Chapter 1
MY NAME IS MARINA, AS OF THE SEA, BUT I WASN’T called that until
much later. In the beginning I was known merely as Seven,
one of the nine surviving Garde from the planet Lorien, the
fate of which was, and still is, left in our hands. Those of us
who aren’t lost. Those of us still alive.
I was six when we landed. When the ship jolted to a halt
on Earth, even at my young age I sensed how much was at
stake for us—nine Cepan, nine Garde—and that our only
chance waited for us here. We had entered the planet’s
atmosphere in the midst of a storm of our own creation, and
as our feet found Earth for the very first time, I remember
the wisps of steam that rolled off the ship and the goose
bumps that covered my arms. I hadn’t felt the wind in a year,
and it was freezing outside. Somebody was there waiting
for us. I don’t know who he was, only that he handed each
Cepan two sets of clothes and a large envelope. I still don’t
know what was in it.
As a group we huddled together, knowing we might
never see one another again. Words were spoken, hugs
were given, and then we split up, as we knew we must,
walking in pairs in nine different directions. I kept peering
over my shoulder as the others receded in the distance
until, very slowly, one by one, they all disappeared. And
then it was just Adelina and me, alone. I realize now just
how scared Adelina must have been.
I remember boarding a ship headed to some unknown
destination. I remember two or three different trains after
that. Adelina and I kept to ourselves, huddled against each
other in obscure corners, away from whoever might be
around. We hiked from town to town, over mountains and
across fields, knocking on doors that were quickly
slammed in our faces. We were hungry, tired, and scared. I
remember sitting on a sidewalk begging for change. I
remember crying instead of sleeping. I’m certain that
Adelina gave away some of our precious gems from Lorien
for nothing more than warm meals, so great was our need.
Perhaps she gave them all away. And then we found this
place in Spain.
A stern-looking woman I would come to know as Sister
Lucia answered the heavy oak door. She squinted at
Adelina, taking in her desperation, the way her shoulders
drooped.
“Do you believe in the word of God?” the woman asked
in Spanish, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes in
scrutiny.
“The word of God is my vow,” Adelina replied with a
solemn nod. I don’t know how she knew this response—
perhaps she learned it when we stayed in a church
basement weeks before—but it was the right one. Sister
Lucia opened the door.
We’ve been here ever since, eleven years in this stone
convent with its musty rooms, drafty hallways, and hard
floors like slabs of ice. Aside from the few visitors, the
internet is my only source to the world outside our small
town; and I search it constantly, looking for some indication
that the others are out there, that they’re searching, maybe
fighting. Some sign that I’m not alone, because at this point
I can’t say that Adelina still believes, that she’s still with me.
Her attitude changed somewhere over the mountains.
Maybe it was with the slam of one of the doors that shut a
starving woman and her child out in the cold for another
night. Whatever it was, Adelina seems to have lost the
urgency of staying on the move, and her faith in the
resurgence of Lorien seems to have been replaced by the
faith shared by the convent’s Sisters. I remember a distinct
shift in Adelina’s eyes, her sudden speeches on the need
for guidance and structure if we were to survive.
My faith in Lorien remains intact. In India, a year and a
half ago, four different people witnessed a boy move
objects with his mind. While the significance behind the
event was small at first, the boy’s abrupt disappearance
shortly thereafter created much buzz in the region, and a
hunt for him began. As far as I know, he hasn’t been found.
A few months ago there was news of a girl in Argentina
who, in the wake of an earthquake, lifted a five-ton slab of
concrete to save a man trapped beneath it; and when news
of this heroic act spread, she disappeared. Like the boy in
India, she’s still missing.
And then there’s the father-son duo making all the news
now in America, in Ohio, who the police are hunting after
the two allegedly demolished an entire school by
themselves, killing five people in the process. They left no
trace behind other than mysterious heaps of ash.
“It looks like a battle took place here. I don’t know how
else to explain it,” the head investigator was quoted as
saying. “But make no mistake, we will get to the bottom of
this, and we will find Henri Smith and his son, John.”
Perhaps John Smith, if that’s his real name, is merely a
boy with a grudge who was pushed too far. But I don’t think
that’s the case. My heart races whenever his picture
appears on my screen. I’m gripped with a profound
desperation that I can’t quite explain. I can feel it in my
bones that he’s one of us. And I know, somehow, that I must
find him.
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