Flock (4 page)

Driving home, I was so excited about Jaelle’s ready-for-baby signs that I almost didn’t register the summons to a Stork meeting. Our means of announcing a same-day, nine p.m. council gathering was a scalp rash: a barbaric method of communication and my least favorite part of the job. Thankfully, it wasn’t nearly as painful or as noticeable as it had been the first few times. I irritably dug through my bag looking for something to cover my head. Dreading the next few pre-meeting hours, I decided to reroute.

The door chimes above the Norse Falls General Store, my grandfather’s shop, clanged as I entered. I was surprised to find him, rather than his employee and one of my sister Storks, Ofelia, behind the counter.

“What’s up, Afi?”

“Canada,” he said in that croaky voice of his and pointed to what I presumed was due north.

“Where’s Ofelia?”

“She went to the Kountry Kettle to pick us up some dinner, but you had to know that already.”

“I did?”

“She said she was getting you the mac and cheese plate.”

Ofelia had an unsettling ability to read minds and intuit things. Sure, kinda good when you had a hankering for a warm and gooey bowl of comfort food. But bad — very bad — when you had secrets to keep. Despite my barking tummy, the latter was my more pressing concern.

“Leave it to Ofelia to remember I’d promised to come by and tell you both about my first day back.”

I hadn’t promised any such thing. Moreover, I was more the I-miss-summer-already type.

“There you are,” Ofelia said, coming through the door with a large brown sack in her hand. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“I am,” I said. Did she already know that?

“And how was school?” She set the bag on the counter.

“Interesting. As a matter of fact, there were a couple of new exchange students from Iceland. One of whom you met while you were there, Afi.”

“I met?” Afi asked, his milky blue eyes widening.

“Remember the girl who sold you this necklace at the fair?” I lifted the icicle-shaped crystal from under my collar. Though it was a painful reminder of the ordeal Jack and I went through, I wore it as a present from Afi and as a reminder that there were forces out there, bad forces.

“No, not especially,” Afi said, receiving the white Styrofoam bowl that Ofelia handed him.

“At the festival, I had chatted with the girl about Norse Falls. I must have made quite the impression, because she’s here. Brought her cousin, even.”

Ofelia’s brow raised in slatted lines like a venetian blind. Not a good omen. With forced concentration, I focused on Jinky, her tough-chick appearance, and her real cousin, Hinrik the fisherman. For almost a full minute, Ofelia and I locked minds like this until, finally, she rubbed her temples, as if fatigued, and resumed passing out containers of food.

I myself hadn’t been the least bit wearied by our tête-à-tête. I was, however, hungrier than ever and forked a big scoop of mac and cheese into my mouth.

Afi, I noticed, took only a few bites before he closed the lid on his dinner.

“Not hungry?” I asked. Then again, given his order, who would be? Oxtail stew? Gross. Any tail, for that matter. Except it was normally one of his favorites.

“I’ll take it home with me,” he said, “and try again later.” He drew a wheezy breath.

“Why don’t I run you home?” Ofelia said, dropping a napkin over her own container. “My car’s right out front.”

I watched Ofelia steer Afi out the front door and was grateful for about the hundredth time this month that she was around to keep an eye on him and the store. That mind-reading thing, though — I could do without that.

While finishing up my dinner, I pulled out the handouts for a few of my classes. Judging by the length of time it took Ofelia, she had seen Afi into his house and had probably run a load of laundry and swept his kitchen floor. Grateful moment number 101. Frowning at the inclusion of Faulkner on the Honors English reading list and blowing my bangs up in frustration, I was startled to find Fru Hulda, our Stork leader, standing near the doorway to the store’s back room and our transformed-come-meeting-time council crib. Truly, “startled” hardly did justice to my state of shock. Not only had she appeared without triggering the door chimes or owning — to my knowledge — a key to the back door, but also, and more importantly, she had been away on top-secret Stork business since I had uttered the word
Ragnarök
— the Norse equivalent of the End of Days — to her three months ago on the night of my mom’s marriage to Stanley.

“Fru Hulda!” I was off my stool like a bottle rocket. This time she opened her arms to invite the hug she knew was coming her way. I took it easy on her. Now that she was back, I intended to keep it that way. As second chair, I fulfilled my obligation to lead in her absence, but there were other things I’d rather do. Like read the torturous Faulkner or gnaw on leathery oxen, for instance. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Likewise, child, likewise.”

“So is there something I should know?” I asked, biting my bottom lip in anticipation of her reply. Within moments of hearing the
R
word from me, she’d skittered off for the World Council, not much of a rest-easy or all-clear signal. To my relief, there had been no large-scale disasters during her absence, but I still got the willies every time I heard Anderson Cooper’s voice.

“The council recorded many disturbing events but is most pleased to report a lull in such activities. We have all been sent back to our home districts with the reprieve.”

The whole calm-before-the-storm phenomenon came to mind, but I wasn’t about to bring it up. “That’s kind of a good sign, right?”

“I think so,” Hulda said. “And in keeping with what is possibly a Stork’s most important attribute.”

“What’s that?” She may as well have hooked a worm to that statement the way it begged a question.

“Patience. And belief in the fullness of time.”

Patience. Ugh. Not often linked with my name.

“Did you call the meeting to announce your return?” I asked, changing the subject.

“No. I am answering another’s call to order, as are you, I presume.”

“That reminds me,” I said, jumping to attention. “I better unlock the back door.”

The moment I twisted the dead bolt a quarter turn to the left, Storks began filing past me. Once assembled and with roll called, Fru Grimilla informed us that she had called the meeting. Despite the fact that she was Penny’s grandmother and guardian, Grim and I weren’t exactly chummy. With glares, stares, and scolding remarks, she made it her mission to expose my inexperience and challenge my authority as second chair. It usually made for the kind of tension that could launch nukes.

That night, I tried a new approach; I wouldn’t allow the messenger, Grim, to detract from the wonder at hand. To do so, I refocused my sensory attention. Sound and sight faded to the background while smell and touch became sharp and clear. It was at moments such as this that I felt my magic as an alternate aperture through which the cosmos and I communicated. I sensed a pillowy down as my shoulders melded into the honor and responsibility of our mission. We delivered souls. Not all souls. Only those who came to us for guidance. Beyond our small piece of the equation, an unquantifiable number of souls teemed in perpetual ebb and flow of transition.

Now, in one of those rarefied cocoons of awareness, I felt them surround me like a starry sky and pulse with life at its purest essence, which was, of course, our Stork term for a hovering soul.

I had no idea how long humans such as myself had been charged with ushering the undecided. I had no idea how others, of their own volition, slipped into that suspended moment between oblivion and conception. I didn’t want to know why some alighted upon the unwilling or unprepared. Nor did I understand how that journey for others was compromised with physical or mental challenges or, worse, cut short entirely.

I only knew that, on occasions such as this, an individual essence petitioned our magical sisterhood for placement with one of a small selection, usually three or four, of potential mothers.

I was snapped from this reverie by Grim’s pronouncement of tonight’s soul as “a rambunctious but well-intended boy.” Though this description described pretty much the entire male population from toddlers to teens, some atmospheric static or pressure clapped me to attention.

Nothing in Grim’s description of the first two vessels resonated but when she described the third as “gung ho, brassy, and thriving in her new job,” I knew via some crackling alternate frequency she was describing Jaelle. I was instantly alarmed and fell into a sulk. Why hadn’t I received this assignment? I was so distracted by my brooding that I was slow to react to Grim’s recommendation of vessel number one.

“Not number three?” I asked much louder than I intended to. In my defense, there were some weird acoustical properties to the room once it assumed the function of clandestine command post, as if it, too, swelled with purpose.

“I believe my endorsement of number one was perfectly clear,” Grim said with that uppity clip of hers. “Shall we vote?”

“Wait!” I had to do something. This would be the second time that Jaelle was passed over by our council. Deep down I knew this was a bad omen. When new to these responsibilities, I was often overwhelmed and reluctant to trust my instincts. Now, coming into my abilities, I had an odd sixth sense about these things. Being passed up again would cloud Jaelle’s aura with a dark mark; I was certain of it. “Can you elaborate as to what vessel number one offers that number three does not? If you would be so kind, please, Fru Grimilla.” That last suck-up part was pure Fru Dorit: our expelled-for-divulging-Stork-secrets, now-on-the-lam former member. Maybe not the best choice to emulate, but resistance had never worked, either.

“No. I cannot,” Grim snapped. “Will not, rather. I believe my presentation was fully formed.”

So much for the kiss-ass approach. “It’s just —”

“Just what?” Hulda asked.

“I kind of liked the sound of number three,” I said, deflating like a blown bicycle wheel. “And otherwise put, ‘brassy’ could be described as confident or assertive, good qualities for the mother of a high-spirited boy.”

“Honestly, Fru Hulda, am I to be interrupted for such inanity?” Grim may have been addressing Hulda, but it was me she shot with a look that could puncture a lung. I heard a small burble in my chest.

“Fru Grimilla has, indeed, adequately presented the involved parties. We will proceed to the vote without further delay,” Fru Hulda said in a much kinder voice than Grim’s. Gentle tone or not, I’d been schooled. It smarted; too bad I didn’t feel any wiser.

“A show of digits, please.” Grim raised her single index finger, as did many in the group — Hulda included — but not everyone.

I wagged three fingers, as did Ofelia, as did others among us.

Grim’s face grew stony with the realization that I’d led some sort of uprising: Mutiny of the Birdies. And, man, did she make for one blistering Captain Bligh.

“Hold your votes until recorded,” Fru Hulda said.

Fru Birta — another of my mutineers — scribbled furiously into the ledger, bobbing her head up and down as she transcribed our hand signals into our Stork version of election results. “Vessel number one passes by a two-vote margin,” Birta said, lowering her eyes.

Even though she’d won, Grim cawed some sort of outraged reaction. In all honesty, it was the first time I’d witnessed one of our votes pass by such a slim margin.

Hulda closed our meeting with a reassurance to our group that her time away had been fruitful and successful and that it was her great honor to resume her first-chair duties. I, for one, was glad to have her home and wanted nothing more than to hand back the reins and get away from that room and Grim’s menacing stare. For once, Hulda did not ask me to stay, and I was up and out of there like a pardoned-by-the-guv electric-chair escapee. Though, when passing Grim on my way out, I got a sample of the kind of zap pure hatred could generate.

On Friday of that week, I woke up with a rumble in my belly, and it wasn’t the result of my late-night nacho-rama. It was, rather, a something’s-coming premonition. Though I was on high alert, the school day was routine. Jinky continued to skulk through the halls, skunking equal parts boredom and belligerence. She showed up for our school-paper meeting, which always surprised me. I would have pegged her for more of a ditcher. It also went against type that my dad’s camera was frequently strapped over her shoulder. I’d even seen her, earlier that day, lining up a rather artful shot of a dozen or so open lockers. She appeared to have an eye, even if it was penciled to a Cleopatra-like point with coal-black liner.

Nothing seemed amiss with Marik, either. He continued to be Mr. Popularity, gushing charm like a severed artery. Abby and Shauna still groveled around him like he was some kind of mountaintop oracle. I supposed, for a couple of summit-minded social climbers like them, it was all part of the daily uphill battle. Penny was the one who surprised me the most. I watched her go all fluttery when Marik complimented her sketchbook. As much as he was the undeniable school crush, I wouldn’t have figured Penny for one of his hangers-on. I thought she had more of an individualist streak to her.