Calypso Initiate

Chapter One

        There is a small drawer underneath my bed where I hide all my drawings. It’s where secrets belong, my mother once said, and I’m only allowed to take them out when I’m completely alone.

        “One last time,” I whisper to myself.

        I kneel next to my bed. Golden rays beam through my window like a spotlight on my back. And despite the warmth, I shiver. My head reels over my shoulder, eyes sweeping across the room, half-expecting an audience watching my every move. But there’s no one there, nothing but the bare space between me and the unpainted walls of my bedroom. Cracks run across the cement as if they’re ready to break and expose me.

        I pull away the covers revealing a row of rectangles carved in the wooden bedframe. Flecks of dust stir in frenzy under the light, filling my nostrils with the musty scent of old furniture. If I look at the shapes close enough, one of them has a darker outline than the rest. I lick my lips, reaching underneath my bed until I feel a small latch.

        My eyes flick at the door, nerves buzzing beneath my skin. I strain to hear for warnings of company but only the hollow solitude echoes back to me. I tug on the latch and the drawer springs open revealing papers stacked in a neat pile and bound by an old string.

        I sneak a peek at my door again. My throat tightens as I imagine the guards bursting in any minute to take me away, accusing me of breaking the law. But the door remains shut.

        A noise slices through the silence and my heart makes a full somersault. I recognize the distant hum of a vehicle passing by on the street below, which is usually empty around this time. My parents won’t be home from the hunt until later, but the guards sometimes do surprise checks in the buildings so I can’t be too careful. When the noise subsides, an uneasy stillness takes its place, and the drumming in my chest feels twice as loud, pulsing through the walls as if announcing to the world what I’m up to.

        The sun brightens as the afternoon heat dampens my hair with sweat, gluing them to my skin. I breathe in, but the air feels scarce. I take the papers out of the compartment and untie the knot, my fingers trembling as though they’re defusing a time bomb.

        The smell of aged paper tickles my nostrils as I lay them on the mattress and admire the colorful strokes and overlaying shades of chalk on each page. Each image a preserved memory reminding me of everything I will miss the most. Some of them date back from when I was nine, when I first discovered what I can do with a piece of red chalk and paper that I’ve taken from my father’s toolbox. My mother had whisked me from the living room when she saw what I was doing and carried me to my bedroom. She warned me in hushed tones about the guards taking me away if they saw what I did.

        “No one must know,” she told me. “You can’t show it to anyone. Not even me. Do you understand me Prudence?”

        I didn’t understand at the time of course, but I nodded anyway. There was something about the way her eyes flicked around the room, as if to check if anyone could hear us, that kept my mouth shut. I’ve never seen my mother so scared.

        As I grew up I’ve learned the importance of keeping secrets, and how dangerous it is to be caught with one. But I never stopped drawing. I couldn’t stop. And up until now I don’t understand why the city forbids something so wonderful.  

        I pick up a portrait of my mother I drew a few years ago. I remember when I sat on the floor and watched her sew my father’s shirt that day, which had a large gaping hole at the back that he got from a hunting accident. He came home with a gash across his back and had to get shots. My mother didn’t appear too worried. Such accidents are common in the field. But it was the first time I’ve ever seen my father wounded and I cried my eyes out in the infirmary yelling, “Daddy, don’t die!” They all thought it was funny.