Pittacus Lore - Five's Legacy

“Albert . . .” I’d said from the tree. We always called each other by our false names, never knowing who was listening. “Are they gone?”

“Albert’s dead,” Rey had said. I knew what he meant, even though I was so young. I’d felt it in my gut. It meant we weren’t safe. It meant we couldn’t stay there, in that place I liked so much.

So we went on the move, and we didn’t stop for a long time.

Rey was Aaron after that, followed by Andy, Jeffrey, and then James. I was Zach, Carson, and then Bolt, which was the last name I got to pick before Rey started choosing them. Maybe I’m forgetting a few in there—it all seems so long ago. I know that I was Carson when Rey’s cough first appeared, along with the dark hollows under his eyes. We were camping in the Appalachians. He thought it was the cold that was making him sick, so we started moving south, making our way through the United States and towards a warmer climate. Eventually—after a few sketchy boat rides Rey arranged for us—we set up camp in Martinique, where we stayed for a while. But Rey’s cough just got worse. He kept telling me he was feeling better, but at some point I stopped believing him.

I was always the better liar.

As a kid, I thought of lies as little stories or games. Sometimes people we came across would ask questions—Where were my parents? Where was I born?—and I’d just start talking, making up these elaborate histories for Rey and me. Having secrets means you do a lot of lying. Not because you’re evil or a bad person or anything like that, but out of necessity.

Really, Rey trained me to lie about all those morning runs and hikes. I make a mental note to tell him this later.

Sometimes I wonder if Rey is crazy. Like, what if he’s just a really messed-up old guy who stole me from a loving, normal home and all of this alien stuff is simply made up? Maybe he gave me drugs or brainwashed me into having fake memories of some place that couldn’t possibly exist. All my life I’ve heard about Lorien, but the only proof I have that any of it is true is a few weird-looking guys who came after me in Canada.

Well, that plus two scars that appeared like magic on my ankle and a Chest that’s supposed to house all kinds of treasures. A Chest that doesn’t open no matter how much you prod at it—I know, because I’ve tried about a million times to find out what’s inside over the years.

The treasure of Lorien. Sure. A lot of good it’s doing out here in the middle of nowhere.

I don’t mind the beach, really. I mean, I get why people go there on vacation. When we first got to the Caribbean, we stuck to the bigger, more populated resorts, just living on the fringes. We’d watch the tourists roll in every year, their brand-new beach clothes a parade of bright colors as they sipped drinks out of giant coconuts and pineapples that weren’t even native to the islands (not that they’d have known). But when One died—when that first scar formed on my ankle—Rey flipped out. I was nine years old and it was like the final string keeping him in check snapped, and he went into full-on survival mode. No more people. We’d have to live life completely off the grid. And so he’d cashed in whatever possessions we had, bought a few supplies and a small sailboat, and headed out to find the most deserted, godforsaken place he could. Gone were the restaurants and air-conditioning. No more TV, video games, or hot showers. Just a beach and a shack. I don’t know what kind of deal Rey must have struck to find this island, but I’ll give him one thing—it must be hidden away pretty well. A few times a year people mistakenly wash ashore here, but Rey always gets rid of them fast.

And that’s where I am now. Washing up in the ocean. A dark cloud forms around my body as I scrub the pig shit off in the clear water at the shoreline. That’s what the future holds for the great Number Five, one of the seven most important people left on the planet.

It’s not fair.

I remember watching old kung fu movies on cable right before we came out here. The main characters were always going to the tops of mountains to train with ancient masters who taught them to throw ninja stars and kill people with chopsticks and stuff. When One died and Rey moved us to the island, he told me he was no longer the grandfather he’d pretended to be, but my teacher. I’d be his disciple. And I was excited about this at the time. I thought I was going to live out one of those old movies or something. And at first, I did do the training—Rey could still walk and move well, then, so we practiced rudimentary martial arts moves. But soon he was sleeping most of the day and trusting that I was doing everything he told me to do. Life on the island turned out to be nothing like those old movies. In those, it’d only take a five-minute montage for the student to become the master. On the island, the training was brutal, unending, and above all, monotonous.

I used to dream of being taken away. That the Garde would all show up one day and tell me they’d been looking for me, and that they were going to take me to their space clubhouse or something. But for all I know, the other Garde don’t care about me at all.

“Five!” Rey calls from the shore. Here, where there’s no one, there’s no point in pretending to be who we’re not.

“What?” I yell back, still mad about this morning.

“Come here,” he says.

I glance up to see him waving me toward the shack. Instead of listening to him, I fall backwards, letting myself float in the warm water as the sun creeps higher over the horizon.

“Five, get—” but his shout is interrupted by a fit of coughing.

For some reason, this just adds to my annoyance. I’m one of the nine Garde—Lorien’s last hope—and this is who they sent to protect me? Out of all their magic and powers, he was the best they could do to keep me safe? A magic numbering system and a sick Cêpan to look after me. Thanks a lot.

A terrible thought rises in my mind, and even though I try to ignore it, it’s there, taunting me, making me hate myself not only for having it, but for thinking that it might be true: The Rey that was supposed to protect me died a long time ago. Before he got sick. When we were still in Canada, with the cold air and hot food. When I was just a little kid.

I hate this feeling—the bitterness that sometimes bubbles up to the surface when I’m upset with Rey. It’s not his fault he’s sick. I know that. But he’s the only person I have to be mad at.

The coughing continues. I crack, and I’m headed up the shore, toes digging into the sand. I shake my brown hair to try and dry it. It’s been a long time since I had a proper haircut, and my hair is long and matted against my neck. I pick up a coconut that’s fallen from a palm tree as I pass by it. We can break it open and have the sweet meat with breakfast. If I’m even getting breakfast. Rey’s no doubt about to chew my ass out and probably send me into the forest to live on my own for a few days to teach me a lesson about lying.

He’s breathing normally again by the time I reach him.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” I say. “You should be resting.”

He ignores me and holds a hatchet out. Behind him, I can hear the hogs freaking out about something. They sound spooked.

This is the give-and-take of our relationship: neither of us doing the things the other one says we should be.

“What’s this for?” I ask, hesitating to take it. He’s probably going to force me to chop wood or something to start making up for this morning. I’m sure he also would like an apology, but I’ll wait until I’m not mad about the whole “tell Five that aliens are here to murder him” thing.