Where the Wind Goes

Chapter 7 (Part 1) - Penny

Home looked different to Oliver now. He rushed through school each day, scribbling down his homework in the back of his dad's work van on the way to job sites and counting down the hours until he could sneak off to Veralia. The Council had assigned Iri the task of picking through the crumbling ruins of the old stone city and drawing up detailed reports on what reconstruction needed to be done. Oliver tagged along, hoping that something familiar was buried beneath the layers of dust and shriveled seed pods.

Despite Artemis' rules, Iri liked to give him things. Pages torn from books she had liked as a kid, an incomplete set of dice made from Veralian sandstone, a pair of glasses that reminded her of him. It was hodge-podge of random things she hoped would spark his memory. It hadn't worked yet, but every night he took the items home and placed them on his windowsill like talismans to watch over him as he slept, dissolving beneath the rising sun.

It was Sunday, and his siblings were asleep. The moon was high as Oliver slipped in through the back door. He crossed the living room and poked his head in the kitchen, where someone had left a light on. For the first time it occurred to him how small his home really was. The peeling linoleum crackled as he padded his way across the floor, his footsteps drowned out by the whir of the dishwasher. He wanted to go to bed, but there were three burned-out lights above the kitchen sink, and it was bothering him.

While he stood on the counter, screwing in the new light bulbs, he heard a chair scratch across the floor.

"Hi, mom." He didn't have to turn around to know it was her. No one else in his family would be up this late. He finished his work and then joined her at the table.

"I couldn't sleep," he explained.

She closed her eyes and sipped at a cup of chamomile. Oliver knew his mother didn't sleep much, and once upon a time he had wondered what that was like. He loved sleeping. Or he had. The past few weeks he couldn't seem to sit still long enough to close his eyes. Even when he was tired he wanted to be doing something. He craved constant motion, like a bear fresh out of hibernation.

"Mom, why don't you talk?"

She sighed her soft, mousy sigh, which was the closest he ever came to hearing her voice. She'd stopped speaking right before Jack was born, but Dad claimed that she'd always been fairly quiet. "When Zara spoke," he would say, "you knew it was important." Madison hated when he asked about their mom's voice. She'd screw up her face and say something like, "What difference does it make? She doesn't wanna talk. Does that bother you?"

A little. Yes. But not it the way Madison thought. If Mom didn't want to talk, then Oliver understood. Usually he didn't want to either. Some things were impossible to put into words, some feelings too nebulous to describe.

But he had forgotten the sound of her voice, and there was small, childlike part of him that wondered if just one word from lips might unlock his memories.

As if sensing his thoughts, she held out her hand for him to hold. A few silver strands of hair slipped out of her messy top-knot, and she didn't bother to brush them out of her eyes. She had such a long, sad stare that seemed to fixate on some point in the distance. Whenever Oliver zoned out like that, Madison always brought him back with sharp jab to the side. But he wouldn't do something like that, so he just sat there, holding her hand.

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It was Saturday, and Dad wanted everyone home for dinner.

"Where's your sister?" he asked, dancing around the kitchen with a towel in one hand and a spice jar in the other; a sprinkling of garlic powder dotted the floor.