Chapter 22: Relic Archives
“Excuse me,” a rude voice sings out. Perpetua elbows my arm and pushes her way past. She grabs Bishop’s wrist, tugging him in the opposite direction, against the stream of students. “I need to talk to you.” Her voice twists with annoyance.
“But you’ll be late to our next class!” Sam yells. He turns and shrugs in her direction. They exchange what I think is a knowing glance, and he and Perpetua slip away.
Did Sam and Bishop just say something to each other through their minds? Will I be able to tell when they do? Their telepathic connection is so annoying!
Sam turns and looks at me with a scowl on her face, then she stomps away.
When I exit the lecture hall, the weather machine has produced another perfect and sunny day below the earth. Up above, residents of Chicago battle the howling winter winds.
My palms brush along the petals of the blooming azaleas that line the stairs. In the courtyard, the obelisk glistens gold, so bright in some spots that the glare turns into a blinding white-out. I block my eyes with my free hand, stepping carefully until I reach the group of students standing at the base of the obelisk, gathering for our next class, Relics I.
How will we spend an entire semester learning about relics and their life paths? It just seems like a glorified history class. I lean against the obelisk, waiting for the lecture to begin, and hum a melody.
In front of our group, a teacher drags a heavy iron chair. The legs rumble across the stone piazza, screeching. Everyone groans, covering his or her ears.
“Excellent,” the man says, hoisting his portly body up onto the chair, elevating himself above the students. “Now that I have everyone’s attention, we can begin.
“I’m Argus Matchimus, the conservator of the Relic Archives and your professor for Relics I.” His voice gargles, rough as rocks. He clears his throat but it doesn’t help. “Now that you’ve had your orientation, we can delve deeper into what all this wandering business means. The reason our journey of studies begins with relics is because, after your team, a relic is the most important component to wandering. Do you recall the marker from Mr. Evanston’s lecture?” he asks, gazing around.
Everyone nods.
“Like the marker, anything that is not a living organism can be a relic. As you already know, you can use them to navigate the maps of time.
“These clothes you’re wearing right now,” he swings his chubby hand, gesturing to the crowd, “they’re relics of today’s class. If you choose tomorrow to dress in one of these items, you can wander back to this point in time.”
A body flies forward in front of the class, appearing out of nowhere. All the students gasp, startled as a boy materializes out of a cloud of sparkling wander dust. Mr. Matchimus grabs the boy’s collar to steady him, right before he falls to the ground on his knees.
“Cool! It worked!” The curly-haired boy announces, pleased with himself.
“Whoa!” An identical boy whoops in front of the group. He happens to be the Wanderer’s mirror image. They smile a big horsey smile at each other and lift their hands to compare themselves.
“There’s always one jokester among us,” Mr. Matchimus crows. His stomach jiggles, moving as an independent entity.
Both boys are lost in their small victory when Terease swoops over and grabs both the boy’s true and his wandered self. With force, she drags them across the courtyard and out the entrance. They pass in a blur, agitating the Animates as they leave. The lions stand up and growl; their claws swipe at the air.
My jaw drops, and every student stares. Even Mr. Matchimus seems dumbfounded by Terease’s brief entrance and hasty exit. How did she get here so fast? And how did she know that the boy wandered illegally, by himself?
“Well then, perhaps we’ll see him tomorrow. Or not.” Mr. Matchimus throws his hands into the air. “Like we keep reiterating, we forbid wandering unsupervised, especially without your team.”
“There’s a way to get away with it, ya know,” Stu leans over and whispers.
“How?” I’m curious for future reference, of course.
He takes advantage and leans even closer, sniffing my body spray. “As long as you wander off of school grounds, they won’t have proof. Did you happen to notice the security room with all the TV monitors?”
I nod, understanding. They watch everything.
“The eyes are everywhere, except students’ apartments,” he explains.
“Eyes?”
“Yeah, the Elusive Youth Electronic Surveillance. E.Y.E.S.,” he says. I think back to all of the cameras I’ve seen mounted to the walls around the school. They’re everywhere.
“What about your Seer? Won’t they know?”
“Not if you go without your Protector. The Seer is only connected to you through them.”
Of course, the middle link of the chain.
Just then, Bishop slides around a nearby tree and into the group, somehow unnoticed. I wonder what the punishment would be for tardiness if Terease weren’t so busy disciplining that other kid. At the thought, I’m happy I didn’t try to make us late this morning.
“What about Bishop?” I ask, jerking my head in his direction. “Will he know?”
Stu steps closer, almost resting his head on my shoulder. “Only if you’re in danger. They sense it—like an animal.” He growls into my ear. I jump away. Students turn in our direction. This includes Bishop. Muscles in his jaw tighten as his assesses Stu.
I quickly turn my attention to Mr. Matchimus, who’s still speaking.
“Now that you’ve seen how it all works from our impromptu manifestation, let’s get down to business, shall we? Follow me.” Mr. Matchimus gestures with his fleshy hand and turns to walk away.
A line of students forms behind him as he waddles into a nearby tunnel. We must be somewhere underneath the west school building by now. Mr. Matchimus stops and unlocks a small wooden doorway, one that I’m positive he won’t fit through. He props the door open with a charred brick, then enters the inadequate opening by turning sideways.
Students step single file into the murk, disappearing one by one. When I step through the door, footsteps and chatter echo around the boxed-in staircase. Steps wrap, seemingly without end, into the sinking darkness.
Brass candelabras flicker sparse warmth on each landing. The textured walls beneath, colored dingy yellows and sepia browns, remind me of old photographs. The tile steps are so worn that a smooth and shiny groove has been rubbed into each.
We descend slowly for several stories then exit into a new chamber. Just enough light pours over from the stairwell to see your neighbor. Bishop’s shoulder brushes mine. It electrifies my pulse on contact, but I don’t look at him. I’m determined to hold my feelings at bay. We stand shoulder to shoulder for several moments, until the lights snap on.
An enormous room, larger than a football field, sits before us. Hand-hewn timber ceilings travel the length of the space. I squint, searching for the end of the room, but I don’t see it. Soot-cloaked walls hint at more leftovers from a burned city. I breathe in faint traces of charcoal.
Rumblings of excitement roll through the group.
One single aisle cuts the length of the room in half. Rows and rows of massive archive shelves stand as a graveyard, holding ancient objects and artifacts. Objects, ranging from small to large, cover every available surface. A two-story stained glass window leans up against a nearby wall. A miniature stone gargoyle sits at the window’s base.
The warehouse reminds me of Mona’s home. “Eclectic chaos,” she calls her design theme. She’s a Seer, after all, so now her choice of decor makes sense.
“Calm down, everyone.” Mr. Matchimus centers himself in front of the group, pressing the air down with his palms. “This is one of the Society’s largest caches of relics.” He waves his hand at the room. His body appears small now, compared to the space.
“We all know what relics do, but only some of us can see their life
paths. I’d like to ask for your attention over here,” he says and waddles toward a huge covered object. He rips the cream canvas off the mass, revealing what I can only describe as a contraption. What it does, I’m not exactly sure.
“This, class, is a relicutionist.” Everyone stands silent, waiting for an explanation. “This machine will do what only one-third of your team can. It will read the life path of a relic.”
The oohs and aahs start immediately. Stu worms his way to the front for a better look. He whips out his notebook, making notations of the oddly pieced-together apparatus.
“Now, now, don’t get too excited,” Mr. Matchimus says. The chattering subsides. “This machine plays a relic’s life path like a movie.”
“How old is it?” one boy asks.
“It’s over one hundred years old and a product of the late industrial revolution,” Mr. Matchimus explains.
“Now, let’s put it to use, shall we?” Mr. Matchimus looks over our group. “You there.” He points to Macey, towering over everyone else.
She looks around, unsure of whom he pointed to.
“Yes, you,” he confirms. “Go and choose a small item from the archives.”
She skips off at first then seems to disappear in a streak of color. She comes back within seconds, presenting an object in her palms.
“Very nice choice, Miss…?”
“Macey Du Bois,” she replies.
“Thank you, Miss Du Bois.” Mr. Matchimus nods, seemingly pleased with the selection. Macey skips back to her spot between Xavier and Quinn.
He turns to the relicutionist and lifts a slender glass dome. With white-gloved hands, he gently places the relic on a velvet tray. He returns the dome to its original position, encasing the relic.
Mr. Matchimus turns to a wooden control panel, littered with green lights. His pudgy fingers type a word on the ancient typewriter protruding from one side. Finally, when all the buttons are lit, he pulls the machine’s lever.