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  Beneath Which Sky

  An Otherworld Story

  Madeline Walz

  Beneath Which Sky Copyright © 2019 by Madeline Walz. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Madeline Walz

  The poem “On Silver Wings” is by an anonymous author and can be found at marykaytribute.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Raechel, Eli, and Chloe, who read this when it was just a concept.

  “One of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship is to understand and to be understood.”

  —Seneca

  CONTENTS

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Acknowledgements

  Don’t miss book two of Otherworld,

  About the Author

  Part I

  September 2049

  Arkeda

  The portal is unlike anything I had ever seen. It’s as if the vacuum of space had solidified to form a clear, twisting tunnel. Occasionally, I see a star off in the distance, and every few seconds, there is a flash of light: pearly white, flaming red, bright violet, and electric blue. Then, suddenly, the tunnel ends, and I’m approaching a blue sphere that quickly grows to fill my entire field of vision.

  As the pod gets closer to the surface of the planet, I begin to make out details: clouds, lakes, rivers, forests, deserts. It looks like home, I think. Maybe it won’t be so bad.

  After several minutes, the pod lands with a bump in a field. The hatch opens, and I wake up.

  I sit up in bed and look at the clock. It’s only two a.m., but now I’m wide awake. I quietly slip out of bed and go to get some water from the tiny fridge on the other side of the hotel room. When I return to bed, I lay down and think about the dream.

  For the past ten years, I’ve relived that day in my dreams, every night, repeating over and over. Tomorrow, I know, I’ll dream about how the day began. It all seemed so normal, until my parents sent me away. I push the painful memories away. Tomorrow–technically, later today–I’m moving into the freshman dorms at Gabriel Possenti University. That means meeting more people I’ll have to keep at arm’s-length.

  Several hours later, I manage to go back to sleep, and the dream continues where it left off.

  I get out of the pod and look around, careful to stay close to the ground like I was taught. There’s not much to see: grass, a few birds, and trees in the distance. Near the horizon to the north I see a thin dark line. A river? Or a road? There’s only one way to find out. I search the pod for anything useful and find a canteen of water. I grab it and begin to walk.

  After what feels like hours, I reach what is, in fact, a road. There are no vehicles in sight, so I pull out the paper my mother gave me and open it. It’s a letter.

  Our dear son,

  If you are reading this, then the day we have been waiting for has arrived and we have sent you away. It was very hard, but it is the only way.

  Though our time together has been short, we will always be with you, in your heart.

  You are our world, and we love you more than you will ever know. You are so talented, and your extraordinary memory is something to be proud of. It is rare, even where we sent you.

  Remember what we taught you: learn their ways and their language. Someday, you may find someone with whom you will share your story.

  Love forever,

  Mum and Dad

  My face wet with tears, I turn to the second page.

  I found this years ago, buried in an old book at the back of the library. I came across it again yesterday and immediately thought of you.

  Love,

  Mum

  Ego habechot enútem prasthima quoti retisiz inep alaskíniaz arsimiz.

  Qito quonai enútem somnéiro tóutem vosetra falirosi

  tóutem muólla mirvramástos regmatiz.

  Ego faken noden skero subapo quoi calorénus,

  uli upo voséis autha provlísi faroya.

  Ego tamono skero qito autha qenai alsilos,

  Ego tamono skero qito autha qenai magnarekoya.

  The poem does seem to fit. Subapo quoi calorénus. Beneath which sky. Maybe the author, whoever it was, had been referring to other inhabited worlds, like Earth?

  The last page is a photograph of myself with Kai, Damari, and Master Jabari, on my first day of Level Two seulaitál, my favorite form of martial arts. I become so engrossed in the photograph that I do not notice the vehicle until the driver speaks.

  I put the papers in my pocket, wipe away my tears, and look at the person who is sitting in the vehicle. I’ve never seen anyone like her. She has black hair, brown skin, and deep brown eyes.

  The woman repeats what she had said before. My eight-year-old self has no idea what it means. This language is nothing like my own. Even the way the words are communicated is alien to me–spoken aloud, shaped by the mouth, instead of sent mind to mind like my own language.

  The woman gets out of the vehicle and crouches in front of me. She says something else in the same strange language. I must look confused, because the woman sighs. She points to herself and says something that must be her name.

  “Dominique Marton.”

  I point to myself and carefully say my name, keeping my words close and moving my lips to imitate her speech, just like I was taught. “Arkeda Mothran.”

  Dominique says something else and points to the vehicle. She must be offering a ride. I can’t stay here, so I nod.

  She stands, opens the vehicle door, and helps me in before getting in on the other side.

  As the vehicle begins to move, I pull out the photograph of myself with my parents and Master Jabari. The tears begin to fall again, and I wake up. The sun is streaming through the window, and my cheeks are wet with tears.

  James

  Move-in day at Gabriel Possenti University. I know this was my decision, but it’s snowing. In September. Southern boy, welcome to northern Michigan! I’ve only been here five minutes, and I think I’m going to die from the cold.

  “Come on, James, it’s not that bad. It’s just a little snow,” Dad says. Easy for him to say. He grew up in Wisconsin. I’ve spent my entire life in Georgia. I’m not used to snow.

  Well, my feet are going numb, so I’d better get inside. Mom and Dad are already carrying two boxes each. That leaves me with all three suitcases, plus my backpack. Wonderful.

  A blonde girl with a blue GPU polo, a clipboard, and a big smile greets us in the lobby of the freshman dorm.

  “Welcome to GPU! My name is Katie. I’m an RA. Are you here to check in?”

  “Um, yes?” I say.

  “Great! What’s your name?”

  “James. James Rochester.”

  She searches a list on her clipboard.

  “Let’s see. Rochester... Oh, yes. Room 231 with Arkeda Mothran. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Great! Okay, so here’s your temporary room key. Make sure you stop by the residence office this week to get it merged with your student ID. Do you have your ID already?”

  “Yes.” How does she talk so fast?

  “Great! The stairs and elevator are to your left. Mikayla is waiting on the second floor to help you find your room.”

  “Okay.”

  “Unle
ss you have any questions for me, I’ll see you back here at seven for the orientation meeting.”

  Of course there’s a meeting. “No, no questions.”

  Katie flashes another massive grin. “Great! I’ll see you later, and congratulations on your acceptance!”

  I lead the way to the elevator. No way am I walking up the stairs with all this stuff.

  ***

  Mikayla greets us on the second floor with the same big smile as Katie. Are all the RAs this energetic?

  “Hi! Welcome to GPU!” she exclaims. “Can I help you carry some of that?” She holds out a hand and I gratefully give her a suitcase. “Okay! What room are you in?”

  “231.”

  “Great! It’s down this hallway on the right.” She stops at a door. “Here we are, and here’s your suitcase. Oh, and your roommate got here a few minutes ago.”

  “That’s good,” Mom says. “I’d like to meet him before your dad and I leave. Maybe his parents are still here.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say. I’m kind of hoping his parents aren’t here, because if they are, Mom and Dad will probably be in my room for hours, talking. Unfortunately for me, when I open the door to room 231 there are three people already there. Great.

  Arkeda

  I look around room 231. It’s small, but I doubt I’ll spend much time here. I’ve always been a bit of a loner, even before I left Otreau. My parents told me to blend in, and ever since my pod landed I’ve done that by avoiding getting too close to anyone. At first, I did it because I figured the easiest way to avoid revealing myself was to not have anyone to reveal to. As I got older, it became a habit. That detachment, combined with my photographic memory and my refusal to talk about my past, is probably why I went through seven different foster homes in three years. I haven’t told anyone who I really am, not even Susan and Howard, and they’ve fostered me for four years. I suppose I’ll have to tell them eventually, considering they’re my new parents.

  Susan and Howard put the boxes on one of the beds. We’ve just started unpacking when the door opens and three people come in. Susan immediately sets down the stack of shirts she’s holding and walks over to greet them. Howard and I follow a moment later.

  This must be my new roommate and his parents. James Rochester is a bit shorter than me, with close-cropped brown hair and brown eyes, so different from my own blue-green. His mother is of average height, with brown hair in a bob. His father is tall, also with brown hair, but his is streaked with gray.

  “Hello!” Susan says. “You must be the Rochesters. I’m Susan Williams, this is my husband, Howard, and this is our son, Arkeda.” Luckily, she doesn’t mention the recent adoption. That would have been awkward.

  James looks at me. I train my thoughts on him and his consciousness starts to come into focus. Humans don’t know how to protect their minds, so they’re easy to read. However, I don’t communicate directly with people’s minds like I did on Otreau, so I’m a bit out of practice. I concentrate harder, and his thoughts become clear. His mind is a mixture of emotions: excitement and nervousness about college, annoyance that his parents, Susan, and Howard are still here, and curiosity about me.

  I return my attention to the room in time to hear Mrs. Rochester introduce herself. “Hi, I’m Monica, and this is Joseph and our son James,” she says, shaking Susan’s hand.

  James shakes hands with Susan and Howard, then I walk over. “Hi, I’m Arkeda.”

  “James,” he says. He’s noticed my Otran accent. Now he’s trying to place it, figure out where I’m from. Britain? Australia? He’s not even close!

  I can tell he’s about to ask me when his mom says, “James, Arkeda, we’re going downtown. Do you want to join us, or stay here and unpack?”

  I look at him. He’s thinking, stay here, so intensely I’m surprised he hasn’t accidentally said it out loud. I want to get unpacked now, otherwise, I’ll be living out of a suitcase for the next week. And if I go with them, I’ll have to listen to them talking about finances, politics, and “cute” baby stories. Boring, boring, and very embarrassing. No, thank you.

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing. It doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything aloud, so I say, “I think we’ll stay here.”

  I smile as James relaxes. Susan, Howard, and Mr. and Mrs. Rochester leave.

  I can already see the question in his mind, so it’s no surprise when James asks, “So, where are you from?”

  I start unpacking a box. How much should I tell him? For now, I think I’ll stick to my standard answer. “Somewhere that doesn’t exist anymore.”

  I never actually saw the supernova, but I know it must have happened by now. My parents wouldn’t have sent me away if there was still time.

  James asks, “What do you mean?”

  I pick up the photo my mother gave me that last day. Foster family number three noticed it was getting a bit worn and bought a frame. I went to number four a few days later, after I refused to explain what it was.

  James is waiting for an answer. What should I say? “I guess you could say I’m a refugee from a natural disaster.”

  A supernova is technically a natural disaster in this context, right? Yes, it happened in space, but it wasn’t caused by people.

  Now James is getting really curious, trying to remember if he ever heard of a flood or a wildfire or something that fits what I’ve told him.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  I stop unpacking and look at him. For a moment, the memory of leaving is as painful as if it happened yesterday. I can clearly remember every detail of my parents’ faces as the pod carried me away. Their grief then must have been just as intense as what I’m feeling now, thinking about it.

  I push the pain away. Sometimes I wish my memory wasn’t so good.

  “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.” I set the photo on my nightstand and go back to unpacking.

  James

  The orientation meeting is exactly what I expected. After the usual uncomfortable icebreakers, we sit and listen to a bunch of rules, most of which should just be common sense. I mean, why would you leave the building without your ID? It has your building access, your room key, your meal plan, your laundry money–and there’s a $25 fine if you forget it!

  Finally, after what feels like forever, Katie and Mikayla pass out our schedules for the semester. I immediately turn to Arkeda, who is sitting next to me, to compare schedules. “What classes do you have tomorrow?”

  “English,” he says. “At eight in the morning.”

  I glance at my schedule. I also have English at eight in the morning, with Professor Bronscher.

  “Me, too!” I say. “Who–”

  “Bronscher, like you.”

  I stare at him in surprise. “How do you know who I have? And how did you know what I was going to ask?”

  There’s a momentary pause, as if Arkeda is deciding what to say. “I noticed the name on your schedule. How else?”

  “Oh, right.” How else could he have known? I’ve only known Arkeda for a few hours, but I think he’s already got me figured out. I swear sometimes it’s like he’s reading my mind.

  The next day

  Eight o’clock is way too early. I’ve been having enough trouble remembering our summer reading assignments without having to remember to stay awake too. I read Dracula, Don Quixote, and The Force of Tears like we were supposed to, but I couldn’t tell you what they were about. Maybe if I were more awake. Looking around the room, I see that the two dozen other people in the class appear just as tired as I am.

  “Hello, everyone,” Professor Bronscher says, walking into the classroom. She is a thin woman with very short gray hair and a severe expression. Great. She looks strict.

  “This is a small class, so we’ll start with introductions,” she says, setting down her briefcase on her desk. “I want you to write your name, where you’re from, the major or majors you are considering, and an interesting fact.” She puts a stack of notecards at the beg
inning of each row of desks.

  The students pass the notecards back. I fill out mine as soon as I get it: James Rochester; Savannah, Georgia; Language and Culture; and ‘I have a thing for languages.’ Easy.

  I glance at Arkeda, sitting in the seat next to me. He hasn’t written much–he seems to be struggling with something. After a few moments, he starts writing again.

  Once everyone is finished, Professor Bronscher collects the notecards and sits at her desk.

  “Okay. Let me know if I mispronounce your name, or if there is a nickname you prefer.

  “Lauren Marlin, from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Planning to major in psychology. Interesting fact: she has double-jointed elbows. Well. That is certainly interesting.

  “Sidney Kellings, from Kennedy, Minnesota. Planning to major in either biology or political science. Very different programs. Have you considered a double major? Your fact: you play hockey. Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.

  “Mark Flynne, from... Boring, Oregon?”

  “Actually not that boring,” Mark says with a grin.

  I’m sure. You are planning to major in criminal justice, and your fact is that you are colorblind. Okay.”

  She keeps reading the cards aloud, sometimes asking about someone’s major choice or fact, or writing a note about someone’s name. There are students from all over the country, plus one from India and one from Germany.

  Finally, Professor Bronscher gets to my card. “James Rochester, from Savannah, Georgia. Majoring in Language and Culture. Interesting fact: ‘I have a thing for languages.’ James, could you elaborate on that?”

  “Sure,” I say. “ I collect Rosetta Stone CDs. I’ve finished Spanish, French, and German, and now I’m working on Italian and Portuguese.”

  “Impressive. I can see why you chose that major, then. Okay. Our last student is Ar... Ark...”

  “Arkeda Mothran,” Arkeda says.

  “Thank you,” Professor Bronscher says, making a note on the card. “You are from Waukesha, Wisconsin–no, wait. You’ve lived there for ten years. What about before you lived there? Where are you from originally?”

  “That doesn’t matter. It doesn’t exist anymore,” Arkeda says automatically, and the other students exchange inquisitive looks. I didn’t expect him to give a clear answer. If he wouldn’t tell me, his roommate, why would he tell any of his professors?