Oath Keeper Read online

  Oath Keeper

  Copyright © Jefferson Smith 2014

  Written by Jefferson Smith

  Edited by Fleur Macqueen

  Cover Art by Merridew Smith

  Published by Creativity Hacker Press (creativityhacker.ca)

  All rights reserved. Neither this book nor any portion thereof may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews and commentary.

  First Printing, 2014 (Rev. 2018-03-10 14:02)

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Smith, Jefferson, 1964-, author

  Oath keeper / written by Jefferson Smith; edited by Fleur Macqueen. — First edition.

  (Finding Tayna ; 2)

  Issued in print, electronic and audio formats.

  ISBN 978-0-9919334-3-3 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-0-9919334-4-0 (epub).—ISBN 978-0-9919334-5-7 (mp3)

  I. Macqueen, Fleur, 1965-, editor II. Title. III. Series: Smith, Jefferson, 1964- . Finding Tayna ; 2.

  PS8637.M5635O25 2014 jC813’.6

  C2014-900968-2 C2014-900969-0 C2014-901059-1

  Acknowledgements

  Often, the author thanks their collaborators, and then goes on to thank their families for putting up with them. Well I must have cured leprosy in a previous life or something, because for me, both of those groups are the same people.

  The road to Oath Keeper was a convoluted one, with many twists along the way. Oddly, it was working on the cover that finally brought everything together for me, so for that, I owe a huge debt to my number one artist and number two daughter, Merridew.

  While I’m off doing depraved things to nice characters, I have a staunch editor at my side, making sure I don’t leave any tear-soaked commas lying around once the weeping is done. It’s Fleur who keeps me on my grammatical and punctuarial toes, and that is only the least of the reasons for which I’m glad I married her.

  There wouldn’t even be a Methilien if not for my number one daughter, Brinna. As the original model for Tayna, she has seen it all—weird character arcs, implausible coincidences, abandoned story lines—and been a mountain of support throughout. More than just my right hand, if there is a keeper of Tayna’s soul, it is she.

  Daughter Rigel continues to put up with a mentally absent father without complaint, and youngest daughter Tayna (yes, really) keeps me young too. (I can’t wait for her to read about her namesake.)

  There are other folks who have made the journey easier, too. Folks like Caroline, Helen, and the rest of the gang at McNally Robinson Booksellers in Saskatoon, whose support has been astounding; Suzanne Paschall, whose initial guidance helped Strange Places see the light of day; Agnitha, for that first, amazing review; and Will Carlson, whose infectious enthusiasm reminds me almost weekly why I do this, and who it’s all for.

  Lastly, I want to thank my readers. Whether you’re a high schooler in Saskatoon, a librarian in Texas, or a bookseller in Kuala Lumpur, your emails and tweets have kept my imagination fed and watered since Strange Places first came out. Thank you for believing in Tayna. And thank you for coming on this latest journey, too. I really hope it melts your face.

  Jefferson Smith

  January 2014, Saskatoon

  For Ethel, Allan, Victor, and Sabina;

  Adventurers, risk takers, and dreamers,

  Architects of the world I grew up in.

  Chapter 1

  Sadness. There was no other word for it. More than just a feeling, it was a throbbing, convulsing presence. Like a snake living in her guts and entwined around her heart, pressing outward against her lungs. It kept her from breathing. It kept her from thinking. All she wanted to do was curl up and hide, but how do you hide from something inside you? Something that was part of you? The blackness in front of her tightly clenched eyes began to sparkle. A tingling sound rattled inside her ears, and her head began to float away. Holding her breath seemed to keep these images at bay, but was it worth blacking out? Probably not. Tayna sucked in a ragged new breath.

  And then she was five.

  * * *

  “Don’t you know how to dress yourself?” The ugly Sister loomed over her with glaring, angry eyes. The woman’s face shook and spittle flew from her mouth as she leaned in close, shouting and gesturing. Sister Critica. She was like that. Tayna looked down at the shirt and pants that Debbie had helped her put on. What was wrong with them? Her shirt was tucked in. Her socks were pulled up. Why was Sister Critica so mad?

  “It’s got flowers,” Tayna said. All of Tayna’s shirts had flowers, but this was her favorite. It was orange and cozy and it had three yellow flowers stitched on the chest.

  “New rule!” Sister Critica barked. “No adornments! Now get back up there and put on a decent shirt, and be quick about it!”

  “What does ‘adorements’ mean?” Tayna asked.

  The nun rolled her eyes and leaned in closer, her nose almost touching Tayna’s forehead. “Adorn-n-n-ments, you idiot girl! Adorn-n-n-n-ments! It means pretty things. Fifth floor girls may no longer wear frills on their clothing! And that includes flowers. Now march!”

  All chatter in the busy dining hall had stopped and everyone turned to watch. Tayna felt her lip beginning to tremble. “But Sister, all my shirts got adorements on them. They’re just flowe—”

  “Are you deaf as well as stupid, girl? No adorn-n-n-n-n-ments!” She dragged out the ‘n’ sound for a long time, making fun of Tayna’s mistake. “No flowers! No ponies! No kittens! No puppies! No initials! No stripes! Plain, stupid garments, for plain, stupid girls! Just be glad you’re still allowed to wear colors! Now go!”

  No flowers? But… But… All her shirts had flowers. If she wasn’t allowed to wear flower shirts, she might have to come back down in an undershirt. Everyone would see her in her underwear! “But—”

  “I SAID GO!” Sister Critica shot out a hand that quivered with barely suppressed rage, pointing up the stairs.

  Tayna bolted toward the staircase before the yelling turned into hitting, but her eyes were all blurry and she couldn’t see. She tripped and fell hard on her knees. Behind her, all the nuns began to laugh, but Tayna ignored them. Stupid nuns were always shouting and laughing at her. She wiped her eyes quickly on her sleeve as she stood up, so that the nuns wouldn’t see. They would only get meaner if they saw her cry. But what was she going to do about a shirt? This was so unfair!

  She was all the way up to the second floor landing before the tears came.

  * * *

  The memory subsided as the air in her lungs went stale, and Tayna held her breath to prolong the quiet, but even that couldn’t keep the remembered feelings from pressing in on her. The shame. Humiliation. Sister Critica had known full well that Tayna loved plants and flowers. As a little girl, she had drawn them every time she was allowed to hold a pencil. She’d made up songs and stories about them. She’d even snuck up to the roof to visit Sister Diaphana’s garden once, and received a week of punishment when she’d been caught. She’d known the Goodies would be furious and that their punishment would be brutal, but she’d gone anyway. Such pretty flowers. And the smell of a hundred things growing. It had all been worth it. That’s how much young Tayna had loved flowers and greenery.

  So obviously, if any piece of clothing had ever come up to the fifth floor with even the slightest touch of floral decoration on it, Tayna had been drawn to it like a magnet. Debbie had been the Senior Girl in those days—one of the good ones. In hindsight, Tayna realized that the older girl had probably felt sorry for the strange little dark-haired girl. The one the nuns all loved to pick on. For whatever reason, Debbie’d made sure that, as often as possible, litt
le Tayna got first pick of any new flower clothes.

  Everyone had known about Tayna and her flower shirts. How could they not? And looking back on it now, it was so obvious. Critica’s new rule had been aimed specifically at her. Tayna. Sister Critica hadn’t just happened to notice her shirt. She’d been standing there, waiting to notice it.

  And she’d been waiting for what happened next too.

  * * *

  As young Tayna stomped back down into the dining room, those children closest to the stairs began to titter. Their mirth spread like a crackling fire, as each girl nudged her neighbor and cocked a head toward the brazen little kid sauntering across the floor, heading back to her job scrubbing pots in the kitchen. Tayna had spent ten whole minutes going through every single shirt she owned, but each of them had boasted some kind of picture on it that was now against the rules. She’d tried turning them inside out too, but even at five years old, she’d known that the visible, flower-shaped stitching on the inside of the shirt would be enough to get her yelled at again. So she’d made the best of it, and now strode proudly across the dining hall floor wearing her new, legal, spring ensemble.

  She made it three-quarters of the way to the kitchen door before she felt the grasping claw of a Goody bite down on her shoulder.

  “What do you think you’re wearing now, girl? That’s not proper dress!”

  Tayna twisted in Sister Critica’s grasp and glared up at the woman defiantly, jutting out her little chin. “It is too! Lotsa girls are wearing the same as me right now! Look!” She waved her free arm at the crowd of onlookers, who just gawked back at her, but the old crone never broke eye contact.

  “They are wearing them properly, you little sprat, and you know it! Now take that ridiculous skirt off your shoulders and go find something more appropriate to wear. This is a proper home for proper little ladies, and we’ll not have you parading around with that tom-foolery draped about you like some street urchin. Now go!”

  This time however, instead of crying, Tayna got mad, and she whirled to face the cruel old woman, stamping her foot and matching her, fury for fury, with her little arms crossed over her chest. “No!” Tayna shouted. “You do it! You know I don’t got one! If you want me to wear an ugly shirt, then you go find one, ‘cuz all my shirts are pretty, and you’re the one who knows where ugly stuff comes from!”

  The silence that filled the room was so complete that it radiated for several blocks in every direction.

  And then Sister Critica grabbed her.

  By the time the old woman was done, Tayna stood in the center of the dining area, on display for all to see. Her ingenious little skirt-shawl had been ripped from her and torn to pieces. Her jeans had been yanked down and pulled off, along with her socks and shoes, and it all now lay in tatters on the floor, leaving Tayna standing alone in the middle of the room, shivering in front of the entire orphanage—every girl and every nun—in nothing but her little pink underwear.

  “Let that be your lesson, then!” Critica thundered. “If you cannot follow the dress code, then you will not be allowed to wear clothing! You will stay that way for the rest of the day, and for every day until you can find proper clothing!” Then she whirled to glare at Debbie and the other fifth floor girls who were now peeking out from the kitchen door. She raised a bony finger to single them out. “And don’t let me catch any of you trying to help her either!”

  Tayna tried to keep her lip from giving way, and she might have made it too, if the other nuns hadn’t started to chuckle. First Sister Anthrax had snorted one of her vile choking cackles, but it seemed to catch on and soon all of them were doubled over with delight, laughing and pointing at the helpless girl in the middle of the room. It wasn’t long before the fourth floor girls joined in, and even some of the older third-floors.

  Which is when Tayna’s lip finally surrendered and the flood-gates opened. She’d tried to be brave. She’d tried to stand up, but it had been no use, and now every person in the Old Shoe hated her and was laughing at her, and seeing her bare arms and legs and her skinny little tummy. It was total humiliation. So five year old Tayna did the only thing she could do. She stood there, in the center of the cold and laughing orphanage basement, and cried her heart into tears.

  * * *

  Again the dream memories let go their ferocious grip and the images melted away, but it was getting harder to fight. The visions were lasting longer, and the gaps between them were getting shorter. Tayna tried to hold her breath, tried to keep the next scene from forming, but it was a losing battle. Eventually she would have to breathe, and as soon as she did, she would be plunged again into that tossing sea. Her own personal history of misery.

  Obviously, something was wrong. These were not the normal twinges of half-remembered embarrassment or bitter recollections of past humiliations. She was actually reliving the moments, feeling them, as though she were experiencing them all over again. When she’d felt Sister Critica snatching her up to peel that skirt from her shoulders like a banana, Tayna had wailed in actual terror, as though she was still five years old and it was all happening for the first time. She was older now, and she knew that nothing drastic was going to happen, but even so, she was unable to escape the body-seizing terror that had gripped her as a child. Somebody was doing this to her. Somebody, somewhere had found a way to get inside her memories and was having a party with them. She tried to fight them off, tried to resist, tried to refuse to remember, but her resistance was toilet paper, and the memories kept coming. Every new breath brought a new recollection, from deeper in her past, from a more vulnerable and terrified version of herself. From her earliest memories, and her greatest fears.

  Again her lungs began to burn, and once more, she drew a breath and tried to brace herself, but there was no bracing. There was only terror.

  * * *

  The man who held her had no face. The sky was dark, and the moon had not yet risen, but even in the faint light of pre-dawn, Tayna could see that his features were… missing. Like nothing—or no one—she had ever seen before. But if that was the case, then whose memory was this? The blackness of his silhouette blotted the sky-glow behind him and he seemed impossibly large. Or perhaps she was very small. Either way, he held her tightly across his chest, with his powerful arms entwined around her own limbs, making it impossible for her to even squirm. But it was not a fatherly embrace.

  It was the iron grip of a captor.

  Tayna craned her neck, trying to see around him, but could get no sense of just where they stood. There was loose gravel at his feet, and she could make out a jagged mass of darkness behind him, snuffing a great triangular wedge out of the sky, but there was nothing more, save for the winds that swirled around them.

  “Well, that didn’t work,” a voice said, but it was not her captor speaking. The voice had come from behind her. And she recognized it.

  Angiron.

  Tayna redoubled her battle against the iron grip, but could not get herself turned around to see him. After a moment, her little body gave up trying even that much, and sagged to hang limp against Blackie’s straight-jacket of muscle and bone. Poor kid. Unlike the previous scenes, with the Goodies, Tayna didn’t recognize this scene at all. Could her attackers be tormenting her now with somebody else’s memories? Whoever she was, this body felt as though it had been crying for days, and not sleeping much either. The batteries were too low to put up a Tayna-style resistance, so Tayna hung limp, and focused instead on what Angiron was saying.

  “… been so much simpler if it had worked today. Seems we will have to wait for her flower day after all, so we go to Plan B. She’ll have to go missing. Sooner or later, she’d have come here, either with her parents or on her own, but that cannot happen until I’m ready. So we drop her in a hole. And I’ve got just the hole too. Nobody will ever find her. But before we get to that, there’s a little ceremony I need to perform.”

  Suddenly Tayna knew where she was—when she was—and what was about to happen. A memory so d
eeply buried that she hadn’t recognized it as her own. She kicked out—frantic—thrashing with sudden desperation against the man with no face.

  “No! No! Please no! Not this! Don’t make me be here!”

  But the blackest man with the blackest skin held her in rigid stillness, shifting only slightly to place his smooth black hand over her mouth, forcing her to silence, and glaring down at her from his smooth, featureless face.

  She didn’t want to miss her own wedding, did she?

  * * *

  Abeni marveled at the unfamiliar world in which he had awakened. Marveled at its strangeness. He did not know how he and the Little Fish had come to this place, but it was an ominous land, where ice fell from the sky in tiny shards, driven by a furious wind. Yet that very strangeness tugged at his curiosity. Everywhere he looked was whiteness and cold. Truly, this was a place worthy of exploration.

  But not now. He had managed to bandage the tattered wound of her wrist, but still the Little Fish lay shrouded in her dreams. When she did arise, his first duty would be to see to her safety. And upon the heels of that, he would then resume his sworn bond and return the Wagon of Tears to its rightful place in the house of his father, upon the Anvil. The time had nearly arrived for its next procession, and the dead would not wait kindly. So no, there would be no time to explore once she had awakened. Assuming she ever did.