Telesa - The Covenant Keeper

Book One in the Telesa Series

By

Lani Wendt Young

* * * *

Telesa

Copyright © 2011 by Lani Wendt Young

Cover Design: Jordan Kwan, Tim and Efi Rasmussen.

Models: Faith Wulf, Ezra Taylor.

Formatting by
JTFormatting

All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author/publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Prologue

“No, please, how to stop it? How can I stop it?” I burst into useless tears. Tears that fizzed and hissed in a heartbeat of heat. No amount of crying would help now. I wrung my hands, no way out of it. It was hopeless. In a few minutes I would be a mass murderer. A killer. In my mind’s eye, I could see it now. People on fire running in circles, frantically beating at the hungry flames. The smell of flesh scorching, peeling off ashy bone. Screams. Pleas for help. I sank to my knees, drained dry of strength. Unwilling to watch the carnage but unable to take my eyes away. I was drowning in a sea of fiery despair. Suffocating in a red night of terror.

He spoke from beside me. Calm and clear.

“Leila. Call it back. You can do it. Call it back now.”

I looked up, eyes glistening with molten tears. He stood as close to me as he dared, shielding his face from the heat with his hands, the edges of his clothes singed and charred.

“I can’t.” Abject despair. “I don’t know how.”

“Yes you can. You have the power. You spoke to it before. It listens to you. Call it back now before it’s too late. Please.”

It was the ‘please’ that did it. That snapped me out of the depths. He wanted me to call the fire. He believed that I could. And I wanted him to believe in me. Slowly, I raised myself from the ground, closed my eyes and willed that fiery beast to come home. To listen to me – its mistress. To return and feed instead on my molten core. I trembled at the very thought of the blaze finding its way back. How could I possibly summon it all when it had grown so exponentially as it fed? But this was my fault. I had to find the strength from somewhere. I opened my eyes and shuddered at the majesty of the sight before me.

Directly ahead of me was a massive wall of fire. It had stopped advancing across the field and now it stood waiting; the beast waited for my command.
Now
– it asked –
what would you have me do?
Opening my arms, every ounce of my being quivering with fear, I summoned it home.

I burned. Inside and out. I burned. There was indescribable pain and the knife edge of pleasure. It was ecstasy and hell all at once. Then, as swiftly as it had begun, it stopped. I was empty. A dried husk scorched beyond belief. Withered and dead. I fell. The steaming darkness claimed me.

Chapter One

What was I doing? On a plane thousands of miles away from everything familiar, going to a land I had never seen? Well, a land I didn’t remember seeing, I corrected. Clenching my palms tightly, I pressed my head against the window, staring blindly out at the motionless clouds. The engines of the 747 were a dull roar and the flight attendant a vapid chatter behind me as I tried to block out the images that threatened to bring tears to my eyes. Flashes.

Dad. Weakly trying to clasp me close as he lay on his hospital bed. Trying to push aside the oxygen mask so he could whisper in my ear. “Leila – very important – I love you – whatever you do, don’t go back there, don’t let them send for you. Stay here. Please don’t go back.”

Numb and washed out with hours of crying, I stood by the gravesite. Watching them shovel dirt on top of the glossy black coffin. My grandmother firmly nudging my shoulder, a hoarse aggravated whisper, “Throw in your flowers you difficult child. Everyone’s waiting for you. Put in your ridiculous flowers NOW.” Turning away from the last I would ever see of my dad, pushing past the straight-backed figure in black Chanel, pushing past the disapproving crowd of reserved elegance and running through the cemetery until my lungs were filled to bursting and I could run no longer. Collapsing in a huddle on the grass to cry some more. Until my uncles found me, bundling me into the waiting limousine with annoyed sighs and mutterings.

“Excuse me, here are your arrival forms to fill in. Do you need any help, Miss?” The flight attendant was a slender woman with hair swept up in an effortless swirl. Her eyes were concerned as she looked at my tear-stained cheeks.

Cringing under her gaze – and resenting the assumption that I, a world-weary eighteen-year–old, would need help filling in a simple form – my reply was abrupt.

“No. I certainly do not need any help from you.”

I regretted the belligerent words as soon as they were out of my mouth, but it was too late. The woman pursed her lips and walked away up the aisle stiffly.

Great. Just great Leila. Way to go. What are you gonna do? Yell at everyone who’s nice to you?
I turned back to the window with a mental sigh of resignation. Hoping for a glimpse of my destination and yet wishing I was a million miles away. Back home. In D.C. with Dad. In my own room with its tropical print bedspread, walls covered with Dad’s black and white portfolio photos, shelves strewn carelessly with shells and coral from one of our trips to the beach. French doors open onto the balcony that was filled to overflowing with my plants. Some gently dug from the rich earth of the forest reserve at the end of our street. Others, exotic greens brought back from my father’s many trips to Africa and the Middle East. Each one nurtured and cared for with innate skill. Each one a friend. And now each one probably dumped in a landfill somewhere as the new house owners cleared out the leftovers of my life. Oh, I had tried to take my plants with me to grandmother’s house. But of course the old lady would have none of it.

“The captain has turned on the fasten seat-belt sign. We are approaching Faleolo Airport and will be landing in a few minutes.” The announcement crackled over the headphones, breaking into my thoughts. A few minutes. That’s all that separated me from the rest of my life. I turned away from the window. Away from where I had come. Must look ahead. Need to be ready for this. A leap into the unknown.

Samoa. The one place my father had not wanted me to come. The place he had pleaded with his dying breath for me to stay away from. And now six months later, here I was. A traitor to the last wishes of the only person who mattered to me. I closed my eyes as I took the final step off the plane, sending him a silent plea for forgiveness – wherever he was.

The sweltering heat embraced me, smothering me in its heavy wrap as I walked out. Sweat already trickling down my back; I slowly made my way across the tarmac and into the arrival building. People jostled and shoved trying to get in line for immigration check-in. For the first time, I took a good look at the people around me.

Lumbering ladies in floral print dresses sweated beside me in the line, shopping bags stuffed with chocolates, plastic flower wreaths and shiny keys that said ‘Happy 21st!’ There was an ancient Elvis look-alike to my left, resplendent in flared pants and a half-buttoned shirt. Clutching a duty-free bag chock-a-block full of bottles of vodka that was making almost as much noise as his layers of gold chains. A little old lady in a sequined red dress stood beside him. I was feeling seriously under-dressed in my white cotton tee and favorite faded denim jeans, with only a backpack for hand luggage. As the seasoned traveller, Dad had always emphasized to me the importance of traveling light – and dressing for the climate of your destination. The one time he took me on assignment with him to Nigeria we had squabbled for days over what items in my suitcase were actually deemed ‘vital necessities.’ My shampoo, face wash, and iPod had all lost the battle for inclusion. The shampoo and face wash because according to Dad’s philosophy on personal hygiene - a bar of soap would do for everything. And I had a sneaking suspicion the iPod had lost out because Dad wanted there to be no excuse for me
not
to listen to him. It had been an amazing trip – the last we had taken together.

An explosion of gangsta-style swearing startled my thoughts. Three hulking boys wearing baggy jeans that dragged on the ground and huge t-shirts that would fit a whole extra person were complaining angrily at the back of the line about the long wait. I shook my head, with a shiver of disgust at their rudeness. The immigration official at the desk contemplated them with a sardonic expression and then returned to lazily stamping passports.

It
was
a long wait for them to check my passport and an even longer one for the bags to appear through the conveyance belt. That gave me time to study my surroundings even further. I had been to several countries one could only classify as VERY hot but this sauna-like heat was different. It was wet and heavy. I struggled to find pockets of oxygen to fill my gasping lungs. Only a half hour landed and I was longing for a cold shower, wishing I could peel away these sweat-soaked clothes. A floral shirted band played for our listening pleasure – four men with a ukulele, guitar, wooden drum, and another unknown string instrument. My mood lifted at their song – a cheerful melody of Samoan words. It was the first time I had heard the language of my mother being spoken and I was fascinated. The words flowed and rippled in a rhythmic flow that tried to tug me along with it. I was almost sorry when my one suitcase appeared and it was my turn to pass through the security detector.

I emerged into the waiting area tense again with suspense. I had written to my aunt, Matile, and her husband Tuala, using an address I had found in one of my dad’s old fragmenting notebooks. Remnants from his time as a US Peace Corp volunteer in Samoa. Unsure how reliable the Samoan postal service was, I had followed up my letter with a phone call, leaving a message with the young girl on the line about the date and time of my arrival. Apparently, both my aunt and uncle had been at church. I was nervous. What if they didn’t show up? What if they did show up – and I walked right past them? I had no clue what they looked like – and for sure they wouldn’t know me from a bar of soap.

Passengers jostled past me, anxious to greet their waiting relatives. Families. Loved ones. A small child in pink rompers called out “Mama!” and ran on unsteady feet to hug the old lady in the red sequins. Elvis was met by a crowd of people – as if an entire village had come to welcome his return. Even the unsavory gangsters transformed to sheepish, smiling teenage boys as aunties and uncles swept them in a warm embrace. Not for the first time, I felt my ‘alone-ness’ keenly emphasized. No parents, no brothers or sisters. A distant grandmother. Kind but distracted uncles. Several cousins way older than I and already busy with raising families. That was about the full sum of my family. I hardly dared hope – even in the darkest recess where I admitted my deepest secrets – that this alone-ness would change, that my desire for a family to belong to had been my real motivation for coming a thousand miles to this unknown land. I bit my lip as I scanned the waiting crowd anxiously. Would they show up? Someone spoke from behind me.