The Hawkweed Page 5

  Melina panicked. “Jaren?” her voice sounded so small and distant. “What do I do?”

  There wasn’t a choice. I wouldn’t leave her again. I would become a fugitive, a refugee like so many after the war. I slowly stood giving Seven some space, knowing he would not hurt us now. Melina ran to my side and clung to my arm. The chain I placed around my heart broke at her touch. We were leaving here together.

  Seven stood facing us but not moving.

  Melina still held the sword in her hand, still pointing it in Seven’s direction. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for the Hawkweed.”

  I turned to her. I didn’t understand what she meant.

  Seven’s expression changed. “Hawkweed.”

  “Spen left it for me.”

  Seven shook his head, like something wrong. “Hawkweed?” The question wasn’t for us, but for him. “Orange?”

  I stopped. Something stirred him inside, a change had happened, a spark.

  Melina knelt down and put the knife on the ground to get into her pouch. Out she pulled a pressed orange flower, fragile in her hand. Bits of orange blossom had already crumbled. She got up and walked toward him.

  “Melina, no,” I said and she stopped, just enough for the light from the outside window to hit the flower in such a way that it made it look beautiful.

  “You knew you would die and come back to life. It was a message not just to me, but to you. Find a way just like that flower. Find a way back.” Melina’s voice resounded with a magical tone, swirling the beautiful words out of her mouth. “You saved my life. Here I am, saving yours. Come back to us. Start a new life.”

  Seven’s expression couldn’t be read. He stood there staring at the flower. Inch by inch he moved closer to her. I clenched my fists just in case I needed to act, but Seven stopped before the outstretched hands and gazed at the flower.

  “I—” he started. “I did this?”

  Melina smiled. “Keep it. This is for you.” She handed him the flower and came back to my arm, her grip tighter than ever.

  “How can you help me?”

  My heart reignited and I couldn’t help it. I reached forward and grabbed him as a brother, knowing of something left inside that he remembered. “Come with us, Spen.” My whisper fell only on his ears.

  “Yes, my brother,” was all he needed to say.

  The tears rolled down my cheek. I won my brother back.

  My Inspiration Behind the Story

  Inspiration comes in the strangest forms, and this one has a story in itself that I wanted to share. Hawkweed is extremely personal. I call it my best work, because of my own emotional journey when writing it. When I first started writing, I didn’t know if I could make it through it. I had planned a full novel but couldn’t finish it as one. A novella was all I could do at the time. (Going forward, the story will continue in novella form, and I think that will be a perfect way to celebrate it.)

  Matt Foger worked in a laboratory with me in the mid-2000s. I’d never met anyone like Matt, unique in character but one who had a perpetual raincloud following him. He was in his twenties trying to find out what he eventually wanted to do with his life, he strived to be funny and included, and loved music and talking music with me. He struggled with Tourettes and nocturnal seizures; he would sometimes come in with unexplained bruises or a black eye from where he had seized at night and had fallen off his bed. Matt was a listening ear when I was first developing my stories before I was published. He would jokingly call me the New York Times best seller, and to remember him when I’m famous. He was one of the first, outside my family, that believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself.

  I remember very clearly when Matt came to me in confidence, telling me that his seizures were getting worse and that he couldn’t remember things about his job, it was starting to scare him. Together we came up with a plan to write down the specific steps and try to make a visual memory. We started working on a few of these steps and he was feeling a lot more confident. A few weeks later, Matt didn’t show up to work. They had found him in his apartment. He had aspirated in one of his seizures and passed away.

  I, and some of my other co-workers, attended Matt’s funeral mass. Before the service, I attended the small viewing, where I met Matt’s family, and where the world I knew of Matt suddenly went into a Hitchcock tunnel zoom. Matt had an identical twin brother. I knew he had a brother, he mentioned he had always competed with him in one form or another, but I didn’t realize the resemblance was so remarkably close. How surreal it felt to be talking to the face I knew, but the person I didn’t. I saw my friend lying in eternal sleep, while I was disturbed inside, confused at the reality of what I was seeing.

  During the kneeling and genuflecting, I stared at the mourning family several times, still trying to find a place for what I was seeing in my mind. I didn’t like that Matt’s face would continue on while he didn’t. This was not the way I could make peace with the tragedy. My mind was not resolved. I didn’t like that Matt’s twin, the other half of a divided cell, had to move forward with him. And sometime during the service, I started to think about the story of Hawkweed, a rescue and redemption story, cloning and 3-D printing, a monster for a futuristic Frankenstein, a way to bring these two back together.

  Matt never got to see my words in print, but I think he would have been proud of what I’ve achieved so far. I think he would have thought this story would honor him well. And to his brother, a person I don’t even know, this story is also dedicated in honor to you. ~ Candace

  Bonus Story

  Of Snow and Moonlight

  A Fairytale

  For the Mierzejewski’s

  “Upon the glistening snow so bright

  A tale is told of moonlight.

  T’was at this, young lovers met

  And disappeared into night.”

  In a small village, where dragons are only legend, there lived a simple girl who dreamed in the stars. Lysa’s bright, expressive eyes lit up as the first twinkling appeared, playing out fantasy in the heavenly starlight as it danced merrily from one to another. Her favorite was during the Snow Moon, when moonlight glowed brighter than the sun through her window. She would listen to the wind and the trees, the different animals and creatures who came out to see. A tune more pleasant than any music swept through the moonbeams. If there was magic anywhere in this world, it would be on these nights.

  Lysa carried on day after day, working with her mother and father in the village. She grew in talents and strengths, no longer a daydreaming little girl, but a spirited young woman. She entertained the children in the square, dancing and singing the tales and traditions of the people. She painted mythical dragons far beyond the seas and fabled stories of heroes and prices and gallant rescues. Lysa’s heart shined in sharing with others the imagination she carried within her.

  When Lysa aged past sixteen, her father became ill. He was a musician and played his tunes for the people of the village, but his lungs had grown too weak to fill the lowland pipes with air. He could no longer care for the family as he wished. Lysa loved her father more than anything, and didn’t mind helping where she could. She continually reassured him it was more important for him to gain his strength than to worry about the family. And though Lysa’s mother recognized her caring nature, she worried about her daughter’s starry-eyed dreaming. For there were secrets her mother never spoke of, knowledge of the world beyond the village——she understood the dangers of the moonlight.

  One night, when the season grew cold, Lysa slid open her window to gaze again at the stars. The moon was but a sliver in the sky, and still lit the frosted tips of the leaves on the trees. Its delicate beams gave shadow to the gentle paths which led to the forest edge. She had not given much thought to the forest as a child, it was forbidden for reasons unexplained by her mother. But as she grew the shady woodland kept her curious. Lysa couldn’t wander between the wood and ponder the secrets. It became a backdrop, a constant shield blocking her away a
ny other world.

  The village folk told wild tales of creatures who roamed inside the wood, some as ancient as the waves of the sea. Her favorite telling came from the Mystic of the Five Courts, who recited a poem of a woodland king and the knights of fey, who dance in the full moon:

  “. . . Into the waning sky,

  Amid the beams and brightness high.

  The forest calls ye forward, calls ye clear

  In time, the song will bring ye near,

  Bring it to all those who hear . . .”

  As nice as the stories sounded, seeing the quiet, still forest from her bedroom window kept her resolute. She slid her window back in place and let her mind rest while night blanketed the sky, completely unaware of the man standing near the forest edge, quietly observing her from a far.

  As the first sparks of winter crept through the sleepy village, Lysa spent more days inside helping her mother. The snow kept the villagers away from the squares, fearing sickness from the cold chills. She occupied her time with knits and drawings, and delighted spinning tales to her father for entertainment. Her mother, being weary in cold weather, would sometimes ask her to fetch things if needed, to distract her daughter’s idle silliness.

  On a day, cold from the recent snowfall, but absent of the sharp wind, Lysa’s mother asked for crimson snow berries for sweet jam. The bushes were not far, but lay near the tip of the forest. Lysa tied her kerchief and snatched her winter cloak, before kissing her father goodbye.

  Her boots kissed the thinly packed snow blanketing the ground over every trail. A crisp crunch of heel to toe filled the frosty, frozen air. Delicate specks of diamond dust, like tiny crystals, danced mid-air without falling to the ground. The marvelous sight dazzled Lysa beyond her remembrance of the task at hand. She lifted her hand through the frozen air, feeling the cold touch her fingertips. She tried to snatch the swirling specks of light when she saw him. A ranger stood near the forest, his dark cloak stood out in the world of white, his singular breath shone in the frosty air.

  “What are you doing?” she asked without thinking, startled by his sudden presence. “Be gone. I do not know you.”

  He continued to stand, still as stone, and stare without saying a word.

  There was something captivating, but dangerous. Never had she seen him in the village, nor anywhere else. He looked rough around the edges, but not like the vagabonds, like a traveled man seeking hospitality—young, fit and seasoned.

  “I need the crimson berries for my mother . . .” she felt the words die in her mouth. It was obvious he neither cared what she was doing or where she was going.

  Lysa stood straight, clenching her basket to her chest. His eyes of clear blue stayed on her as she marched along to the path which led to the berries, but incidentally, brought her closer to the stranger.

  True, Lysa had never seen the man before, but something about him intrigued her; a dangerous, inviting unknown, which spun her thoughts in different ways. She continued on the path looking back upon him watching her. She quickly gathered her berries, but on her return, he was gone.

  The image of the stranger stayed with her as days went on. He had not said a word to her. Why not? At night Lysa closed her eyes and studied his face closer, the form of his peculiar smile, the angle of his sharp jaw. He perplexed her more than any other person had done. Who was he to be standing in the cold so close to the forest, with no footprints revealing he had been anywhere else. And why did he not speak?

  The moon began to wax strong. Nightly, Lysa slid her window open to gaze at the silent world in the cool night air. This time she glanced at the trees, watching the soft moonlight sparkle on the frosted leaves. An awakened curiosity stirred her to search in the reflecting light. There near the trunk of an old birch stood a figure, the long cloak shielded the body, but without a plan she quickly closed her window and laced on her boots.

  Lysa crept down her stairs, her parents still awake in their room. As silently as she could she slipped on her cloak and slid out into the night. She ran away from the house down the path to the birch. Her heart raced as her brain scrambled to make sense of what she was doing.

  In front of the birch stood the hooded figure, lean against the thick trunk. She stopped, fear rising inside. Maybe this wasn’t the man she had met.

  “I knew you would come.” A voice smooth as spun honey rose from his throat.

  “How?” Lysa questioned.

  “Something about your eyes told me so.” The man lowered his hood. Even in the moonlight his eyes glistened like stars. “I am Yeski. And you are Lysa.”

  Lysa felt heat in her cheeks. “Yes, but how do you know who I am?”

  The man’s mouth curled. “The stars told me.”

  Lysa didn’t understand. “I know everyone in the village.”

  “I am not from the village,” he stated, rubbing the snow gently between his fingers. “I am from the forest.”

  Lysa’s heart leapt in her chest. She had been right about him. “The forest is forbidden.”

  Yeski’s eyes brightened. “Is it?” He rubbed his chin as he looked past her to the dark. “Well, I have lived a full life there.”

  “But, why have I not seen anyone else from the forest?”

  His head turned toward her. “They are not accustomed to be seen, but they are there, I assure you. And not as rare as you may think.”

  Lysa grew nervous, thinking of her mother’s warning. “I must go. I should not be here.” She grabbed around her cloak, feeling the cold. “I must get back.” She turned toward the path but stopped. “Will I see you again?”

  “You might,” was all he said and turned back into the forest, disappearing into the night.

  Lysa returned home. In the darkness of her room, under the coverings of a woolen quilt, she could not see darkness, only Yeski’s face shining like a light in her mind.

  The next morning as Lysa readied for breakfast, she asked her mother a question. “Mama, do you know what is in the forest?”

  “The forest is forbidden, my love,” she said while kneading dough for bread.

  “But do you know what lives there? I’ve only seen deer and squirrels run in and out.”

  Her mother paused and looked intently at Lysa. “The forest will do you no good. It is dangerous. People disappear near the forest. Mind you not to go in there.” Her mother continued to prep the stone, dismissing her inquest. “Would you take your father his tea?”

  Lysa agreed and gently carried the kettle by her father’s bedside. As she poured the tea, she asked her father the same question. But he didn’t snap an answer out like her mother did, he simply looked at his daughter with eying curiosity.

  “Why would you like to know?”

  Lysa shied at her father’s question. “I’ve grown in the village and only known this life. I am curious what lies beyond, other lands and other people.”

  Her kind father patted her hand. “You were always a curious bird. This world has many marvelous things to offer. Do not be afraid to find out for yourself. Your mother fears the unknown, but if I could, I would embrace it.” He leaned in closer. “Do not waste this life. It is a gift, as you are to me.”

  Her father winked gently, as if knowing exactly what she would do.

  Lysa returned a smile lifting the tea to his lips.

  In the night the snow came and the moon hid behind the protection of the clouds. The entire day she kept silent awaiting the darkness. She venture outside occasionally looking for the hooded Yeski, but he never appeared. The sky darkened and Lysa’s insides twisted in knots. She went to her room and sat by the window scouring the edge of the forest. Time passed without a sign of him. Her room grew cold from the drifting snow. She heaved a sigh as her heart sank, slowly giving in to the notion he would not show up. Her eyes lifted one last time to the birch, praying to see something, anything move. A shadowed figure appeared near the trunk.

  “He came,” she whispered in the darkness. Though her parents were still awake near the
fire, she slipped through the back door, out in the night to meet him.

  “I thought you wouldn’t come,” she said, breathless from her run.

  “I didn’t know I was expected.” The gentle eyes smiled wistfully toward her. “I come out to see the stars, one cannot see them from the trees. I am a stargazer like yourself.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I see you night after night open your window and dream.” Yeski turned his head upward. “There is not much to see tonight, but the clouds will soon part.”

  Lysa brightened at his words. “You truly are from the forest.”

  Yeski bowed his head in honor. “I am.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Yeski hesitated. “What would you like to know?”

  “Everything.”

  A small chuckle escaped the side of his mouth. “I cannot tell you. It’s something you must experience. And one cannot experience it in a day.”

  “Well, show me then.” Lysa’s need overruled any improprieties. “Please. I’ve wondered about a life beyond this village. I want to believe in something bigger than I am. I see the stars at night knowing they shine on others not like me. There are other stargazers I will never know. I hope for something mystical beyond what I see. Help me understand it.”

  Yeski straightened his shoulders back, looking around. “Come,” he whispered. He turned, his grand cape swirled across the freshly fallen snow and disappeared into darkness.

  Lysa felt every fiber within her soul wake at the idea of entering the forest. Every warning of her mother’s echoed in her mind. But an unquenchable thirst to know the magic kept secret inside lit her pathway brighter. One step forward and she entered where had been forbidden to tread.

  Darkness consumed her. She saw nothing but the white world behind her. A few steps in and she stumbled. “I have you,” the voice of Yeski came from her side. She reached and found his hand, warm and rough, skilled yet gentle as he lifted her up. “Stay by me,” he instructed.