tightly around me in a vain attempt to slow the train of ache storming my belly—while the other hand clutches high at my throat—so itchy and dry my tongue feels too big—as though it no longer fits. Determined to ignore the gang of monsters—demonic, foul beasts—dancing circles around me—until I flounder to my feet, eager to flee.
My movements so clumsy and quick, I reach for the wall to steady myself, as a constellation of bright, twinkling stars swirl before me. My fingers pressing into Mayra’s wildcat, slipping past Diego’s monkey—the vibration of their long-lingering energy proving I’m not fit to join them—unworthy of their legacy—of claiming their name.
It’s better to cut my losses, apologize to Paloma, and be on my way.
I slip my bag over my shoulder and bid good-bye to the demons. Just about to step over the line when my exit is blocked by a beautiful dark-haired boy standing before me, his icy-blue eyes meeting mine in a way that reflects my sad, sorry image thousands of times.
“You know you can’t do that, right? You know you can’t leave before it’s time?” His tone is sharp, but his eyes flash in kindness, belying the words. “You have to see this thing through. You have to endure. They’re depending on you.”
I roll my eyes. Huff under my breath, telling myself he’s not real—he’s a boy made solely of ether—the product of delusional reveries and outlandish imaginings.
He has no sway over me.
“You and I aren’t like the others,” he says, working hard to persuade. “We don’t get to choose. Our path has been chosen. It’s our job to follow it—to live up to the task.”
I roll my gaze up the length of him—starting at his black shoes and skimming past the slink of long legs, the elegant V of his torso, up to his broad rectangle of chest. Greedily tracking every square inch—until I return to his eyes and realize I’m content to remain there for as long as I can. His words repeating in my head until I finally say, “Us? Are you a Seeker too?”
He wipes a hand over his chin and quickly looks away. Dodging my question when he replies, “You and I are the last of our lines.”
My mouth grows grim as I force myself to look elsewhere, settling on the fiends jeering behind me. The boy doesn’t know me, doesn’t know the challenge I face. Doesn’t know it’ll be much better for me—much better for everyone—if I admit my defeat and go home.
Home.
Wherever that is.
Besides, if this is just a dream like I think, what difference could it make? So what if I go in search of a little relief?
I take a deep breath. Push to move past him. The toe of my shoe edged up to the grainy white line marking the entrance, when his eyes fix on mine and he blocks me again.
“It’s a dream!” I cry, voice filled with frustration. “You’re a phantom—a fantasy—no different from them!” I motion toward the demons. “So do us both a favor and let me out of this place.”
He shakes his head slowly as his eyes tug down at the sides, the sudden transformation making me want to take it all back, renege on my words if only to see him smile again. “I can’t let you do that,” he says. “Everything that happens here—whether in the dream state or the waking state—it’s all part of the test. The actions you choose bear significant consequence. You must determine the mirage from the truth. It’s the only path to success.”
“You’re the mirage!” I shout, eager to move past him, be free of this place. “It’s all a mirage! I just want to be free—why won’t you let me?”
My tirade cut short by the press of his finger just under my chin as he tilts my face toward his and urges me near. Our lips swelling—meeting—the first taste tentative and unsure—though it soon melds into something much deeper—something surging with untold promise—cresting with hope.
Something I’ve no doubt is real.
His hand slips to my shoulder—dips into the valley of my chest—circling the soft buckskin pouch lying close to my heart as he says, “They want this—they want to see you defeated more than anything else.” His gaze intense, voice a soft, whispered warning. “Don’t let them win.”
I press hard against him, his touch so enticing, magnetic, I can’t bear even the slightest divide to stand between us. My progress halted by his hands gripping my shoulders—the forced backward shuffle of my feet—moving me well behind the white line—only satisfied when an expanse of blank space yawns wide between us.
“You must stay until it’s over. You must see this thing through. It’s all a mirage, everything but this anyway—” He leans past the barrier and kisses me again, his touch light, fleeting, but leaving me breathless all the same.
Leaving me staring into the dark, his words lingering in the space he once filled: “We’re all counting on you…”
I wake again.
For the second time. Or is it the third? I can no longer tell.
Time’s so intangible, so fleeting—the day turns to night, and the night becomes day. Indecipherable flashes of dark and light meshing together, blurring into a series of smoldering images that spark and flare—lure and seduce—until I can no longer determine what’s real and what’s fake.
Can no longer distinguish between dreams and reality—between evil and good.
All I know for sure is that the cave is now as dark as it is cold, but I’m too weak from hunger and thirst to light that candle or do much of anything to comfort myself.
I push hard against the wall, the tips of my fingers seeking my ancestors, reading their names like braille. Reminded of the words Paloma wrote in her note, about learning to see through the mirage—to see in the dark, see with my heart—and knowing I can’t go it alone. I need them to help.