Five's Legacy

CHAPTER FOUR

I BURY REY IN THE FOREST.

I wanted to send him out to sea—to put him in the sailboat and just push him out. I remember seeing that in some movie about Vikings once, and Rey taught me the basics of sailing. But I was too afraid the currents would push him back to the beach. That I’d wake up one morning and find his body washed up on the shore, eyes pecked out by seabirds and body shriveled up like jerky. I couldn’t see that.

Burial seemed like the only solution. I couldn’t just leave him out in the elements as something for the little green lizards to pick at. So I find a place where there’s enough open land—once I’ve cleared away a few bushes—and start in with the shovel. Digging his grave is the hardest work I’ve done in a long time. Under different circumstances I’d joke that this was Rey’s last laugh—finally getting me to do some hard labor. But I miss him too much to do that.

The rain doesn’t let up. For every shovel of mud I scoop out, twice as much floods back in rivers of brown. Before I even realize I’m doing it, I’m punching into the earth with my newfound power, mud coating my body and face. I use my telekinesis to burrow out the rest of the hole and keep the mud back.

And then, once he’s in the bottom, I let all the mud and sand and earth and water fall in over him. His body is covered almost instantly.

He’s gone.

I carry on, alone on my island, through the wet season. Rey has taught me well—how to survive off the land—even if I didn’t realize he was doing it at the time. I know which plants to eat, and how to keep our shack dry on the inside as the sky continues to dump rain on me day after day. I continue running, and training—more so than I ever did when Rey was alive.

I keep thinking that someone will show up. If the Garde’s deaths are burned into my leg, is it the same for the Cêpans? Will Rey’s mark show up on the Loric guardian who’s looking after Three? Or Four? Will one of them come and find me and tell me what I should be doing next?

But no one does.

And after weeks—maybe even months—of waiting for something to happen, I know what I have to do. Rey told me to stay on the island until I was stronger, but he didn’t know about my power. I am stronger now. Besides, he also told me to survive, and if I’m going to do that, I’m going to have to leave. If I stay, I’ll go crazy.

Technically I can do whatever I want. I’m free. There’s no one looking after me. I’m alone.

I can go anywhere I want.

Martinique. It was the last island we were on. I didn’t mind it there. And it’s close. Or at least, it seemed close when we sailed from there.

On a day when the rain finally starts to die down, I act.

I empty out Rey’s pack and stuff it with some rations. It goes in the sailboat, alongside all the coconuts I can find and several canteens of water. Once I’m on the big island . . . well, I’ll have plenty of time at sea to figure out what to do next. Maybe I’ll try to track down the Garde. Maybe I’ll just find a way to get back to Canada and that home I so liked when I was a kid.

I toss my duffel into the boat, along with my Loric Chest. I take Rey’s big, broad straw hat to keep the sun off me. There’s no lower deck to the boat, so I’ll be exposed the whole time I’m at sea.

My last act is to break down the hog fence. I do it with a single burst of telekinetic power.

They’ll be fine, I tell myself as they reluctantly cross over the broken wooden slats and onto the beach. They’ll get a taste for all those lizards running around.

It takes me a few tries to get the two sails up on the little boat, and even longer to try to read the sea map I find on board. There are no markings in the place where I think our little island is, but I’m sure that Rey always said we were just east of Martinique. There’s a compass and a telescope in the drawer as well—all the things an amateur sailor could need.

I want to leave immediately, but I have to wait for high tide, and that means I have to sit around rethinking my decision until dusk. Finally, the ocean rolls in under the boat, and I use my power to push off into the water. Then I work on adjusting the sails to the direction I need to be going. By the time I get the course set it’s almost completely dark, the moon and stars obscured behind thin clouds. I can barely see our island as I turn back for one last look at it. I wave, even though I know there’s no one there to see it.

“Good-bye, Rey.”

The boat and I sail into the black night.

I wake up confused, unsure of where I am at first.

I’d meant to stay awake the whole night—by my guess, it shouldn’t have taken all that long to get to Martinique—but after working the sails and using my power so much, I must have passed out leaning against the wooden dock.

The morning sun shines down on me. Soon it will be mercilessly frying my skin. The boat bobs. I rush to my knees, expecting to see land. . . .

But there’s nothing. Just a world of ocean. Blue as far as the eye can see.

I try to remain calm, but panic is causing my heart to pound against my ribs.

In no time the map is out in front of me, spread on the deck. I’m sailing east, into the rising sun, which means that I’m still going in the right direction. I just haven’t hit Martinique yet. I’m not moving as fast as I thought I would.

Or I passed the island in the night. I realize that it’s possible I was wrong all along, and our little island wasn’t where I thought it was. I could be anywhere. There could be nothing ahead of me until Africa.

Africa.

I panic. There’s no way I’m making it all the way to Africa.

I can’t believe that Rey didn’t have some kind of GPS.

Or maybe there was one that I just didn’t know about. One that’s still at home. In the shack on the beach. A place that sounds much more appealing than it did last night.

I stare at the map for a long time as I gnaw on some of the jerky-like meat I brought with me. In the end, I take out the compass and set myself sailing north-northwest. At least that way I’m bound to hit some islands.

Right?

After searching in vain for a glimpse of land with the telescope, I lean back against the deck and take the red rubber ball out of the pocket of my shorts. Running it over the backs of my knuckles, I find a pack of cards in my bag.

Everything’s going to be all right, I tell myself as I shuffle the cards and begin to lay them out. Just keep yourself busy, or you’ll go nuts out here before you get to land.

What is all this useless shit?

It’s my fourth day in the boat before I discover I can unlock my Loric Chest. Rey always said it was something that we had to open together, and it hadn’t dawned on me to try now that he’s gone.

A bounty of shiny, useless-looking items gleam in the sunlight. I had hoped that there’d be a water filtration system magically waiting for me, but it looks like I’m out of luck. Which is worrisome, because I’ve already made my way through all the coconuts, and the rest of my rations are starting to look dangerously meager. It looks like the Chest is just filled with trinkets from a dollar store. My fingers pass over a little black flutelike instrument. I dig through a few more things and pull out a long glove. I slide it on, tugging it all the way up my forearm. When I flex my wrist, a blade shoots out. It comes within an inch of stabbing me in the eye, the entire silver blade almost a foot in length.

I’m too tired to even flinch.

Great. If I don’t want to die of dehydration, at least I’ve got this.

I shudder at the thought.

All of it’s useless. Or at least, none of the stuff has come with an instruction manual. I pack everything back inside except for the knife-glove. I can practice with that. Just in case.

The Chest goes back into my duffel, and I guzzle the last of a container of water. Then I use my telekinesis to push the boat farther, faster along the water, hoping with everything I have that I’m going in the right direction.

I bet the other Garde have better stuff in their Chests. Or that their Cêpans are there to explain what they’re supposed to do with them.

I’ve wondered plenty of times what the other Garde are like. What they’re doing. If their Cêpans keep them hidden away from the world in the farthest corners of the globe. But for the first time I wonder if I’m the only one missing out. Is it possible that the other Garde are all together somewhere, fighting and training with one another, wondering where I am? Would they even care?

Did Rey keep me hidden away because he was afraid they’d rush me into fighting? To make sure I stayed alive?

All I have are questions, and the only answer I get is the sun beating down on me.

My tongue feels swollen and rough in my mouth. I haven’t peed in a long time, which I think is probably a really bad sign. I’m not even sweating anymore. It’s nighttime, but I should still be sweating.

So much for making it out in the world on my own.

My seventh night at sea is the night I’m going to die. So long, Five. It only took a week for you to fuck up completely by disobeying all of Rey’s last wishes.

Is it even possible for me to die? Rey told me the special charm meant I’d be safe from death as long as one of the Garde before me was alive—that being captured was the real thing to fear—but does that mean it works against starvation and dehydration and exposure to the elements as well? Because I don’t want to be some kind of half-living, dried-up mummy washing up on the shores of Cuba a month from now.

My lips are chapped and peeling but my tongue has no moisture to wet them.

I can barely move—I feel so tired—but I pull my duffel bag closer, hugging it, looping my arms through its straps. I can feel the Loric Chest inside. My whole body hurts and I can barely keep my eyes open.

There’s a strange tickle in my chest, and I wonder if it’s some kind of death rattle—if this is what Rey felt right before he died. It grows, until my entire body feels alive, on fire.

So this is what it’s like to die. So much for the charm.

I close my eyes and hug the bag tighter. I wonder if my symbol will end up burned onto the other Garde’s legs even though I’m dying out of order.

I’m dying out of order. I refuse to have that be my last thought.

I crack my eyes open and my breath catches in my throat.

I’m not in the boat. The boat is still there, but it’s several yards beneath me. I’m floating towards the cloudless night sky, still holding my bag to my chest. I wonder for a moment if all the Garde get shot back into space when they die. Maybe this is part of the stupid plan that forced me to live out in the middle of nowhere. With my sick Cêpan.

My parched lips curl down into a frown as I speak my final words.

“Fuck Lorien.”

And then I’m shooting forward, the wind beating against my face. Flying.