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Opuntia could hear her shallow breathing in her ears, could hear her head pump full of blood, and could feel her pen wobbling in her hand. She immediately set it down, trying to remain as still as possible and attempting to listen to any other sound. As if in sync with her movements, the noises in Redwood’s office also halted at once.
She wasn’t sure where the scream had come from, but it sounded close. It couldn’t have been more than a floor away. She wondered if it was wise to leave her room to investigate, no matter how scared she was, to possibly help the person if they were hurt or in danger. She knew it would be the right thing to do, but to immerse herself in the unknown, following the scream of a stranger in a darkly lit abyss might lead her to go into cardiac arrest at the age of seventeen. She gripped the edge of her writing desk so tight her palms began to sweat, just waiting for something, anything to happen. What felt like eons but was only a span of seconds occurred, and faintly in the distance she could hear more commotion begin to arise. The door to Redwood’s office was creaked open and she heard footsteps patter out. With this small comfort that she wasn’t alone, she got up to follow them.
If there was one thing Opuntia knew about herself amongst the jumbled chaos of her mind that she constantly had to pick at and re-sort with metaphors and roundabout messages, it was that she had a passion for knowing. A burning curiosity that could quickly snowball into an obsession, and this was out of many examples. She hated her friends keeping secrets or having the ending of books ambiguous. She sighed a plagued sigh the night she finished reading Slaughterhouse-five, closing the cover shut and pining over the last lines with a mix of frustration and awe that lasted for days to come. But now she wasn’t feeling either of those things, she was once again drinking the dangerous cocktail of anxiety spiked with the desire to know the truth, as she slipped out the door and followed the sound of the noise.
She couldn’t make out what she was hearing now. It wasn’t screaming, but it was definitely someone in some kind of distress. Before she knew it a scene emerged in front of her that left her once again frozen, unsure of how to even process what she saw.
The noise was escaping from the mouth of her English teacher, Mr.Martin. There he was, on his knees, forcing a stream of cries and curse words from his gullet with his back turned to her. He looked as if he was in prayer, but when Opuntia looked further to see what he was praying to, it was nothing holy at all.
They were in front of a storage closet next to Martin’s office/living space. Opuntia often passed by it but thought nothing of it, since she knew it was just full of old books she would probably end up reading anyway. Well, now that the door was finally open, she could see there were more than books inside. Once again, there was a message, plastered on the walls of the closet, this time is written in a thick black liquid, the ends of the letters stretching in drips down the wall and into a puddle on the floor. She squinted to make out what the message said since it was partially hidden by shelves, but before she could, she realized someone else was there. Michael Deangelo, the groady boy from her year peaked out from behind the corner of the corridor and cheerfully waved at her, seeming perfectly aware that their teacher was in hysterics. She grew even more confused and was still too afraid to speak or ask anything, but she did not need to, since a moment later Redwood and her father came bolting down the hall, both stopping at the same spot Opuntia stood, taking in the scene.
“What is--what in the Lord’s name is going on here?” Redwood asked. He had his nightshirt on and it once again appeared that his glasses were thrown on in haste. He swiftly walked up to Mr. Martin and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders.
“Martin, what the hell are you doing?” Mr. Martin was still cursing horribly, his Yorkshire accent so strong he was almost unintelligible.
“Those bloody wanking stinking munters ruined them! They ruined them!” he wailed. Redwood, not satisfied with an answer, slapped Martin across the face.
“Who did what?! Did they do this?” He suddenly pointed at Michael and Opuntia, making her shrink back into the darkness immediately.
“No, sir, I promise--” She began to explain, but Michael cut her off.
“I can explain sir,” he said casually as if this was a talk show and not a borderline crime scene in the middle of the night.
“I was doing a late-night detention with Mr. Martin, here, because of, well, many reasons actually, but anyways, I think we were just about done. He took me over to this storage room to pick up Shakespeare books but he found that they’ve all been covered in this stuff.” Michael then reached onto a middle shelf and picked up a book that was clearly also completely coated in the black substance. The more Opuntia looked at the closet, the more she realized that the whole row of that shelf was drenched in it, slowly spilling down onto the floor where Mr. Martin was still kneeling.
“THEY RUINED ME CENTURY-OLD COPIES OF THE TEMPEST THOSE MANKY BASTARDS.” He howled into his hands.
Mordred Arison, who was silent this entire time, strode over to the closet as well and began picking up all of the books, examining them one by one to see if they really were wrecked.
“He checked all of them,” Michael added, still seeming unphased.
As Mordred silently looked, Opuntia finally read the words plastered on the wall:
“all corners else o’ the earth
Let liberty make use of; space enough
Have I in such a prison.”
It was written in a more spindly, thinner writing compared to the last message, but it was still loud and clear. The damage had been done.
“Only the Tempests are ruined,” Morded confirmed quietly to Redwood. Mordred was always able to maintain a cool and collected demeanour, so as she watched like a fly on the wall, she wondered what he could possibly be thinking; if he knew more than she did.
“And I don’t understand why you’re here,” he now turned to his daughter, a familiar look of disdain etched on his olive-tinged face, only visible from the light of the closet’s dangling lightbulb.
“I just heard the scream and I…was scared,” she said simply, not daring to speak anymore.
“Right, even though no one else seemed to come running from their room, did they?” He asked her, coldly. She felt the colour rise to her cheeks when they were drained only a minute ago. Did her father somehow think she played a part in this? Or was he just saying that she should’ve brushed it off like all of the other brave and responsible boys in the school? She didn’t have to answer because Redwood stood up from Mr.Martin’s side at this moment.
“You two students go off to bed at once. And you swear to God that not a word gets out about this. We do not need another fiasco distracting the students from their work. Go.” He shooed Opuntia and Michael away, leaving her with one last burning look from her father before she began making her way back to her room.
“Porco Cane,” Michael whispered under his breath, still smiling.
“I don’t get what you’re so happy about,” Opuntia snapped at him, overwhelmed by everything that had just occurred. “Let me guess, you did that, didn’t you? Have you been the one behind these stupid messages?”
“I wish I was,” Michael replied. “Do you see what this is? This is rebellion, Opuntia. This is a stand against the pits of prison we’re in. Someone is finally sick of it, and I am too.”
Opuntia rolled her eyes at him. Maybe this was an act of rebellion against the school, and maybe she was just so worked up about something that wasn’t even about her as she suspected, but even still, it was the wrong way to go about it.
“You wouldn’t get it,” He sighed, knowing he was about to get under her skin. “You weren’t even supposed to go here, you got it handed to you by your daddy,” It did get under her skin.
“My father didn’t hand anything to me besides frigidity and passive aggressiveness.” She said with her teeth gritted. “Did you not just see what he said back there?” It was strange, it was the most open thing she had said about herself to anyone in a long time, and it was said to a boy she hated, no less.
“Whatever, doesn’t change it. No Arison is trapped inside Arison, Arison,” he said mockingly. “But you just be ready, because this place is burning down,” he grinned at her she shut the door in his face, leaving him and the newest message on the wall the last thing she saw before eventually falling asleep.
Although Opuntia had planned to listen to Redwood’s wishes and keep her mouth shut, it seemed like there was no need due to the unexpected article on the front page of the school newspaper the very next morning.
“THE ENDER OF ARISON STRIKES AGAIN: THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS IN DAMAGES” Was the title, along with a vague description of the event, not including who was at the scene. Soon it was common knowledge across the school as everyone poured over the Arison Gazette at breakfast, debating if the news was true or not. The article only briefly mentioned that the books ruined were “The Tempest,” and that a passage from the play was written on the storage room wall. It also confirmed the identity of the liquid that was used to write the message, that being petrol, which Opuntia could not identify without getting up close to the scene. The Caesar six received this news almost all at once, as Teddy was able to snatch up a paper from a crowd of ogling boys at the next table over.
“But this wasn’t the article we had picked out--” Teddy said, baffled. “It was all printed by Monday. It was supposed to be about the Math leagues competition.” The six of them looked at each other, all with similar shocked and scared looks on their faces. Opuntia gripped the pages, her hands trembling. Every time she thought the case could be closed, a bigger part of it was revealed. Someone had not only gotten access to the storage room but also had time to switch out all of the front pages of the newspapers with the story.
But perhaps no one looked more afraid than Cas. He stumbled back onto the bench, his spoon clattering to the table, after reading the entire story in a heartbeat. Everyone looked at him, concerned to say the least. Opuntia just assumed he was taken aback since he was so sure that his “school rivalry theory” was right, but this had taken it to another level. Sampson whistled under his breath just as none other than Michael Deangelo bounded up to them, closely followed by Roger Vorhees. Michael waved a copy of the gazette in all of their faces.
“Look at this, eh?” He flaunted as if showing off his life-long accomplishment.
“Do you know something about this?” Teddy asked him, checking for any signs of a teacher or Redwood.
“Of course I do, I witnessed it first-hand, didn’t we, Arison?” He nudged her while grinning. Ten pairs of eyes snapped to her, with mouths agape.
“Shut up,” she told Deangelo, ripping the paper from his hands. “We’re the only ones who know about it and now it’s in the paper. Do you have any idea how much trouble we’ll get into for this?”
“Relax, Miss ‘frigidity’,” Michael said with ease, “There’s no way they’ll suspect us. The weekly paper is always done in advance, no way we had enough time to make the change. But, beh, you don’t get it, things are finally changing. You all should be rejoicing! Join the ender!” He pointed to the headline of the article, then looked up at Sampson, who had remained silent this entire time. “C’mon, Laurier, I know you can at least appreciate this,”
“No one is appreciating thousands of dollars in property damage,” Wilfred stated before Sampson could speak.
“Whatever,” Michael brushed them off and turned away to gather more attention from people who supported him. Her friends were all still looking at her.
“Look, ok, yes I was there, and I’ll explain everything, but I wasn’t supposed to--”
“I hope you all are happy,” Roger Vorhees was now standing over them, talking in a low voice full of anger and fear.
“What, you think we did this?” Sampson asked, bewildered, even though he was still glancing suspiciously at Opuntia.
“No, but do you think it’s just a coincidence that the ender attacks again the day after you all decide to horribly break school rules? And look at this,” He pointed at the part in the article that described the message written in petrol.
“Cars run on petrol, and you left in my brother’s car.”
“Rog, that’s just ridiculous,” Teddy said, almost laughing.
“Is it??” Roger said, sounding even more frantic. “It doesn’t matter, because whatever it was for, people are starting to be inspired by it. You saw Michael.”
“Yeah, your best friend Michael, why don’t you talk to him, he’s the one who’s losing his marbles over some messages.” Sampson pointed out.
“I will, ok? Just, it’s not too late to confess to your sins. Prayer group is having a meeting tomorrow, and I think it would be good if you all--”
“Goodbye, Roger,” Sampson shooed him away, turning his full attention back to Opuntia.
“Do NOT tell me you’re in cahoots with Deangelo. I thought you hated him?”
“I do!” Opuntia once again tried to explain but was still being gripped by her overwhelming sense of dread, and fear that she would get punished for something she didn’t do.
“I’ll explain everything I saw, ok? Just not here and not now,”
“Don’t tell me we have to wait until the next club meeting just to hear what happened.” Teddy groaned. He had a point. So much more could happen by next Tuesday, and Opuntia didn’t think she could keep her mouth shut until then, anyways. She needed to hear their ideas, their opinions, and maybe even their reassurance that everything was ok, though looking at the ghost-like complexion on Cas’ face, she doubted that they would.
“I’ll think of something,” Wilfred promised the group, checking his watch for the time. He stood up, causing them all to follow, except for Cas.
“Are you alright, Cas?” Engelbart asked him, worriedly.
“He’s fine,” Wilfred answered for him. He once again had a strangely stern expression when looking at Cas, as he grabbed him by the arm and brought him to his feet. 197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0fHWS6rX6c
“C’mon, we’re gonna be late for biology,” Teddy said to Opuntia and Engelbart, leaving the rest of the group behind. The halls were once again full of whispers, just like they were three weeks before. Opuntia knew that the storage cupboard would be full of curious onlookers, and the staff would eventually take the whole operation down, silencing everything like they usually did. No one in the school even knew if the story was real, besides Michael and Opuntia, and subsequently, her friends, who believed her word.
But that all was basically solidified when Mr. Martin was mysteriously absent from class later that day, instead being replaced by the school’s librarian assistant as a temporary substitute.
“Now, your class was supposed to start reading The Tempest, by William Shakespeare, today, but I have a note here that says you will be reading King Lear instead.”
“Mr. Locke, why the change in choices?” Sampson raised his hand and blurted out.
“Mr. Laurier, you have no right to ask such questions about your teacher’s preferences. I’m sure you can ask him when he returns from his absence.”
“Yeah, ‘oil’ be sure to do that,” Sampson added, causing the whole class to snicker, except for Opuntia, who couldn’t think of a situation less funny right now. She once again felt the same way she had several weeks ago, wanting to push everyone in her life away but hold them close at the same time. She was a felt puppet falling apart at the seams, and always seemed to find herself trapped in the middle of it, either from her own doing or purely coincidence.
That night, the six of them once again found themselves squished into Teddy and Eng’s dorm room, the only place available. All of her friends listened closely as she told them word for word what she remembered, the warm lamp light reflecting in her cool-coloured eyes. The noises, the scene, and even the exact passage of the book that was written on the wall, having written it down as soon as she got back to her room. Her words carried her all the way up until what her father had said, which she painfully described in more of a mumble than a clear description. She had an overwhelming sense of deja vu once she had finished, as all of the looks on her friend’s faces were nearly identical to when she had spoken to them three weeks before.
“This is so insane,” Sampson said, shaking his head in disbelief at the continuous unravelling mystery. The whole time Opuntia had been talking, Teddy had been scribbling furiously in a notebook. She had just figured he was working on some unfinished homework, but as soon as she was done, he perked his head up.
“O.P, do you think what you saw looked something like this?” He held up his paper for her to see. On it was not words, but a detailed drawing of the scene at the storage closet, down to the dripping writing, and Mr. Martin kneeling on the floor below. All of the other boys were impressed.
“That looks amazing,” Opuntia replied, “I haven’t seen you draw anything in years.” Teddy did always have a passion for art, just like she showed a passion for writing, but as soon as their time at Arison began, his love for drawing and painting seemed to be squashed out of him, most likely from the lack of time or motivation he had to do anything, Opuntia supposed.
“Well, yeah, I just figured it could be a good visual for the rest of us,” he shrugged modestly as the boys awed.
“So there was that much oil, huh?” Sampson said, looking at Teddy’s sketch. Opuntia nodded.
“That definitely gives us another clue, then,” he continued, making everyone else look at him curiously, wondering if he was actually going to make a valid point. “I’ve been thinking: oil prices are through the roof right now. I don’t think they’ve ever been this high in our lifetime,” 197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNYioyMLJZo
“Believe me, my dad won’t stop talking about it,” Teddy added. 197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5EUEVQIEXp
“So whoever did this must be really rich to be fine with throwing all of this precious stuff away, it’s practically gold!” 197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCl6yYumyFB
Opuntia was about to compliment Sampson on making a valid point, but Cas scoffed, the first time he even made a noise the whole time. 197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡe8QGpCjFhU
“That really narrows it down, doesn’t it?” he said sarcastically. 197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa7e1L0QI8A
“I mean, we’re just trying to gather more ideas,” said Opuntia.
“And I understand that, but there are way more obvious clues we can think about. Only our year was supposed to start reading The Tempest today, so that should narrow it down to someone in our year, AND not to mention someone who probably works in the newspaper since they were able to switch out the front pages of alllll of them.” As much as Cas loved to make everything a competition, he was making strong connections out of the information given.
“Even if they did work for Arison Gazette, it would be nearly impossible to switch out all of the front pages the night before the newspaper was published.” Teddy reminded him.
“And who’s to say that they’re even the same people?” Opuntia suggested.
“You’re saying you think it’s a team of people?” Wilfred asked her, his eyebrows raised.
“No, not really, I was mostly just thinking about one person,” she trailed off. The obvious lingered in the room as if he was there with them. Michael Deangelo. Opuntia was sure he wasn’t just an innocent follower in this entire scheme, and even if he was, he seemed to be taking it way too far, in her eyes.
“Yeah…” Sampson sighed, seemingly thinking hard. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. If it’s not him who’s behind it, then he must just be crazy.”
“It can’t be him,” Wilfred pointed out. “Opuntia said he was doing a detention with Mr. Martin.”
“He’s probably just cracked under the pressure of Arison,” Teddy proposed. Opuntia didn’t find that hard to believe, since she herself always found herself slipping under the weight of endless readings and assignments, not to mention the ever-closer thought of applying to colleges, if any would take her. But it was that inclination of revenge, of rebellion that scared her. Michael was just one person, sure, but if enough people believed in his, she had to admit, attractive cause, pure chaos could ensue. She wondered if any of her friends secretly supported the “ender’s” ideas, despite their harmful methods.
“I just don’t understand how The Tempest would get brought into this; what it could represent,” Cas said, more to himself than to anyone in the room.
“Well, we’ll never get to read the book, will we?” Sampson replied, holding back a chuckle.
“I read it,” Cas stated. They all looked at him for more answers, as if he was an oasis of knowledge in a scorching desert.
“But it’s not about rebellion or oppression at all, I’ve never seen a literary theme so clear but be taken in the complete wrong way. It’s personal revenge between family,”
Opuntia remembered the passage written on the wall once again, its words etched into her brain. It surely seemed like it could be referring to Arison, especially the prison part, but she trusted Cas’ judgement.
“Who cares about that? Michael’s an idiot anyways, he probably didn’t get the ‘underlying themes of revenge’” Sampson snorted.
“Michael is smart, though,” Wilfred said slowly, “Look at how he’s gathering an audience.”
“Right…” said Teddy, reaching into his pocket to pull out a slip of paper. Some of the other boys did the same, leaving Opuntia stricken with confusion.
“What’s that?” She asked them, trying to peer down from the bed she was cross-legged on.
“It’s been passed around all day,” Teddy explained, “We aren’t sure who started the chain but I’m positive Deangelo endorsed it.
“It’s another quote from the Tempest,” Cas said, appearing to read it for the first time from the ripped piece of parchment Wilfred held in his hands.
“Hell is empty…and all of the devils are here.” he read aloud, and all the boys nodded in agreement. No matter what the ender’s original intentions were, it was clear the effect it was having on the students of Arison. Opuntia stared at it, her lips slightly parted, having a wild urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, but also wanting to shred the paper and scream. Had she not also sat in this place and referred it to as the fiery pits of hell? Was her mind really so different from that of her peers, also fed up with these cold stone walls and polished floors? Did she not also want to see it turned into a pile of ash, in order to regain that light in her eyes she had not seen in five years? 197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡd6VKsiArRF
Maybe it was clear to her now that they weren’t after her specifically, and she didn’t have to lie awake at night, fearing for her life. But still, she thought, though she grew a strange sickness in her stomach when thinking of it: what about them? What about her family, who had built this place from the foundation up, collecting titles and honour for over a hundred years? Her family, which had every generation painstakingly keeping it afloat, bringing it to the forefront of the country in such a short amount of time. And what about her father, who rose at the crack of dawn and worked longer than the sun on the summer solstice? Her father, who loved this place more than anything, it seemed. Her father, who couldn’t even look at her with benevolence. Her father, who seemingly didn’t know her at all, accused her of all this.
Opuntia once again sat at her writing desk with an ocean of uneasiness spilling out of her. Her friends couldn’t provide her with the peace of mind she needed, but she doubted anyone could. She felt like she was drowning in that petrol, just like those books she would never read. Was Michael really twisting the narrative on a set of crimes for his own gain, or did he really know more than he was letting on? She doubted she would find out because of their mutual dislike, but if his army of followers began to grow, she hoped it would become common knowledge soon. If only she could read everyone’s thoughts. If only she could dare read the knowledge of books hidden on other’s tongues or carried in whispers behind closed doors. But all she had to read were her own, enclosed in capsules of writing she scribbled down mindlessly. 197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA6Np2I8Yjz
Rocking back and forth in the eye of the storm
Swaying as the wind whistles through me
With rolling hills of black over rolling hills of green
the lightning strikes repeatedly
197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiTSvIg1KBd
Swaying as the wind whistles, through me
is a never-ending nightmare
the lightning strikes repeatedly
with static gathered on the strings of me, the marionette
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is a never-ending nightmare
of guessing minuscule clues
with static gathered on the strings of me, the marionette
can never look up at the master or even break loose
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of guessing minuscule clues
even if they lead to the shepherd of the sheep
can never look up at the master or even break loose
scared of the lightning, they follow wordlessly197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvbUdGOZUee
197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR6mSYykNo6
Even if they lead to the shepherd of the sheep
who knows if he’s really in control?
scared of the lightning, they follow, wordlessly—
rocking back and forth in the eye of the storm.
—O.M.A197Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6zlnlIbGhJ
