Pittacus Lore - The Power of Six

I shake my head. “Okay, not everything.”

His eyebrows rise and then furrow. “Now tell me.”

I have a deep urge to tell him my secret, the reason I’m here and where it is I really come from. I want to tell him about Adelina and what her role was supposed to be, and what it has instead become. I want him to know about the others, out there on the run or fighting, maybe sitting idly like me, collecting dust. If there’s one person I’m certain would be my ally, who would help me in any way he could, then surely it’s Hector. He is, after all, a defender who’s meant to hold fast and who was born into power and bravery by such simple means as the name he was given.

“You ever feel like you don’t belong here, Hector?”

“Sure. Some days.”

“Why do you stay, then? You could go anywhere.”

He shrugs. “Several reasons.” He pours more wine into his glass. “For one, there’s no one else to take care of my mother. Plus, this place is my home, and I’m not convinced there’s much better out there. My experiences have taught me that things rarely improve with a simple change of scenery.”

“Maybe so, but I still can’t wait to leave. I only have a little over four months left at the orphanage, you know? And you can’t tell anyone this, but I think that I’m going to leave sooner than that.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Marina. You’re very young to be on your own. Where will you go?”

“America,” I say without hesitation.

“America?”

“There’s somebody there I need to find.”

“If you’re so determined, then why haven’t you already left?”

“Fear,” I say. “Mostly fear.”

“You’re not the first,” he says, taking a moment to empty his entire glass. His eyes have lost their sharpness. “The key to change is letting go of fear.”

“I know.”

The door to the cafe opens, and a tall man wearing a long coat and carrying an old book enters. He moves past us and takes a table in the far corner. He has dark hair and bushy brows. A thick mustache covers his upper lip. I’ve never seen him before; but when he lifts his head and meets my gaze, there’s something I immediately don’t like about him and I quickly look away. From the corner of my eye, I can see he’s still staring at me. I try ignoring it. I resume talking to Hector, or rather I babble, hardly making sense, watching him refill his glass with red wine; and I hear next to nothing of what he says in reply.

Five minutes later the man’s still staring, and I’m so bothered by it that the cafe seems to spin. I lean across the table and whisper to Hector, “Do you know who the person in the far corner is?”

He shakes his head. “No, but I’ve noticed him watching us, too. He was in here on Friday, sitting in the same seat and reading the same book.”

“There’s something about him I don’t like, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Don’t worry, you have me here,” he says.

“I really should leave,” I say. An odd desperation to get away has come over me. I try not to look at the man, but I do anyway. He’s reading the book now, the cover of which is angled toward me as though he wants me to see it. It’s brittle and worn, a dusty shade of gray.

PITTACUS OF MYTILENE

AND THE

ATHENIAN WAR

Pittacus? Pittacus? The man is watching me again, and though I can’t see the bottom half of his face, his eyes suggest a knowing grin on his lips. All at once I feel as though I’ve been struck by a train. Could this be my first Mogadorian?

I jump up, smacking my knee against the bottom of the table and nearly knocking over Hector’s wine bottle. My chair falls backwards, crashing to the ground. Everybody in the cafe turns.

“I gotta go, Hector,” I say. “I gotta go.”

I stumble through the doorway and make a mad dash for home, running faster than a speeding car, not caring if anyone sees. I’m back at Santa Teresa in seconds. I crash through the double doors and quickly slam them shut. I put my back against them and close my eyes. I try to slow my breathing, the twitching in my arms and legs, my quivering bottom lip. Sweat runs down the side of my face.

I open my eyes. Adelina stands in front of me, and I fall headlong into her arms, not caring about the tension from an hour before. She tentatively hugs me back, probably confused by my sudden display of affection, which I haven’t shown her in years. She pulls away and I open my mouth to tell her what I’ve just seen, but she brings a finger to her lips the same way I did to Ella at Mass. Then she turns and walks away.

That night, after dinner and before prayers, I stand at the bedroom window gazing out as darkness falls, scanning the landscape for anything suspicious.

“Marina? What are you doing?”

I turn around. Ella stands behind me; I hadn’t heard her approach. She moves through these halls like a shadow.

“There you are,” I say, relieved. “Are you okay?”

She nods, but her big brown eyes tell me otherwise. “What are you doing?” she repeats.

“Just looking outside, that’s all.”

“What for? You’re always looking out the windows at bedtime.”

She’s right; every night since she arrived, since I saw the man watching me in the nave window, I’ve been looking outside at bedtime for any signs of him. I’m now certain he’s the same man I saw in the cafe today.

“I’m looking for bad men, Ella. There are bad men out there sometimes.”

“Really? What do they look like?”

“It’s hard to say,” I reply. “I think they’re very tall, and they’re usually very dark and mean looking. And some might even be muscular, like this,” I add, doing my best bodybuilder pose.

Ella giggles, going to the window. She stands on her tippy toes and pulls herself up to see out.

It’s been several hours since I was in the cafe, and I’ve managed to calm down a bit.

I place my index finger on the foggy window and trace a figure onto it with two quick squeaks.

“That’s the number three,” Ella says.

“That’s right, kiddo. I bet you can do better than that, huh?”

She smiles, sticks her finger onto the bottom of the window, and soon there is the beginning of a beautiful farmhouse and backyard barn. I watch as my number three is absorbed by Ella’s perfect silo.

Three is the only reason I was allowed to leave that cafe today, it’s the distance from John Smith to myself. I’m now absolutely convinced that he is Number Four by the way he is being hunted; just as I’m convinced the man at the cafe was a Mogadorian. This town is so small I rarely see someone I don’t recognize, and his book- Pittacus of Mytilene and the Athenian War -plus his constant stare, are no coincidence. The name “Pittacus” is one I’ve heard since childhood, since long before we made it to Santa Teresa.

My number: Seven. It’s my only refuge now, my greatest defense. As unfair as it might be, I’m separated from death by the three others who all must die before me. So long as the charm holds, which, I assume, is why I was left alone and not attacked right at the cafe table. But one thing is certain: if he is a Mogadorian, they know where I am and they could take me any time they choose and hold me until they kill Four through Six. I wish I knew what’s keeping them at bay and why I’m allowed to sleep in my bed again tonight. I know the charm ensures that we can’t be killed out of order, but perhaps there’s more to it than that.

“You and I, we’re a team now,” I say. Ella puts the finishing touches on her window drawing, curling her fingernails over the heads of a few cows to give them horns.

“You want to be a team with me?” she asks in a tone of disbelief.