"You have been taking your prescribed Powder daily hora somni, I presume," Dr. Strath inquired while shining a painfully bright starbloom penlight into Silas's eyes.
Silas nodded, blinking rapidly as his vision readjusted to the soft illumination of the room, the physick finally concluding his inspection.
Dr. Strath considered him, his brow furrowed dubiously. "Remind me of your current dosage," the physick said, thrusting a stylus and notepad into Silas's grasp.
Turning to a blank page, Silas quickly scrawled, "Three parts Powder of Neuroleptic, one part water or juice." He stopped writing and turned the notepad around for Dr. Strath to read.
The physick hummed to himself. Abruptly, he stood from his stool and began rummaging around in the many cabinets set into the wall, mumbling under his breath. Eventually, he ceased his restless shuffling and procured a small bottle of dark-tinted glass in one hand and a tall drinking glass in the other, an exclamation of "Aha!" escaping his lips as he positioned himself back on his stool, scooting over to Silas's cot once more.
"Your current dosage is rather copious—assuming you are indeed taking it as prescribed—to be continuing to have episodes such as these." The physick leveled a surveying glare at Silas as if his eyes could extract the truth with their penetrating leer. "I am thusly disinclined to increase your dosage further lest we produce…" Dr. Strath trailed off while he measured out three scoops of Powder into a tall drinking glass, "unwanted side-effects." He finished speaking and stood, walking a few steps to disappear into the washroom.
Silas listened to the sink sputter and belch before a steady hiss of unobstructed water rushed from the plumbing. The sink was abruptly turned off with a hearty squeal from the levers, and Dr. Strath exited the washroom with the drinking glass, which he placed in Silas's reluctant grasp. The Powder dissolved with an effervescent sizzle, turning the water a bubbly milky-white and then clear once again. Silas frowned down at the glass, his mouth already filling with saliva at the notion of consuming this foul liquid.
"However, I will have you take double your dose today—once now—and once again before you turn in for the night. Come now, don't glare at me so." Dr. Strath shook his head at Silas's disgusted expression. "The faster you drink, the faster the taste will be expelled from your palate."
Silas deliberated between the cup in his hand and Dr. Strath's unrelenting eye. Suddenly, he inhaled sharply, pinched his nose shut, and chugged the breathtakingly bitter liquid in one grand swig. At the bottom of the cup, he came up for air, his body shuddering involuntarily at the bitterness assaulting his tongue.
"Atta boy, lad," Dr. Strath nodded approvingly, freeing Silas of the empty cup. "Now, allow me to return to my work while you convalesce on that there cot."
With these final words, Dr. Strath fastidiously ignored Silas for the remainder of the school day; the physick only acknowledged his existence during instances where another child visited the office for him to address their ills, requiring Silas to remove himself from the premises to free the space.
As the day wound down, the crimson sky faded from brilliance into obscurity, darkening the room dramatically. In the low light, Silas grew drowsy with boredom and fought to keep his heavy-lidded eyes trained on the workbook resting between his knees. Just as he was about to nod off, the bell tolled startlingly, signaling the end of the school day. His eyes snapped open, energy flooding his limbs. The halls were immediately filled with the energetic chorus of children's voices as they excitedly babbled amongst each other upon exiting their classrooms. Silas stood and stretched, his legs tingly and numb from a day spent lounging on the firm cot. He quickly exited the physick's office, nodding to the mustachioed man before entering the hallway throng.
He made it halfway down the hall before realizing his satchel was still in Ms. Adlewood's classroom. He halted and swiveled on his heel, backtracking the way he came, then turning left down a quiet passageway. As he walked, Silas passed a janitor cranking the lever of a starbloom lamp to illuminate the rapidly dimming hallway, the sound of his heavy boots following him down the long hall. Stopping before the singularly lit classroom, Silas paused to brace himself, fretting over the possibility of encountering a lingering classmate. His cheeks heated with embarrassment, recalling the unfortunate events of the morning. While Silas had always had episodes of hearing Voices and disrupting class because of them, the episodes lately had been growing stronger and more frequent, providing bullies like Trobuk the kindling they needed to fuel the flame of his humiliation.
"Silas?" Ms. Adlewood's soft voice called from behind him.
Silas turned, surprised, to see his teacher standing in the shadows, her arms wrapped around his satchel. "I stopped by Dr. Strath's office to drop this off for you" —she handed Silas his satchel, which he took gratefully and opened to place his workbook inside— "but you were gone by the time I got there. I figured you had left for the evening."
Silas shook his head and grinned, averting his gaze bashfully. “I was about to depart when I remembered I left my satchel in the classroom," he signed after swinging his satchel over his shoulder. "My house key is in here, so I would have been in a bad spot if I left without it!"
"You most assuredly would have been," Ms. Adlewood agreed with a soft chuckle, her eyes twinkling in the blue-green glow of starbloom light flitting from the open classroom door. "How about I drive you? You mentioned that Mr. Carrow is out for the night. I would rather you not stroll home after the circumstances of today."
Silas's eyes widened with shock. "I could not possibly ask you to—"
The gentle touch of Ms. Adlewood's hand on his outstretched arm halted Silas mid-sign.
"That is why you are not asking and I am offering." Ms. Adlewood turned to the side, regarding him playfully. She tilted her head toward the exit and began to walk, her short-cropped auburn hair swirling about her as she turned.
Silas hesitated before skipping to catch up, following behind as she slowly sauntered to the double doors. Ms. Adlewood held the door for him while he jogged to meet her, satchel thumping against his hip. He nodded to her as he passed, his hair obscuring his vision when a strong, chilling wind confronted him upon leaving the shelter of the schoolhouse. Ruffling around in his satchel, Silas procured his mask and fixed it to his face; Ms. Adlewood closed the door and walked to meet him.
"Did Mr. Carrow get you that?" she asked conversationally, leading them down the walkway toward the boiler park.
Silas nodded, signing, "It was a gift to commemorate the start of the semester." He noted that Ms. Adlewood herself was not wearing a mask. While a personal choice, many people wore the latest fashions when performing leisurely activities outside. Silas himself found the articles annoying and frequently forgot to wear his, much to Pa's chagrin.
"It looks good on you," she noted. "The filigree, especially. I understand that it is popular now, correct?"
Silas shrugged. "Supposedly. Although I seldom care for such things."
Ms. Adlewood laughed; an easy, carefree sound that set Silas at ease. "On that, we can agree." She stopped before a compact boiler built to seat two people: one driver and one passenger. Its shiny new finish reflected the orange-yellow glow of the twin moons creeping over the horizon to rise quickly into the darkening sky. Ms. Adlewood produced a starter rod from an inner pocket of her coat and opened the door, easing herself into the driver's seat.
Awkwardly, Silas fumbled with the door handle before climbing in, wrenching the door closed behind him in a fight against the blustering wind. In a single attempt, Ms. Adlewood started the boiler's engine, which fizzed momentarily and then quieted to a barely perceptible gurgle. Immediately, a caressing warmth blew out from small vents about Silas's head and feet, bringing warm blood back into his achingly cold fingers.
"Your boiler has a compost radiator?" Silas signed in envious awe. Pa's prehistoric boiler lacked such a commodity.
"Better than that even," Ms. Adlewood purred, rubbing the steering disc tenderly. "This model has an alchemical heating system. A bit more expensive to maintain, I admit, but worth it in my opinion." She shot Silas a wink as his mouth fell open in astonishment. "Now, would you be a dear and guide me to your abode?"
Silas had never arrived home from school so fast. Ms. Adlewood's boiler sped down the cobbles at astonishing speed, keeping pace with the other vehicles on the roads and even overtaking some of them. Silas whooped and hollered, holding onto his seat as though he might be flung from his harness at any moment. Ms. Adlewood's musical laughter filled the cabin at Silas's reactions, joyful tears threatening to spill from the corners of her eyes. They were so distracted in their merriment that they turned down the wrong road after Silas forgot to indicate a turn. Despite this "scenic detour," as Ms. Adlewood dubbed their jaunt down an entertainment district, Silas still found himself at his front door in record time. Ms. Adlewood waved him adieu and exited the driveway once Silas was safely within his home and had closed the door behind him.
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Silas sighed deeply and dramatically upon entering the vestibule, removing his mask and shaking his head as he recalled the events of the day. He could only imagine what manner of insults Trobuk would conjure tomorrow. He groaned and pressed his fists into his eyes, predicting the future torment that was sure to come. Then, he slapped his cheeks rousingly and decided to dwell on such thoughts no longer. A wafting aroma from the kitchen demanded his attention, so he journeyed to the source of this pleasing odor like prey lured toward an appetizing trap.
Fumbling his way through the dark, Silas eventually found the lever for the kitchen's starbloom chandelier. He cranked it full, flooding the space with the maximal amount of light the humble apparatus provided. Displayed neatly on the table was one of Silas's favorite dinners: fowl smothered in a rich citrus-wine sauce with a side of spinacia. Written in Pa's sloping hand on freshly pressed parchment was a terse communication:
Your favorite
~Pa
Silas smiled as he read the message before setting the parchment back on the table. Gliding into a chair, Silas slid his satchel from his shoulder and let it drop onto the floor with a heavy thump. He then picked up his utensils and dug into the lukewarm yet delicious food. He ate quickly, forking bites into his mouth with one hand and leafing through his notepad with the other. This notepad—with its indigo blue case-binding and smooth vellum pages—was where he documented his Voice episodes. Dating back many syzygies, the book's earliest pages featured a young Silas's elementary writing skills and sloppy handwriting. As Silas flipped to the middle and then back of the book—with its few remaining blank pages—the text became more legible and organized. Setting down his fork, Silas rummaged through his satchel for his stylus, which was not in its usual spot. Remembering how he left his belongings on his desk after his episode during the debate, he surmised Charlotte or Ms. Adlewood had placed his things in arbitrary spots, unfamiliar with his preferred organizational structure. Finally finding the writing utensil and bottle of ink at the bottom of the satchel's main compartment, he began writing in the notepad.
Attention absorbed in his scribing, Silas gave no mind to the rattling of the front door's handle as someone attempted to enter the vestibule. Recounting the clear, concise words of the Voice at breakfast and again during class, nervous gooseflesh prickled Silas's skin while he thought, nibbling on the end of his stylus absentmindedly. In three neat bullet points placed at the center of the page, Silas had written:
- Where are you?
- We are coming for you.
- We have finally found you.
- You are not safe here.
Silas chewed his bottom lip, contemplating what these Voices meant. The one word Silas kept deliberating was "we." This word implied a multitude of Voices, not one single entity. Yet only one Voice spoke clearly, the same one delivering all three statements. Replaying the sound in his head, Silas concluded that the Voice was delicate and soft, with an feminine quality to it. Was this singular, decipherable Voice a leader of sorts to the others? How many total were there in this nebulous "we?" Silas tapped his stylus on the page, stopping the fidget when droplets of ink bubbled from the nib and spattered upon the vellum. Smearing the ink with his hand, he scrawled a single word beneath the three bullet points:
Echo
A fitting name for a Voice that echoes through my mind, Silas thought with a weak grin.
A thunderous boom boom boom reverberated from the vestibule, startling Silas, who jerked in shock. He winced when his elbow struck the bottle of ink, which flew from the table and shattered upon contact with the floor. A dark stain oozed from the shattered glass like blood from a wound. On shaking legs, Silas rose from his seat and peered around the wall into the corridor, the percussive banging on the door still increasing in fervor. All at once, the banging stopped—replaced with a pronounced silence. Silas crept back into the kitchen, edging his way backwards on tip-of-toes. Stifling a gasp at the sound of the door handle turning, Silas's hands made contact with the wall, halting his backward momentum. With a piercing groan that cut through the resounding quiet, the door creaked open. Heavy footfalls thudded down the walkway, aiming directly toward Silas's location. Quickly, Silas opened a drawer and grasped the handle of a cleaver, his shaky fingers nearly failing to wrap around its length. Crouching low, he crawled under the table moments before the boots completed their march and entered the kitchen.
Clenching the cleaver handle so tightly his knuckles turned white, Silas held his breath, uttering not a single sound. His legs and feet cramped with the awkwardness of his crouched position, but he dared not shift his weight lest the floorboard creak beneath him. The boots paused at the kitchen table and then turned slowly—one foot followed by the other. Now that the boots were facing the opposite direction, Silas decided he had the upper hand against the intruder. Heart pulsating in his temples, both fists clutching the cleaver like a lifeline, Silas leapt from beneath the table in one swift motion, arms outstretched above his head, ready to thrust downward and impale his foe. A floorboard shifted under Silas's weight, betraying his position. The boots swiveled in response as—at that same moment—the two figures found themselves face-to-face.
Silas blinked in shock, his lips parting in hesitation.
"Cenotes and aqueducts, my lad!" Pa cursed, his palms faced forward placatingly. "What were you doing hiding beneath the table with a meat cleaver?"
In an exhausting rush, the adrenaline flushed from Silas's limbs, causing his fingers to relax. The cleaver fell—blade first—and embedded in the floor. Taking a startled step back, Silas's foot became entangled in his satchel's strap, and he tottered backwards. Pa's hand struck forward and grabbed Silas's forearm, saving him from smacking his head against the table.
Once settled on two steady legs, Silas regarded Pa, who still gripped his arm protectively. The man's hair was tangled and wind-whipped, the ribbon gone, allowing his locks to cascade freely down his shoulders to reach the small of his back. Under his arm, he carried a thick stack of parchment bound with black ribbon—the same stack of parchment Silas often glimpsed from inside Pa's study. Silas tilted his head to read the title printed at the top of the first page, but Pa shifted the papers so his coat obstructed his line of sight.
"Well?" Pa released his firm grip—freeing Silas's arm—and stepped back to give the boy space to respond.
Silas hesitated, his thoughts still reeling from the recent events. In embarrassment, he averted his gaze, finding sudden fascination with the crown molding. Pa cleared his throat, demanding an answer.
"I thought you were an intruder," Silas finally signed, still avoiding Pa's penetrating glare. "I mean, who tries banging down the door of their own home?"
Pa snorted, his expression softening. "I suppose that was peculiar behavior on my part, aye?" he confessed, hefting up the pile of parchment threatening to slip from his grasp.
Silas couldn't stop his gaze from wandering to his burden. Pa caught him looking and gripped the parchments tighter.
"How about this, lad. You clean up this…" He stopped, considering the scene before him: meat cleaver protruding from the floor like a splinter, ink bottle shattered in a mess of glass shards and coagulated ink, table shifted out of place. "... Disarray while I go set my things down and get settled." Pa patted his bundle to indicate the "things" he wanted to set down.
Silas shrugged and then nodded, agreeing to these terms.
Pa turned to exit and announced over his shoulder, "And then we can sip some lavender chai and discuss the details of our days leading up to this evening's climactic conclusion." With this, Pa disappeared from view, leaving Silas to stare dumbly at the meat cleaver jutting from the floor.
"I'm sorry you had such a rough day at school, Silas," Pa frowned over his steaming mug of lavender chai. "But I'm glad Ms. Adlewood handled the situation with the elegance and grace she always manages."
Silas fiddled with his mug, still waiting for the scalding liquid to cool before he took a sip. Seated in the now clean kitchen—omitting the new vertical slit in the wood where the cleaver once dwelled and the fresh stain of spilled ink—the two considered each other from across the table. After spending some time upstairs—shifting around furniture in his study—Pa had returned with neatly-combed hair and slipper-clad feet. Silas wondered how his pa could unwind so quickly after nearly being skewered with a meat cleaver, his own thoughts still buzzing from the last dregs of adrenaline languishing in his system.
"What about you?" Silas signed, his brow furrowing. "Earlier, you said you would not be home until early tomorrow morn." Silas paused for a moment and then added, "Also, why did you try breaking into your own house?"
Pa chuckled, shaking his head. "Why indeed! Perhaps my syzygies are catching up with me, eh? I figured you were home already, so I knocked a few times. You never answered the door, so I tried the knob, and it was unlocked. The door was a tad stuck, though, I will admit."
Silas narrowed his eyes, watching Pa's forefinger nervously tap the lip of his mug. "That does not explain—"
"Yes, yes," Pa waved his hand flippantly. "It fails to explain my previous words. I assure you there is nothing to concern yourself with, lad." Pa lifted his mug and slurped loudly. When finished, he banged the mug down on the table, the jarring movement shifting the table slightly under Silas's elbows. "I completed what I set out to do earlier than anticipated." He grinned broadly.
"What were you doing with those parchments?" Silas was not going to let this go until he had answers.
"Parchments?" Pa asked with feigned ignorance. He rolled his eyes upward and tapped his chin as if deep in thought. "Ah, you mean the chronicle I have been working on. I merely decided to relocate it. Tomorrow I will deposit it somewhere where it will be safe."
Silas blinked. "Chronicle? Somewhere it will be safe?"
"Indeed! Ah, I do not mean that our home is unsound, lad. I see that look on your face. No, I wanted to put it somewhere where it would be easier to reach."
"What was wrong with where it was before?"
"Nothing, nothing. I just think this new location suits it better."
They stared at each other. Pa attempted a careless grin that projected calm collectedness while Silas considered his grandfather with shifting, searching scrutiny. Frustration growing, Silas wracked his brain for an angle to approach this from. How could he frame his questions to force an answer out of the man standing firm before him?
Pa stood and arched his back, crepitous crackling from his spine with audible pops. Straightening, the man nodded at Silas and declared, "I am now retiring for the night, if you would bid me your approbation."
Before Silas could raise his arms to respond, the man hastened out of the room, a gust of air from his swift departure unsettling Silas's hair as he went. Silas clicked his tongue in indignation but made no move to follow, glaring at the full mug of chai clasped between his hands.