Chapter 154: Taran

"Mrs. Fuentes!" I perk up as my name is called out in a small child-like voice. "Can you tell us a story?"
I smile warmly and settle onto my bench under the shadowy canopy of our rooftop paradise. A class of around twelve children sits in front of me, a blending of schools from Sector One and Sector Thirteen. Over the years we discovered what a benefit it was to have the children go on field trips and learn together. As the threat of Primitives grew less and less, we started taking groups of children beyond the wall, out into the desert so they can experience the bounty of our planet beyond Sanctuary.
Today they are on my rooftop learning about the value of greenhouses and hearing sensational stories of their mighty Warlord and his rebellious wife, the Desert Wren. I hadn't intended to discuss our past with them, but then I'd broken down and told a few stories. It's good for them to understand what sparked the rebellion and how we managed to resolve it.
I'm surprised and pleased that these children know of my old nickname. Either they are taught about us in school or their parents are gossiping. But it's harmless, since our story has a happy ending. Or I should say middle, since our story is by no means done yet.
"Of course, I'll tell you a story," I say, sitting on the warm bench near the ledge looking out over our Sanctuary. Diogo built a higher fence on it so none of the children can climb up and accidentally fall. "Have you heard the story of Stryker and Abrielle?" A few nod, but most tell me no, I haven't told them this one yet. "Well, let me tell you then. Stryker was a mighty warrior, almost as mighty as our Warlord. He was happily married to the lovely Abrielle in the San Antonio Sanctuary..."
I tell them of Stryker's story, giving them every detail I remember, a story that I repeat over and over, along with all the other stories I've gathered. I tell them the sad along with the happy, though I do make sure I'm speaking in age appropriate terms. I have made it my mission to collect and tell stories, to encourage others to remember and repeat these stories. Paper is scarce, as is our ability to record information that isn't absolutely necessary. Thus we are using the tradition of oral storytelling, a practice used by many cultures before writing was developed. The oral tradition conveys generations of information that might otherwise become lost. I talk about Emery often, Garrett, Talon, Stryker, Jorje Cruz, Victoria Greystone, my parents, my grandparents, everyone.
I talk with the children, telling them stories and then listening to theirs, laughing and clapping with them. Time and again my gaze is drawn to one little boy with his cap of dark hair and penetrating grey eyes. His expression is so solemn, but I know he is just thinking, processing everything we say and turning it over in his intelligent little mind. I know this because I am his proud mama.
Blaze is now in his second year at the Sector One school. He loves his time spent with his teacher and classmates and is always eager to come and tell us all about his day. Diogo brags about Blaze's skills in combat and survival, things his father is teaching him, but I know that my son is a thoughtful and kind young man. He absorbs everything around him with a curiosity and intelligence that makes me ache with motherly pride and a little bit of sadness at his independence.
Soon the children are gathered up and taken back to their schools, an echo of 'thank you's' thrown back at me as they leave. I wave to them and tell them to be careful on their trek back down the stairs.
"Mama." I look down as my four-year-old daughter grips the edge of my shirt and scowls up at me.
"Yes, Rayne?"
"When can I go to school?"
I smile at her and gently remind her that she has one more year before she's old enough. She's been asking this question almost every day for two years as she watches her brother leave the apartment each morning with Diogo where he will be dropped at his school with his bodyguard Karl in tow. Rayne hates being separated from her older brother. And he is, of course, patiently wonderful with his demanding little sister.
I sit on the warm patio tiles and pull Rayne down onto my lap. Together we pull a pot toward us. A tomato pot that we planted only the week before.
"Look at the tiny little sprout," I point out to her.
"Your favourite, mama," she says happily digging her fingers into the dirt next to mine.
"Yes, my favourite," I say with a grin and drop a kiss on the soft red flyaway hair.
Together we sit out there in the warm sunshine planting more for our rooftop garden and talking about her desire to adopt one of the city animals. I laugh at her childish arguments. They need homes. Aren't they cold in the barns? Wouldn't the baby chicks be more comfortable set loose in her bedroom?
"But what about Skye?" I ask her, trying to divert her attention. "I don't think she would like to share her home with another animal. She's kind of a loner."
We both look up at the bird chirping in the foliage above our heads. The desert wren that comes back every year to visit and recreate her nest. The first time she came to us I'd been stunned and had exclaimed excitedly to Diogo that somehow our bird had found us. He was sceptical and dismissed my fanciful idea, saying it was a different bird. But I know it's her, my original Skye, my sweet little desert wren.
I know, because she came to me two weeks before I gave birth to my daughter. I was terrified about something happening. The stress of Blaze's birth left its mark on me, one that I will never get over. That stress caused complications in my second pregnancy. But the moment I saw that bird I knew I wasn't alone. We were two mothers who had found our Sanctuary. I spent every moment I could watching her build her nest and lay her eggs, taking comfort in the normal instinct-driven routine. Then it was time for me to give birth.
Bishop came to our apartment and, with Diogo at my side the entire time, I birthed our daughter in the comfort of my own bed. As we looked down at our brand-new daughter together, I couldn't help but feel an intense hope. Hope for us, for humans, as we begin to flourish once more. Only this time we will do better, we'll learn from our mistakes and nurture a healthy and strong world that our children will be proud to live in.
"I don't think Skye cares if we have baby chicks," Rayne pouts. "She's just a bird."
"She's more than a bird, sweetheart, she's a symbol."
"What's that?"
I explain to her about my belief that Skye is a symbol of our healing planet, that she comes to us each year to show us that our natural world is still producing miracles, still surviving despite what humans have done to it and ourselves. Eventually she will learn in school about the rise of the Primitives and the hand that humans had in the spread of the disease. Most historians believe that Necrotitis Primeval could have been stopped in its infancy if humans had taken a different path.
For now, we compromise, and I agree to take her to the farm tomorrow so we can play with the baby chicks. A reasonable compromise to having chicken poop all over her bedroom.
Later, as I lay in bed with Diogo, our children safely in their beds, I make slow leisurely love to him, worshipping his body with my tongue and hands. With every sweep of my hands on his body I tell him of my love for him, with every kiss I thank him for my life and my children. And as I mount him and take him into my body, his hands on my hips, the entire world fades to just the two of us. Time stands still as we move together, coming together in an explosive climax. He catches my face between his palms and kisses me with the fierce love that has grown brighter and hotter with each passing year.
We hold each other after, no words between us. Only our breaths mingling until they slow as we close our eyes on the gift of another day, the gift of Sanctuary.
THE END