A Distraction of Whales

by Arthur Roberts

A single drop of rain landed on Monica’s hand as she adjusted the dials on the machine. She took no notice, focused as she was on her work. Nor did she notice the wind beginning to whip her hair about, her protective goggles keeping it from her eyes. The sky had long since begun to grow dark, the clouds now hung heavy overhead. Still, Monica stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on her work.

She knelt in the underbrush on a forested hillside, overlooking a wide river flowing lazily hundreds of yards below. An identical hillside rose on the opposite bank. Out beyond Monica’s range of vision, she knew the river bled out to the ocean. The instrument which was the object of her focus she had staked into the dirt, the receiving end pointed in the direction of the sea. If she managed to get it properly oriented before the storm hit, she would be finished ahead of schedule.

“Monica!”

She did not turn, despite the footsteps coming up behind her. A hand on her shoulder startled her from her reverie.

“Did you not hear me calling?” Her companion, Nicodemus, stared down at her through his own pair of goggles, his features obscured by the threadbare hat he wore. The wind tore at the tails of his tattered and stained coat, the heavy leather billowing around his knees. One of the lenses in his goggles was cracked and had been for some time.

“Sorry, Nicodemus,” she said, turning absently back to her work. “I’m almost done here. “I just need to get this last recorder oriented. Then we don’t even have to be here to witness the migration, we can just collect the data later. Of course, I would prefer to be here when the Serra come, but if I can’t...”

“We need to go now,” Nicodemus said.

“You know how important this is,” she chided him.

“I also know the storm is coming faster than we predicted,” he told her. “We need to leave now.”

“Almost—,” she began, but a loud crack of thunder drowned out the rest of her sentence.

She cursed under her breath, and savagely pulled the instrument from out of the ground. “Fine! Let’s go.”

“I’m sorry,” Nicodemus told her, reaching into his pocket. “We will come back later.”

“I know,” Monica sighed, resigned.

Nicodemus pulled a small, purple gemstone from his pocket. In the dimming light, it glowed from within. He held it out to Monica, who placed her hand atop his. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, they both felt a tingling rise up their arm, a rushing sound in their ears, and then the world went dark.

The rain began to fall all at once in heavy sheets. Monica and Nicodemus never felt a drop.

~

Codin paced uneasily across the tiled floor of the bright atrium of the Grand Archive, wringing his hands and muttering to himself. His long robes trailed behind him, and he nearly tripped over them as he turned in place. Every few seconds, he would remove his spectacles, cleaning them on his sleeves. This was completely unnecessary, of course, but it gave him something else to do while he waited.

He heard a rushing sound behind him, and he turned to see two people who had not been there moments earlier. Monica and Nicodemus stood before him, their hands clasped between them. At once, and without so much as a greeting, Monica stormed past Codin toward a door on the far side.

Codin turned quizzically to Nicodemus. He stretched and shook his head to clear it. The act of traveling between worlds always left him a bit disoriented, though Monica never seemed affected much. When he finally met Codin’s eye, all he could do was shrug.

“Storm hit early,” he said. “She’s not happy about it.”

Codin opened his mouth twice as if to speak, then looked back toward Monica.

“I... I h-have to t-tell you...” He trailed off.

“What is it, Codin?” she asked. She did not sound angry, though Codin knew that did not mean she was not. At least, she was not angry with him. Still, he continued to stammer as though she might strike him at any moment. She never had, of course, but Codin was not one to take unnecessary chances.

“I h-have a m-message,” he told her. Her shoulders slumped. “Iteru?” she asked, in resigned irritation.

“Y-yes,” Codin admitted.

“He wants to see me.” It was not a question.

Codin said nothing. With a heavy sigh, Monica dropped her back and turned back around to see Codin rooted to the spot, wringing his hands again. She could not help but smile at him.

“Thank you, Codin,” she said, giving him a reassuring hug as she passed. “I won’t be long.”

Monica left the office, crossed the great atrium, and pushed her way out the enormous double doors of the front entrance. Descending the stairs that led to the Main Causeway, she took a moment to marvel, as she always did, at the architectural spectacle that was The Spire.

Here, miles below the planet’s surface, the ground had been hollowed out and formed into enormous pillars stretching in all directions, as far as the eye could see. Each level of The Spire was constructed thus, and the pillars were positioned to hold aloft the level above. So thick across were they, that they too had been hollowed out to make residence for the people. The Main Causeway circled around one such pillar, with bridges branching off from it, each leading to the next pillar, surrounded by its own Causeway.

The way was lit by lamps hanging overheard, and larger lights set along the outer wall of the Causeway. Looking over the wall, one could see down to the roadway below, where the steam engines moved from pillar to pillar, causeway to causeway, carrying goods and people on their appointed rounds. Many people were moving about the base of the pillar, which was cut with several openings, inside each of which a shop plied their trade. This particular pillar was no residence, but the center of commerce, and each level within was dedicated to one of the Guilds. If one listened closely, they could hear the workers as they crafted and built, then sent their finished products down to the shops below.

This world, the world of Na’Til, had been her home now for nearly three years, but Monica never did quite get used to it. She liked it that way, preferring to view this place with wonder rather than accept it as the norm. Of course, to the people here it was very much that. By contrast, they often looked at Monica with a sense of wonder and curiosity. She liked that, too. All the more so because they had so readily accepted her as one of their own.

She had come to Na’Til for refuge, seeking an escape from the life she had left behind. At first, she was unsure if she would be granted asylum. To her great surprise and delight, she was not only permitted to stay, the Na’Til insisted. In one of the neighboring pillars, she had a home of her own. She worked daily with Codin and Nicodemus in the Archives. She had friends amongst the people. She had found a new home here.

Yet, even as she moved through the crowd, greeted by those who knew her and not feeling at all out of place, a distinct sadness weighed on her heart. It was minor, not enough to overwhelm her, but she felt it all the same. A yearning to which she could not put a name. A longing for she knew not what. For a moment, her steps slowed, and she looked away to the distance, wondering at the sensation. It passed as quickly as it had appeared, and Monica took a deep breath and continued on her way.

Around the edge of the Causeway, five grand buildings, smaller than the pillars but no less impressive, stood as centers of politics and education. The Archives, of course, being one of them. Almost directly on the other side of the pillar, the Council Chamber was another. It was almost a perfect mirror image of the Archives, and Monica made her way up the stairs to the entrance and pushed inside.

The atrium here was not lined with shelves of books and scrolls, nor were there wooden tables to sit and read. The room was bare, adorned only by the great lamps set into the surrounding wall and hanging from the ceiling. The marbled floor bore the sigil of the High Council, but no other decoration.

At the far end was the entrance to the High Council’s meeting chamber. However, Monica made her way immediately to the left, where a set of stairs followed the shape of the wall and led to the floor above. She ascended these and made her way around the upper walkway to a door above the entrance to the meeting chamber. This, in turn, led to another staircase, spiraling upward in either direction along the wall.

She went to the right this time, counting the stairs as she went until she came to the wooden door at the top.

Thirty-seven, she counted in her head. She chuckled to herself, amused as ever by the Na’Til obsession with odd numbers. Shaking herself, she knocked.

“Enter,” came a voice from the other side.

Monica did so, and entered the office of the Potentiate, Iteru. He sat at his desk, but looked up when she came in, greeting her with a warm smile. She could see from his eyes that he was tired, yet he stood as she walked toward him. She wondered if he was losing more of his hair, which was turning gray in places. His long, thin beard was still black and hung almost to the base of his neck. He was wearing his purple robes today.

“You wanted to see me,” she said. Again, it was not a question.

“I did,” Iteru agreed. “I’ve been sending you messages at the Archives, but you haven’t been responding.”

“I’ve been busy,” she said. “I’ve been tracking the patterns of a Serra pod in migration. I have been following them for months, trying to find their breeding ground and I think I may have finally done it. Just today, Nicodemus and I—”

“I understand,” Iteru interrupted, forcefully but not unkind, “that you are very involved in your work. However, you have failed to report on any of it in those same months. I have been expecting written accounts of your research for some time and have yet to receive anything. More than that, tracking migrating saw-whales was not on your list of assignments, as fascinating as that may be. The Guild of Provisioners is awaiting your report on the soil quality in Avlim. The Guild of Builders and the Guild of Maintainers need prospecting reports on mineral deposits in F’Uinter. And the Guild of—”

“I am aware of all that,” Monica said. “I may not have responded to your messages, but I did receive them. I spoke to the Guildleaders myself when those orders were given, and they assured me that I was free to take my time.”

“That was a full season ago. I speak to them now, and they tell me that they are behind on their work because they do not have information enough to proceed. I also speak to the people, and they tell me of shortages in goods and supplies. Monica, there are not very many people living in the Spire, but those people still have needs. I do not want to tell you how to do work, but I must insist that you do it, and that you prioritize what is needed ahead of what you desire.”

He moved as he spoke now, coming around his desk to meet her.

“Perhaps the assignments from the Guilds do not hold your interest, and believe me when I say I understand that. I look at their reports each and every day, as well as writing letters in response to every query brought before the High Council no matter how innocuous. I don’t think I need to tell you that this is not my idea of fun. However, it is my responsibility as the Potentiate to be the voice of the people directly to the Council, and the voice of the Council directly to the people. A task made all the more difficult when I do not have the information to answer their questions or address their concerns. Please. I need you to focus on your appointed tasks.”

“As a member of the Archivists,” Monica replied, “it is also my task to research and record everything I can about the various worlds of the Na’Til. There are still hundreds of undocumented worlds to be sorted. Even the ones we have already identified still require exploration to restore and complete the records. Mineral deposits and soil quality are only a fraction of what we need to know about—”

“Yes, but it is the fraction that is currently relevant,” Iteru said. His tone was more forceful now, yet his temper remained in check. He always admired Monica’s tenacious spirit, and the undaunted curiosity with which she pursued her research. He could not, however, allow that to overshadow the issue at hand. “You can always return to the work you are doing, once you complete the work you were asked to do.”

“But if I don’t catch the migration soon, I’ll miss it entirely. I need to at least get my recorders in place. Who knows how long it will be before the Serra return? We have no idea what their mating habits are really like, or their lifespan. I don’t know when I’ll get another chance at this.”

“I am sorry, Monica. You will just have to take your chances. I need those reports.”

Monica wanted to argue further, but she could tell the matter was decided. More than that, she knew deep down that Iteru was right. She had been neglecting her duties, albeit for other aspects of her job. All the same, she had become increasingly focused on the more desirable of those tasks.

“Fine,” she said. “You’ll have them by tomorrow night.”

“Thank you.”

Monica turned without another word, but had only taken one step before Iteru stopped her. “I must confess that I am worried about you,” he said.

“Worried?” she asked. “Why?”

“Because this is very unlike you,” he said. “In the time that you’ve been here I have not known you to allow your duties to fall to the wayside. As much as I am concerned with the demands I must address, I am also concerned for you. I would like to believe that, when I am not sitting in this office, you and I are friends. As your friend I feel the need to ask... are you alright?”

As if it had been waiting for that question, the pang of sadness struck her heart again. She swallowed hard and was surprised to find she was fighting back tears. She did not turn to face Iteru, but she answered him shakily, “Yes. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Because if there is anything you need, anything at all, you know you need only ask.”

A single tear rolled down Monica’s cheek.

“Thank you,” she said. “There is nothing at the moment. I’ll get back to those reports for you.”

Without another word, she left the office and closed the door behind her.

~

When she returned, she found Nicodemus and Codin sitting at one of the tables in the atrium. An unorganized pile of scrolls and blank parchment was strewn about the table before them. Nicodemus sat with his feet up on the table, a book in his lap, and a long pipe in his hand. Codin was pointedly ignoring all of this, forcing himself to look at what he was writing, but still casting sidelong glances at the mud dripping off Nicodemus’s boots.

“Tea?” Nicodemus asked as she approached, offering her a steaming clay tumbler. He had removed his protective gear, and the lamplight gleamed off his bald head. She took the cup gratefully, holding it between her hands. “How much trouble are you in?”

“Not as much as you usually are,” she teased.

“That’s not saying much,” he joked back, “I’m usually in a lot of trouble.”

“What’s our progress?” Monica asked, nodding toward the pile of papers. She took a sip of her tea, while Codin awkwardly shuffled the stack.

“D-difficult to s-say,” he stammered. “There’s s-so m-much to go th-through, and it is n-not all p-properly c-cat-catalogued.”

Monica and Nicodemus both looked longingly behind him. There were stacked several large, wooden crates, each full of the same purple crystals Nicodemus had kept in his pocket. Each of those crystals contained one of the many worlds the ancient Na’Til had created centuries ago, a manufactured empire, lost now to time, but not forgotten. Three years they had spent exploring those worlds, recording their findings, and making a detailed record of those worlds.

For all their efforts, they had not made a dent in the pile of crystals. Monica’s heart sank, and she looked at the second set of crystals, this one neatly organized on a shelf not far away. These newer worlds were the ones Iteru had summoned her to discuss. These had been created specifically to provide for the people in the Spire, and the Guilds needed to know if they were ready for use.

“I was adding our notes from today to the book,” Nicodemus said. “I left room for your information on the Serra migration and breeding when you’re finished.”

“Save it,” she said. “Move on to the next one.”

Nicodemus looked scandalized. “You’re not serious. I know I pulled you away from the storm, but you don’t have to give up on it completely.”

“You can continue with it if you want to,” she said, heavily. “I have other work to do.”

“Is that what Iteru wanted?” Nicodemus asked, his tone turning defensive. “Do you need me to talk to him?”

“He won’t listen to you any more than he listened to me. Besides, he was right. I need to just get it over with.” She drained her cup and handed it back, then turned back to the side office. Once enclosed within, she dropped into her chair at the desk and pushed her journal aside. Beside the desk was a stack of papers, already marked with guild symbols, waiting to be filled out and returned to their respective leaders. She pulled the first one from the top of the stack, picked up her stylus, and began to write:

Here shall follow the official report on the findings of Monica Snyder, Guild of Archivists, in regard to soil quality and fertility in the agricultural world of Avlim...

She dipped her stylus in the ink pot again, took a deep breath to collect her thoughts, and continued:

One dozen samples were collected from various locations within a fifty-mile radius...

 The writing was every bit as mind-numbing as she thought it would be. Almost immediately, her thoughts began to wander. By the second paragraph, her mind was a million miles away, her arm working mechanically of its own accord. She thought of the Serra, the saw-whales, with their long serpentine bodies and wing-like fins making their way up the river in a single file. She saw them reaching the lake at the far end of the river.

She thought of the river back home, at the bottom of the hill across the street from her father’s house. She remembered the smell of the sulfur wafting along with it, blown down from the steel mills up the way. She remembered the day she went out across the old railway bridge that spanned the river, looking down over the freezing water below. How her brothers had all dared her jump, and she surprised them all when she actually did.

The tip of her stylus scratched a tear in the parchment. Monica’s breath caught in her throat, and the ink began to run as wet spots appeared on the paper. She was sobbing openly now, her heart aching in her chest.

That was what she was missing. It had been three years since she left home. Three long years building a life here in Na’Til. Three years since she had last seen her brothers. She pictured them now; Oliver with his long black hair and paint-stained fingers, broad-shouldered William running across the football field, Stephen in a suit and tie just to present a school project, and young Lucas, only eleven years old. He would be fourteen now.

She smiled through her tears as she remembered Lucas coming to her for bedtime stories, her and William playing basketball in the driveway, Stephen reciting his speeches and presentations for her critique, Oliver sketching away next to her while she did her homework. The last quality time she spent with them had been her birthday before she ran away.

Her eighteenth. They had spent weeks planning a surprise party for her. All her friends were there. It was a perfect evening, until...

As her last tear fell, her expression hardened. Her chest clenched even tighter, her breath quickened, and she balled her hand into a fist. As much as she missed her brothers, she reminded herself of why she had left in the first place. She remembered the reason it was necessary to leave them behind. She remembered her father.

Roger Snyder had appeared at her party, uninvited and angry. He was not angry at being left off the guest list. He was angry that there was a celebration at all. It had been years since Monica had truly celebrated her birthday, and it was never even acknowledged by her father. Her brothers had dared to go out of their way to do something special for her on a milestone occasion, and her father simply could not stand it. He showed up and forcibly dragged her away. Her friends tried to intervene, but that only made it worse. Involuntarily, her hand went to her cheek and rubbed a spot beneath her left eye. Her father had hit her particularly hard that night.

The sound of her stylus clattering to the floor snapped her out of her reverie. She had not even realized she had let go of it. She looked around the room, the silence now deafening. She looked down at the parchment in front of her, her last word trailing off into a streak of ink down the length of the paper. This was exactly what she had been trying to avoid. This was why she was so wrapped up in her work. It was all a distraction, so she would not have to think about the rest. So she would not have to miss them.

She cried out in surprise as the silence was rent by the door behind her slamming open. She spun around to see Nicodemus standing there, out of breath but smiling like a kid on Christmas morning.

“The storm broke!” he said. “I just got back from checking the instruments! The Serra are coming in!”

Monica leapt to her feet, kicking the stylus away under a table and ran after Nicodemus, who was already sprinting across the atrium. She grabbed her discarded equipment as she went, struggling to don her protective gear mid-run. Codin dove aside, nearly dropping the stack of books he was carrying as she darted past him. Nicodemus was already holding out his hand for her, and she laid her palm on his, covering the small purple crystal.

A second later, her vision cleared to reveal the hillside she had left earlier, now drenched and dripping from the storm. The sun was still up, and Monica immediately noticed how hot and humid it was compared to the coolness of the Archives. Nicodemus was catching his breath, fighting off the dizzying effects of moving between worlds. She paid him no mind and ran quickly to get a good vantage point.

She heard them before she saw them. The song of the Serra carried high over the trees from the river below. Finding an outcropping of rock, Monica climbed up and gained a clear view straight to them. One by one, the great saw-whales lifted their heads above the water as they swam. Each time they did, they called out to one another, in a chorus of drawn-out cries and short hooting.

Monica fumbled in her pack for a camera. Nicodemus finally caught up to her, his notebook already in his hand. As Monica started snapping photos, Nicodemus began to sketch. The Serra were everything that they imagined them to be. Their long, narrow bodies moved through the water like snakes. Their horse-like heads were topped with yellow crests, which ran down the middle of their back to the base of their tail. Along their sides, two enormous wing-like fins undulated in the river, working furiously against the current. They were fast. Impossibly fast for aquatic animals of their size. Were it not for the yellow in their crests and the membranes on their fins, as well as their song, their color would have blended them perfectly into the water.

“They’re beautiful,” Monica said, in between pictures.

“Absolutely extraordinary,” Nicodemus agreed.

The river turned a bend, and the pod of Serra began to disappear from view. Monica jumped from her rock and made her way down the forested hill to follow them. Near the bottom, she found a natural path, and followed it toward the river bend. It wrapped around the base of the hill, then followed the river part of the way inland. When it veered away, Monica kept going through the untrod underbrush.

Finally, she reached the end of the treeline. Just beyond, the river flowed into a massive lake, the shores of which were only a few feet away from her. The Serra had already begun to make their way out of the water and onto dry land. Monica watched as one of the larger ones used the exposed claws on the edges of her fins to pull itself across the sand. As she began taking pictures again, the Serra seemed to choose a good spot, let out a slightly more aggressive cry than before, and began to sweep its tail back and forth across the chosen spot. A few minutes later, the creature has brushed the sand up and away to create a shallow pit.

“You have got to stop leaving me in the dust like that,” Nicodemus whispered as he snuck up alongside her. Monica muttered an apology, but never took her eyes away from the animals. Many more of them were now mimicking the behavior of the first, digging shallow pits of their own.

“I’m not as young as I used to be,” Nicodemus said, jokingly.

Monica finally turned to look at him. “Were you ever actually young?” she teased.

“I mean, I at least used to have hair,” Nicodemus replied. Monica chuckled and turned her attention back to the Serra. The first one to dig its pit had now positioned itself over it, raised its tail, and had just finished squeezing out a large, slightly green egg.

“They’re not mating,” Monica observed. “They’re nesting. Mark this down: actual mating takes place out at sea. They only come on land to lay eggs. I’m guessing that these are all female, then. Judging by their size, they are slightly larger than anticipated based on earlier data. Suggests sexual dimorphism.”

Nicodemus scribbled furiously in his notebook. Monica snapped another picture.

“Eggs are spherical,” Monica went on. “Pale green in color. Approximately three feet in diameter.” She took a step forward to get a better view as she took more photos.

“Careful, Monica,” Nicodemus said. He was only watching her out of the corner of his eye, though, his attention shifting between his notebook and the Serra.

“They have a patterned nesting formation,” Monica said, “Cooperative. The outer ring of Serra faces away from the water. The rest are oriented in any direction that allows them all enough room to properly nest. My guess is, the outer ring is watching for potential predators.”

“Could you repeat that?” Nicodemus asked, “I missed the last thing you—” He looked up from his notebook, and his words caught in his throat.

“Although, at their size,” Monica continued, entirely to herself now, “I cannot imagine what manner of creature would dare to consider these animals as prey. Estimated length of the largest specimen is one hundred and twenty-five feet from snout to tail. So, on the matter of predators, maybe ignorance is bliss. Still, now that I mention it out loud, my curiosity—”

“MONICA WATCH OUT!!”

She turned to look back at Nicodemus, and only then did she realize that she had continued walking while she spoke. She had left the treeline far behind.

She whipped back around just in time to see the massive tail of the nearest Serra swinging directly at her head. She dropped to the sand, landing flat on her back, the tail passing harmlessly above her. As she rolled back to her feet, however, the Serra turned to face her. Instead of its ambient song, it instead let out an angry howl. Behind her, a second Serra howled as well, and began to flop across the sand toward her.

“Too close!” she exclaimed. “Way too close!”

The Serra, as it turned out, were incredibly fast. Almost unfairly so. Monica only narrowly dodged aside as the first came bearing down on her, only to be forced to double back as the second lunged in her direction. It opened its jaws as it attacked, revealing rows of pointed teeth.

“Carnivores!” Monica said. “Duly noted.”

It turned toward her, ducking under its companion’s tail. Monica ran left, toward the treeline, but a third Serra cut across her path. She quickly darted back the other way, nearly stumbling. It was a good thing, though, as she narrowly missed a pair of biting jaws again. The world around her was now a tangled mess of thrashing tails and gnashing teeth, accompanied by angry hoots and howls. She turned quickly on her heel, allowed herself to fall to the sand again, rolled for a few feet, then came up running.

She only got a few steps before she realized she had dropped her camera.

She only hesitated for a moment, then ran back the way she had come. This time, she purposely sprinted to the right, forcing the nearest Serra to twist in a way that it could not possibly reach her. For a second, she thought of watching her brother William on the baseball field. As the Serra lifted its tail, Monica dropped into a slide and grabbed her camera.

Leaping to her feet, she turned to make for the trees again, only to lift her head and come face to face with one of her attackers. It lunged, jaws wide, a mere second away from claiming her.

The next thing Monica felt was not the stabbing pain of snapping teeth, but rather a heavy thud against her side and the wind being knocked out of her as she hit the ground. She did not have time to wonder at this, as her ears were filled with a blood-curdling scream. Above her, Nicodemus was yelling, his leg caught in the Serra’s jaws.

“No!” Monica gasped and tried to stand but she had no breath in her. She watched helplessly as Nicodemus was lifted higher, attempting to twist himself free. A second Serra had taken an interest in her companion’s prize, and was moving in to grab hold of Nicodemus, too.

Forcing herself to move, Monica looked around desperately for something, anything she could use. The beach was clear of anything other than sand as far as she could see. The only other thing close by were the eggs.

The eggs!

Nicodemus tried one more time to pull his leg free, but to no avail. With a pained grunt, he let himself fall limp. There was a sickening crack, and everything fell silent. The Serra from whose jaw he was dangling turned to look, and Nicodemus saw Monica standing over one of the freshly laid eggs. The top was shattered and, in her hands, Monica held the recorder she had not finished placing before the storm. It was covered in yolk.

Nicodemus dropped to the sand as the Serra opened its mouth to howl. Adrenaline kicked in and, ignoring the pain, he pushed himself to his feet and began to limp back to the trees as fast as he could go. Monica swept up beside him, tossing the slimy recorder away and putting his arm over her shoulders for support. Behind them, the Serra became tangled in their confusion, their huge bodies pressing too close together to allow them to move fast enough.

Monica did not wait for them to reach the trees. She shoved her hand in Nicodemus’s pocket, pulled out the crystal, and forced it into his hand. Before the Serra could right themselves and give chase, their prey had vanished.

~

Codin was sitting in his favorite chair, a book propped open in front of him, sipping lazily at a cup of tea when the silence of the Archives was broken by a scream. He dropped the cup, and hurried toward the sound, only to find Monica and Nicodemus lying on the floor of the atrium.

“Wh-what h-hap-happened!” he stammered as he ran to them, only to be brought up short. Monica had taken off her belt, and was frantically pulling it tight around Nicodemus’s thigh. His pant leg was covered in blood.

She looked up into Codin’s increasingly pale face. “Go!” she cried. “Get the Healers!”
Codin did not move. He looked about to vomit. “Now, Codin!”

Her words were still echoing across the Archives even after Codin disappeared out the door.

~

The Healers were quick to arrive, and even quicker to go about their work. In seconds, Nicodemus had been pulled onto a stretcher and whisked away to the Healers’ Hall. Monica and Codin followed, with Monica trying to explain what happened. As they reached the Hall, the Healers moved Nicodemus into an operating room, leaving Monica and Codin to wait.

Codin took up his usual practice of pacing and wringing his hands, muttering nervously to himself. Monica sat in silence, staring at the floor.

This is my fault, she thought. This is all my fault. I was so caught up that I... If I had only been paying more attention.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, buried her face in her arms, and allowed herself to cry. For the first time in three years, she wished she had never come to Na’Til.

At last, one of the Healers came out to speak with them. Her brown robes were covered in blood stains, but she was smiling. “Fortunately, we got to him quickly enough,” she told them. “It was a near thing. There will be scars, but Nicodemus will be just fine. We applied a healing salve and cleaned the wounds. They are stitched and bandaged, and he is resting.”

She led them down a hallway and into a room where Nicodemus lay in a bed, looking slightly out of it. Monica rushed to his side, grabbed his hand, and he squeezed hers in return. Codin stood in the doorway next to the Healer, still wringing his hands, but smiling all the same. The Healer left them and returned to her other duties.

“I’m so sorry,” Monica said. He only had a minor bruise on his head from where he fell. His left leg was wrapped completely in gauze, however, stained blue here and there from the salve.

“I’m not,” he told her. “I can take a few holes in my leg. I’m just glad you’re alright. If I hadn’t jumped in, you would have gotten worse than I did.”

“You wouldn’t have had to jump in if I hadn’t been so careless,” Monica said.

“You’ve known me long enough to know that I am the last person to judge someone for being careless. Remember that time with the berries?”

Monica laughed. “In Fera’lun,” she said, “We had run out of rations, so you went foraging.”

“Those orange berries,” Nicodemus chuckled, “I didn’t know they were poisonous. My stomach was upset for a week. And that time everyone thought I was dead?”

“Which t-time?” Codin chimed in, “I be-believe that hap-happened t-twice.”

“Neither of those were my fault, though,” Monica pointed out. “This was.”

“The berries were my fault,” Nicodemus said, “Call it even.”

“Fair enough,” Monica said.

“I’m afraid it’s not.”

Nicodemus sat up a little straighter, looking over Monica’s head at who had just spoken.

Monica sighed heavily and looked back over her shoulder. Codin sidled nervously over to join them.

Iteru was standing in the doorway, arms crossed and scowling. “I believe we need to talk.”

To be continued.

Arthur Roberts is a secondary education major. In addition to his work in Pitch, he is also working on a full-length novel series.