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 Cêpan, 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 Cêpan 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
I, trudging alone in a world we knew next to nothing about.
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 ago – 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.