Chapter 2

Part of me wanted to plunge into the comfort of the virtual world and forget, but I knew it would never work. I could hide from the truth, but I could not forget. The stakes were huge, lives were in danger, Chan was in danger. But what could I do, someone suckled more on the milk of computers and logic than the chaos of change? My heart said plenty, but my mind refused to be swayed. I was smart enough--or desperate enough--to realize I needed help. I didn’t have to think hard to come up with someone who would know enough about shamans and cataclysmic end-times to be of help.

     I grabbed my down-filled jacket as protection against the winter chill that had been eating at my bones all week. In terms of weather, December was not a friendly month for those of us living in upstate New York.

     I signaled Macbot to turn on the security system behind me as I slipped out into the biting wind and darkening light.

     My mother would not be pleased with what I was about to do.

     A computer techie by trade, my mother was into bringing home all sorts of electronic gizmos for both testing and toying. Our house would probably have been even more overrun with gadgets if my father, with his preference for the classical, had not objected. In his opinion, enough was enough.

     Macbot, our home computer, had been one of the better devices to come out of my mother’s hobby. Mom had gone creative on me when installing Mac, hoping to use his unique talents for more than just overseeing the house’s electronic systems. She had turned him into a spy.

     My mother tends to worry about what she calls my “inordinate curiosity,” the knack I have for charging off after whatever sparks my interest despite the consequences. So she installed a surveillance program in Mac. This particular code was not intended for the house, but for me. She hoped to use the home-bot to warn her when I yielded to my more impulsive nature, times like now. It had worked for a while, until I figured out how to reprogram the instructions. Mac and I now had an understanding.

     As I stepped away from the secure comfort of my home, I looked around at the night shadows that closed in on me, shivering from more than the cold. Even though the well-lit area around my house was considered safe, my mother was probably right in cautioning me not to wander out alone at night. I could have honored mom’s rules by calling Cassie to pick me up, or by taking one of the shuttles to BranOake’s central core. I chose to walk instead.

     A light snow had just begun to fall, softening the silence of the dark night. I savored the feel of fresh air, swept by the play of a crisp breeze, against my flushed cheeks. Maybe, by the time I reached my destination, I would have some idea about what to say and how to say it. Maybe my crisis would have disappeared, fading away into the realm of “once upon a time.” Not likely.

     I made my way down a tree-skirted hill towards the dance of city lights that sparkled through the misting snow. We lived on the outskirts of town, in what was affectionately called “The Artist’s Row,” a group of stately old Victorian houses that had been saved from demolition years ago. My parents, ecstatic at finding these gems of architectural craftsmanship, fell in love with our house at first sight. This, along with BranOake’s decreasing rate of crime, clinched their decision to move here. We now called BranOake home—or at least I did. As far as I was concerned, my parents weren’t around enough to call it anything.

          My father was an archeological scholar, currently on assignment in the Middle East, while my mother’s technical skills had landed her somewhere on the West Coast this month. Since their high-paced and demanding careers kept them away from home a good portion of the year, they hoped BranOake would provide the safe haven they wanted for their teenage daughter. If nothing else, it could act like a magical balm to ease their consciences as they sped themselves around the world, leaving their daughter behind to cope as best she could.

          Things were quieter than usual this evening with everyone bundled inside, away from both ice and cold. As I wound my way amongst the streets, the snow increased at a steady pace, settling like a lacy frosting on everything it touched, tickling my nose and eyelashes with its delicate white fluff. The glow from the streetlamps provided a surreal backdrop for the waltzing flakes. Shadows danced amongst the snow sparkles as, every now and then, clouds reached out to capture a phantom moon that played hide and seek in the night sky.

          Despite the peace, or perhaps because of it, my steps quickened as I reached what could be called the “inner city” of BranOake. I looked around uneasily as I covered the last few blocks to Mystecha, my destination. Even BranOake’s new reputation as one of the safer places to live, compared to many American inner cities, could not alleviate the tension that clung to the air. The streets seemed to remember another time when things were not so calm. In fact, before the coming of Mystecha, the area I now traipsed through had been called “the war zone”, filled with drugs and guns and idle teens in search of instant highs. Empty stares had been replaced by smiles, drugs and guns by art and dance festivals. According to my parents, the once wild BranOake had been tamed.

          But I was not so sure.  Ancient ghosts are easily riled. Things seemed to be bubbling and shifting again—and not for the better. If one really stopped to listen, to taste the breeze, one could grasp a hint here, a smell there, of menace sighing overhead and humming underfoot. These days, most did not venture out alone into the streets after dark. Tonight, the shiver of danger felt even thicker than normal.

     Before long I caught a glimpse or two of bright lights and even brighter colors glimmering through the ever-increasing dance of snow flurries. A mural of enchanted beasts, from unicorns to gryphons to jaguars, played hide and seek behind a tangle of vines that sprawled across the southern façade of Mystecha’s brick-clad walls. In the summer, these gargoyles of protection concealed themselves behind a cover of greenery, with just a hint of tooth and claw to remind you that they were there. But when the sharp winter winds blew and the ivy-like leaves fell, they stepped forward to reveal the full fierceness of their primal beauty. I, for one, found these protectors to be a welcoming sight.

          The founders of the youth center impressed my parents with the work they were doing to change the streets and silence the ghosts. Because of this, my mother had asked Pennae Anewn and his wife Cassie to keep an eye on me when she and my father had to work out of town. When I first heard of this arrangement I wasn’t pleased, insisting I could take care of myself. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if those protests resulted from pride or some deeper unease. Could I have sensed, even then, the impact Pennae and Cassie would have on my life? 

          Mystecha, known to those of us who frequented it as The Hearth, formed an oasis of sorts for disenfranchised youth. It was our House of Many Mansions, a beacon of light in an otherwise dark world, a place that represented hearth and home to many. Pennae was always calling Mystecha a magical cauldron.  It was there to help unveil the creative spark hidden inside anyone who dared dive deep enough in search of it. Some of the most gifted artists in the community--perhaps even in the state--were members or affiliates. Unfortunately I wasn’t one of them.

     Art was not my gift, though I sometimes longed for it to be. That didn’t mean that I was neglected by the elusive Giver of Gifts. I was the first to admit that I, too, had received my share. From my mother, I had acquired my technical ability. From my father, I had acquired a deep respect for other peoples, places and cultures, which I used as the sturdy foundation for everything else. A strange but interesting mix, it somehow seemed to work for me. Most times, I was wise enough to acknowledge and be grateful for what I had received. Other times, I found it convenient to forget.

     The warmth of the Hearth welcomed me. I noticed a crowd hanging out near the lounge. Over the stream of chatter, I could hear the blare of the television in the background. Even here, the forecast of doom and gloom spread its havoc, spitting out news about the chaotic state of the world. It sounded like the millennium all over again.

     I stopped at the fringe of onlookers to see if anything had changed drastically since I left home. Obviously not. Guatemala was still in danger of falling off the face of the earth. Catching sight of Cassie’s dark curls among the milling bodies, I pushed my way over to her.

     “Kat,” Cassie said, “I’m surprised to see you tonight. I thought you had work to do up at the house?” Her smile of greeting faded, her eyes searching. “Are you okay?”

     Cassie could always be counted on for her soft-spoken support, no matter what the challenge might be. She was an island of calm in a stormy sea, quite the opposite from her husband, Pennae, who tended to instigate the storms. Though Cassie and Pennae were like water and fire, they suited each other.

     I acknowledged Cassie’s concern with a stiff smile.

     “I had thought so, until I heard the news.”

     Cassie nodded, eyes clouding as they turned back to the transmission.

     “Things are getting pretty rough down there.”      

     I could only watch the images for a moment or two before feeling my nausea begin to rise. I wanted to unload my troubles on Cassie, but, though I wished otherwise, she was not the reason I had come to Mystecha.

     “Cassie,” I said, turning my eyes away from the destruction and back to her. “I need to talk to Pennae. Is he around?”  

     Cassie met my gaze, her look intense, her brow cut by a frown. “He’s a bit busy right now. He’s upstairs, trying to get in touch with the youth centers in Guatemala City to see if they need any help in getting their kids out.”

     “I wish this could wait, but it can’t. It concerns Guatemala, and—unfortunately—I really do need to speak to him about it. Please, Cass, it’s important.”

     Cassie scanned my face, a thousand questions in her eyes, but she didn’t pry.

     “Then you’d better go up. But, Kat, tread lightly. You know how frustrated he can get when others are in trouble and he feels powerless to help.”

     I nodded my thanks, heading for the Dragon Steps, a staircase patterned in red and green coils that snaked their way up to the landing above, a gift from one of the Hearth’s past members.

     “Oh, and Kat…” Halfway up the stairs, I turned. “Best not mention how you got here tonight.” She crooked an eyebrow at my hair, my jacket.

     My hands flew up to brush off the lingering snow crystals, swiping at my hair and shoulders. I shook like a dog, melted droplets flying. Shrugging, I smiled crookedly at Cassie. Hopefully, Pennae had more important things to think about than some broken rules. If not, he soon would.

     ‘Frustrated’ failed to describe the growls and expletives that came from behind the closed door. I almost turned tail, racing back down the corridor leading to the stairs and safety. I found my courage waning, a tad short in supply now that it was needed. But then, who could blame me? I had already been the target of one of Pennae’s so-called frustrated outbursts. It wasn’t something I ever wanted to experience again.

     “Stop with the excuses.” His voice was low and fierce. “I don’t care how you manage it. I want them out of Guatemala—now. Send them here, if you have to. We’ll find room, somehow.”

     It sounded as if it were going to get crowded at Mystecha—again.

     A few more muffled sounds indicated that my guardian calmed down enough to complete the arrangements.

     By the time I gathered my courage, only silence came from inside the room. Drawing a deep breath, I hesitated for a few more seconds, long enough for Pennae’s flames to have been banked and brought back under control. I knocked.

     More silence greeted me, a silence so loud it threatened to bring all my fears crashing down around me again. I went out of my way to avoid Pennae as much as possible, preferring to interact with Cassie. The man made me nervous; he always had. Something about him sparked images of mystery in my fertile mind. He was a paradox. His impeccable behavior towards his kids—fair, honest and just—was always intermingled with an air of secrecy and danger. Let’s just say he was quite unlike anyone I’d ever known.

     Pennae hailed from the wilds of some remote desert region in the Middle East, but chose not to profess any specific national affiliation, preferring to be seen as a bridge between peoples and cultures. Over the years, he had acquired his name, the Latin term for feather, probably because he was always flying off to one place or another to help kids in need. Though we all preferred to use his nickname, his real name was Penemue. My father informed me that he shared this name with an angel from the ancient biblical Book of Enoch. Known as a Watcher, this particular angel had dared to bring the arts of teaching and writing to mankind’s children—acts for which he was later condemned. My father thought it humorous that Pennae, who just happened to be similarly gifted in his own right, had the nerve to take such a name for himself. Obviously, my father didn’t know the man all that well. Lack of nerve was never a problem for him.

     I raised my hand to knock a second time, but it shook so much I again lowered it to my side. Perhaps this was a mistake. I hated the idea of resurrecting the unfinished business that stood between us. Perhaps I should rethink my plan.  Perhaps I should use Cassie as my shield. She could gentle the waves I was about to make.

          In April, Pennae and Cassie had taken a group of kids, most of them from the inner city, on a trip to Guatemala to explore the ancient Mayan ruins, the even-more-ancient rain forest, and a culture starkly different than any the kids had ever been exposed to before. Pennae and Cassie led trips like this often, encouraging the more affluent members of the community to sponsor those most in need. The intent was to open up avenues of cooperation and understanding amongst the young of all cultures and, in the process, make the world a little smaller and a lot safer for everyone.

          It was on this trip that I met Chan.  It was on this trip that I also had a serious disagreement with Pennae, one that left us both a bit shaken and overly cautious with each other. Even though we had since made strong efforts to mend our differences, I found myself still hesitant to trust. I fervently hoped I had made the right decision in bringing my problems to him today.

     After a few minutes of chewing my lip in hesitation, I screwed up my courage, squared my shoulders, and forced my hand to knock again.

     An answer finally came, soft but steady. “The door’s open.”

     As I entered, the first thing I noticed was the man-high dancing Shiva statue, nestled within its private niche amongst the book-lined walls. The intense stare of this Indian god, Lord of the Dance of creation and destruction, always unnerved me, even softened, as it was, by the diffuse lighting of the office. I looked to the right to find another presence just as intense. Pennae had moved away from his desk, littered with phone, computer and chaotic papers, to stare out into the dark. Hand braced on jamb for support, he continued to gaze out the window despite my arrival, seemingly distracted by the evening sky as it deepened into the night. Curly raven-black hair hung loose and heavy against his collar in tangled disarray, as though he had just finished running his fingers through it. He did that a lot when trying to extricate one of his kids from the trouble they managed, time and again, to get themselves into. Considering what I planned to tell him, I had a sinking feeling Pennae’s hair would be a mass of tangles for a long time to come.

     “It appears the weather will turn wild tonight.” He spoke into the darkness he watched.

     Somehow fitting, I thought, considering events elsewhere in the world.

          “So, Kat,” he said as he turned around, “to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” His voice was quiet, gentled from his previous tirade.

     I shuddered. He had obviously known I was the one lurking at his door, though I didn’t know how.

     Pennae leaned back against the window jamb, arms folded across chest, eyes narrowed, waiting for me to explain why I had disturbed him. Silence stretched between us. He made no attempt to disguise his mood. Anxiety darkened his slate-gray eyes, even though he was amazingly gifted at donning masks at will, protecting his deeper secrets from prying eyes. When Pennae looked worried, the rest of us should probably start praying. I swallowed in an attempt to ease my parched throat before plunging in.

     “I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, voice catching. “But I really need to talk to you.”

     “Kat,” he said, “you know I’m always here for you, but do you think this could possibly wait? Perhaps until later tonight? I’m afraid I might not be up to facing any more sticky challenges right at this moment.”

     Pennae preferred to meet with his kids when he was most apt to be receptive, fair and objective; now was obviously not that time. I might be in for a rough ride.  

     I grimaced, uncomfortable about adding one more burden to his overtaxed shoulders. At least I could count on the fact that, no matter what he said, Pennae always seemed primed for any challenge that was thrown his way.

     “Unfortunately, I don’t think it can wait. What I have to tell you is important,” I said. I stopped, then began again. “I’m not sure how to put this.” I paused to stuff my hands in my pockets and scuff the toe of my shoe against the rug, richly woven with patterns of forest green and ruby red. I took a deep breath before meeting his unwavering gaze. “I think I might have some critical information about what’s happening in Guatemala.” I hesitated, measuring every word. “But I’m not quite sure what to do with it.”