The Heir of Latacia

By Rebekah Biles

Pronunciation Guide

Bainard – BAY nard

Carnaesia – Kar NAY see uh

Diatone – DEE uh tone

Fridaewid – FREE duh wid (“wid” rhymes with “lid”)

Latacia – Luh TAH see uh

Chapter One: The Nightmare

        He was chasing her, a man cloaked in darkness. She had not seen his face, but she knew if she saw it, she would recognize it. She did not want to recognize her assailant as a man she had trusted. That would make him all the more frightening.

The long, dark corridor echoed with Friday’s strides as she tore along the cold stone floor. Her clothes stuck to her body, drenched with sweat and humidity. Shadows flickered past her, swimming in and out of her field of vision. Shallow gasps escaped her esophagus, her heart thundering in her chest, but she could not stop. Thuds and screams reverberated through the hallways, ringing sharply in her ears. Each bang was like a bell toll, chiming off the seconds she had left to live. Closer and closer each ominous noise sounded; faster and faster she raced. A threatening voice, a high-pitched discordant cry, sounded from the depths of the labyrinth, sending chills down her spine and taunting her: “Danger, girl! Danger . . . Run . . . Run!”

        On and on she ran, past crumbled stone and flickering torchlight as the deranged voice cackled. Every corridor she rounded brought about a new series of twists and turns. Sometimes, the infuriating maze would double back on itself, leading her down paths she had already trodden. She cried out in desperation with each bad turn, feeling enclosed and utterly lost.

        And then, a crooked stone jutted out of the ground, tripping her and wrenching her ankle out of place. Pain gripped her entire leg as she smacked against the floor, but that didn’t matter as much to her as the fear that the man would catch up to her while she was down. Terror pitted in her stomach as she scrambled to her feet; she churned the ground beneath her and ignored the searing torment.

On she sprinted until she finally came to an abrupt stop at a mysterious iron-barred gate, the corridors beyond it veiled in mist. She slammed against the gate, shaking it with all her might; it did not budge. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes wide and her sharp breath stinging her throat. She was trapped.

        She turned back toward the gate, shaking it violently and yelling, “Let me through; let me through! Somebody, anybody, HELP!” She didn’t know who would hear her, but she did know that she was injured and caught at a dead end. The laughing voice came again, creeping into her eardrums with a chill:

        “There’s nowhere to turn, girl, nowhere to go!”

        It was over; she was out of options.

        “No, I can’t give up!” she cried fiercely. She shook the gate again and screamed at the top of her lungs, “HELP ME!”

        But the laughter was suddenly upon her, and the darkness of the man’s cloak enveloped her vision.

“No, please!” Friday wailed, squirming relentlessly. Cloth was tangled about her, trapping her legs and her arms. She couldn’t see anything; it was so dark. Her arms flailed, searching for something to hold onto. She grabbed the fabric by her face and pulled. Suddenly, she fell, the cloth pulling away from her eyes. She cried out as she landed on the floor of her bedroom. Her chest heaved in time with her racing heart. She looked around wildly, but the gate was gone. The shadow of the hall had evaporated and given way to the light of the morning sun shining through her window. The laughter had faded, replaced by the steady ticking of her alarm clock. The fabric ensnaring her was only her blanket and bed sheets, not the cloak of the dark man. She was safe; it had all been a dream.

Gosh, what a nightmare, she thought, wiping perspiration off her forehead and allowing her knotted lungs to breathe. The dream had been so horrifyingly realistic she felt like she had actually run all of those corridors. What was more, every detail of the dream shone in her memory with vivid clarity, which was odd since most notions of her dreams dissipated almost immediately after she woke up.

She shivered, untangling her legs and pulling her blanket around her shoulders like a shawl. She leaned forward against her knees, letting her long, sand-colored hair fall in front of her face like a curtain. Behind it, she felt safe, as though hiding there cut her off from the rest of the world. In here, it was just her and God. She took a shaky breath and lifted a short, anxious prayer:

Father, what’s going on? Where did that dream come from?

She rocked back and forth, calming herself down.

“It was just a dream,” she repeated, although she had a hard time believing it. “Just a dream.”

All of a sudden, a shrill buzz broke the near-silence of her bedroom, causing Friday to jump in surprise. Her eyes scanned the room in a panic before she realized it was just her alarm clock.

“Gosh, Friday, calm down,” she growled at herself, rolling her eyes. She reached up over her head toward her nightstand to turn off the little terror. When the buzz had been muted, she pulled the clock down from its perch so she could see the time. It was 6:45am. Time to get ready for school.

“I don’t want to get up,” she moaned, lying down in a heap and pulling her blanket over her head, not caring that she was still on the floor. The plush rug beneath her felt like a bed of grass to her tired body, comfortably inviting her to drift off to sleep again, but it was then that a faint scratching at her door requested her attention.

She sighed and uncovered herself. “I’m coming.” With a foggy, sleep-deprived haze clouding her vision, she rose from the ground. However, as she stood, a sharp pain gripped her ankle, pricking the nerve-endings and sending a twinging pulse up through her leg and into her brain. She gasped and stumbled back to the floor, her hands flying to her foot. “Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow.”

Paralysis gripped her for a few moments, but the discomfort gradually eased off. When she could move again, she gingerly rolled up her pant leg to inspect the damage. The skin around her ankle was swollen and blue with bruises. Her lips parted as she stared at it in confusion.

How did I do that? she thought.

She didn’t remember getting injured. Yesterday’s cross country practice had gone smoothly. She hadn’t done anything strenuous after school, and she couldn’t have hurt her foot that badly from rolling out of bed. What had happened?

A thought came to her: I sprained my ankle in my dream.

She shook herself. What a ridiculous idea! Injured by a nightmare! But the more she thought about it, the more she realized there was no other real explanation.

She sat in cold silence, not sure what to do. She had never heard of anything like this. How was she supposed to handle it? What would she say to a doctor who asked her how she’d hurt herself?

While she sat in fretful contemplation, the scuffle at her door came again. Gratefully welcoming the distraction, she pushed herself up, carefully favoring her injured right foot. She limped to the door and opened it. Outside, her American foxhound named Max sat, thumping his tail happily against the ground and grinning a big dog grin. She smiled.

“Hello, sweetheart.” She carefully squatted down and scratched him behind his ears. Max closed his eyes and leaned into her arms. His soft fur brushed against her cheek.

“I love you, Max,” she whispered in his ear. His tail continued to wag, twirling around faster and faster like a helicopter blade.

She gave him a kiss on the top of his head before standing. “I guess I better get ready for school,” she told him. She looked down at her leg. Max followed her gaze and sniffed at the bruise. He gazed back up at her with a concerned look in his eyes.

She huffed. “Don’t give me that look. I know that I ‘should’ go to the doctor. But this is different. People will lock me up if I tell them I got the injury from a dream.”

Max continued to stare at her.

“I’ll wrap it, okay?” She said, hobbling over to her vanity. She rummaged through the drawers until she found an old bandage she had used when she strained her ankle her freshman year. She gingerly wrapped the bandage around the bruise and leaned back to inspect it.

“I suppose that’ll do,” she said half-heartedly. Max approached and nudged her arm with his nose. Exhaling softly, she stroked his head.

“Ready for breakfast, boy?”

Although he still looked worried, he thumped his tail at the mention of food.  She grinned and carefully made her way out of the room with her dog at her heels. They made their way down the stairs slowly, and entered the kitchen. The smell of frying bacon greeted them, awakening Friday’s senses. A graceful hum met her ears, emanating from her father who stood over the griddle with a spatula. Dark hair, rumpled from sleep, fell over his careworn face and dark eyes—eyes that contained such depths that rivaled the farthest-reaching trenches of the ocean.

“Dad?” she asked, surprised to see him up and making breakfast.

Turning around, he smiled widely at her from underneath his graying mustache. “Good morning, Fridaewid,” he said, greeting her with her full name. “Feel like bacon and eggs?”

“Absolutely!” she cried, rushing forward and hugging him. “Why are you making breakfast, Daddy? It isn’t my birthday or anything.”

His arms enveloped her like a blanket, and his hand rumpled her hair. “I just felt like treating my beautiful daughter. What other excuse do I need?”

She grinned up at him. “None, I guess. Thanks.”

His reply was a simple smile. He kissed the top of her head and turned back to his work. “How did you sleep last night, kiddo?” he asked, keeping an eye on the sizzling bacon and frying eggs.

Her upturned lips faltered. Lying to him didn’t appeal to her, but neither did telling the truth. So she compromised, settling on telling him as few of the details as possible.

“Not well,” she admitted evasively. “I had the worst dream.”

He gave her an empathetic glance. “I’m sorry to hear that, kiddo. Mine wasn’t so great either.”

She looked at him, eager to change the subject. “What was it about?”

Sighing softly, he stared off into space. She thought she saw his eyes moisten a little, but she wasn’t sure. “Your mother was in it.”

“Oh,” she whispered. Her mother had died when she was a baby. Even though it had been nearly fifteen years since, Friday knew he still missed her sorely. She sometimes caught him in his bedroom looking at old photos of her, tears running down his cheeks. She didn’t want to make him upset. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, it’s all right,” he said, steadying himself before he continued. “She and I were in, well, a battle of sorts. But we ran from it. We were afraid. We had to keep something safe.” He glanced at Friday briefly. “But the land where we went to hide was nothing compared to the one we had left behind. There was no real life to it, no vibrancy.” He shook his head dismally, his lips taut. “The worst part of it, though, was that we were guilt-ridden because we had not stayed to help our friends fight. We didn’t know if we had made the right decision.”

“But you had to keep something safe,” Friday interjected. “Wouldn’t your friends have understood that?”

His shoulders heaved as he sighed again. “I hope so.”

Friday looked at her father with concern. He’d never been this disturbed by a dream before. “That doesn’t sound pleasant,” she said. “Maybe you’ve been watching too many fantasy TV shows lately.”

With his eyes heavily clouded, he muttered, “Maybe.”

She glanced down at the frying pan. The bacon strips were starting to blacken at the edges. “Dad,” she said, “you might want to flip those over.”

He shook himself. “Thanks, Princess,” he said, quickly sliding the spatula under the meat and turning them over. A loud, satisfying sizzle filled the room.

“Fridaewid,” he spoke again, putting a smile back on his face, “could you grab the orange juice from the fridge?”

She blinked. “Sure thing,” she said, eyeing him warily while she shuffled to the refrigerator. A blast of cool air hit her, and she reached for the juice carton, losing herself in thought. Something was odd about her father’s tone. He acted like he was really guilty of something, as though what he described had been more than a dream. As though the dream had really been a memory.

But when would Mom and Dad have been in a battle? She furrowed her brow in contemplation as she lugged the carton onto the counter.

No, this is stupid, she told herself. Nightmares can be emotionally scarring, but they aren’t real. 

But as she began to pour juice into two glasses, a thought pinged her. Not always. They aren’t always—well—not real. Back in Bible times, dreams could mean everything. Like when Joseph knew that Pharaoh’s dream predicted seven years of famine.

Friday continued to wonder as her father scooped some bacon onto a plate, “unintentionally” slipping Max a slice.

If dreams can be memories or predictions, Friday thought, looking down at her ankle, what does this mean about my dream?

* * * * *

        After she had a delicious breakfast and threw on some clothes, Friday and her father piled into the car. Friday shifted her backpack by her feet to conceal her wrapped ankle, then she glanced at her dad. He was still gazing off into the distance, lost in thought. He robotically put the car in gear, pulled out of the driveway, and drove down the road.

        Friday twisted her mouth to the side, thinking. How can I cheer him up? What makes him happy? She considered the question for a moment, then it came to her. Memories. Good ones.

        She smiled and pulled her phone out of her pocket, opening up an album by Journey. She scrolled through the songs until she found the one she knew was her dad’s favorite: “Don’t Stop Believing.” The iconic intro music then filled the car.

        “Remember the spring formal last year, Daddy?” she asked. “The one that you chaperoned? Remember how we danced to this song?”

        A wide smile broke across his face, and his eyes brightened, chasing away the lines of worry that had wrinkled his forehead for most of the morning.

        “You know I do,” he said.

        As the song played, they sang along. Their voices warbled soft and self-conscious at first, but by the time the chorus played, they were shouting aloud at the top of their lungs, laughing and not caring how off-pitch they were. Friday’s father drummed the steering wheel while she played air guitar, whipping her hair around like a rock star.

        They pulled up at Friday’s school just as the final chorus was fading out. Her father’s eyes positively glowed as he cast his gaze upon her; it was a wonderful sight compared to his mournful expression from earlier that morning. The cares of the world had been chased away.

        “Thanks, Princess,” he said, kissing her cheek. She blushed at the display of affection.

        “No problem, Dad.” Pleased that he was happy, she gave him a quick hug. Then, she gathered her bag and exited the car. He waved as he drove out of sight. When he was gone, she shouldered her bag and limped her way into the school building. Fortunately, the pain in her leg had subsided some, enough that she could walk without grimacing with every step.

Brick walls encompassed her as she stepped into the school building. Gleaming golden letters hung on the wall beside her at her eye level, each one about a foot tall. Together, they spelled the name of the school: Whitefire Christian Academy. She traced her hand over the letters affectionately before turning into the hallway.

She adored school. Sure it was still school, which meant that she had to deal with piles of homework, bullies, and the occasional crabby teacher, but Whitefire held a special place in her heart all the same. It was here that she had run her first race, first felt the exhilaration of the wind rushing past her cheeks and the ground churning beneath her feet. It was here that her first grade friends had stood up to the boy that pushed her down on the playground. And, most importantly, it was here—at a chapel service in fifth grade—that she had accepted Jesus as her savior.

Memories continued to swirl in her mind as she meandered through the hallways to her first hour class. On the way, she passed winding staircases and brigades of lockers. Little kids twittered in the doorways, and middle school students traded Twinkies for Twizzlers from their lunch boxes. Ducking into a broad tiled corridor, she left the younger children behind as she entered the high school portion of the building.

She soon came upon Room 126, her chemistry classroom. It was still several minutes before class started, and the teacher had not arrived yet. So she leaned against the wall to wait, taking pressure off of her foot.

        First hour was chemistry, which was her favorite class—next to cross country, of course. Chemistry excited her. Balancing a complicated equation didn’t seem like a bore, but rather like a challenging puzzle. The periodic table wasn’t a random hodgepodge of numbers, but an intricate recipe for all of the substances on earth. Normally, she was nearly jumping out of her shoes in anticipation for class to start.

        But today was not a normal day. The vague terror of the dream still hung over her like a cloud. She hadn’t wanted to talk to her father about the dream, but she did want to talk to her best friend, Velma Cheats.

        Friday and Velma had been best friends since the second grade. Velma was new to the school that year and terribly shy. Two weeks went by, and Friday hadn’t seen her talk to anyone. She was intrigued by the silent girl, wondering how anyone could not have something—anything—to talk about. She decided to find out. At recess that day, she watched Velma slink into a wooden bus-shaped piece of playground equipment and huddle up into the corner. Friday tromped right into the bus and perched on the fake driver’s seat, staring down at the girl sitting on the floor beneath her. It took only the guts of an extroverted eight-year-old to speak the question that had been haunting her:

        “Why don’t you talk?”

        Velma jumped at the sound and looked up, black bangs falling away from her eyes. She stared at Friday for a moment in silence. Friday got exasperated. She still wasn’t talking! But then, the most extraordinary thing happened: Velma smiled. Then she began to giggle. The girlish chuckle soon grew into a full belly laugh, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach as if she was trying to keep her mirth from spilling out of her guts. Friday laughed with her until they both were hiccupping in delight. It didn’t take another word for them to both know they were friends.

        Over the years, their friendship grew ever stronger. They shared Skittles at the lunch table. They collected work for one another when they missed days of school. They always exchanged Christmas gifts, and they never missed the other’s birthday. They created a hand-written covenant promising they would be each other’s maid of honor at their weddings. They often stayed up long into the night, telling each other their darkest secrets and their deepest desires. In some ways, they each felt the other knew them better than themselves.

If Friday could confide in anyone about the insanity of her nightmare, it was Velma.

Unfortunately, Velma wasn’t there yet.

Friday pulled her phone out of her pocket to check the time. It was seven fifty. She let out a sigh. Would she have time to talk with Velma before class started? She considered sending her friend a text, but she knew it was pointless. If Velma wasn’t here, she was on her way and therefore wasn’t likely to check her phone for new messages. So instead, Friday did her best to distract herself. She turned her attention to her fellow sophomore classmates milling about in the hallway.

        Across the way were Britney and Ashley, two close friends who were in Friday’s third hour. She liked them well enough; she played cards with them occasionally when they had free time at the end of class.

        Then, the glimpse of a red and blue sport jacket caught her eye. It was Blake Johnson, the handsome track star. Her heart skipped a few beats as she looked at him, striding along confidently. He had eyes like twin suns that were full of light and joy. His gel-infused, bleach-blond hair stood up straight on the top of his head in a way that would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else but somehow looked attractive on him. His trademark jacket fell over his toned muscles loosely, giving him a relaxed yet professional appearance. Friday’s knees shook as she wished like every other girl in the school that he would notice her. He glanced at her and waved. She blushed and let a goofy grin spread across her face. Then, to her surprise, he steered his way over to her.

        “Hi, there,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

        Crap, he’s talking to me. Her knees trembled. Okay, stay cool, Friday.  “H-hi,” she stuttered, nervously pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.        

        “I saw your big finish at that cross country meet last week.” His eyes shone. “That was some sprint.”

        It was all she could do to keep from squealing aloud. If it was possible, her cheeks turned a deeper shade of red. She was so hot she felt like she had stepped into a sauna. She wished she could think of something clever to say back to him, but her brain felt like mush. Finally, she stammered:

        “Thanks, Blake.”

        He nodded, his lips turning back into an attractive half-smile that made her feel like melting on the spot.

        “Well, I better get to class. See you around, Friday,” he said, walking off.

        “Bye,” she said breathlessly.

        Ohmigosh! Her mind raced in excitement. He came over just to give me a compliment! He knows who I am! Does he like me? Does he want to go out with me?

        Her heart was racing almost as quickly as it had been when she had awoken from her dream that morning. Only this time, it was for a good reason. She knew she was probably overanalyzing his simple comment, but she didn’t care. It was like the very first scene of every love story she had ever read. In her mind, chemistry was transpiring, and not the kind that gave her a half-hour of homework every night.

        As she stared after Blake’s disappearing shadow, a feminine arm draped across her shoulder. Friday’s mood instantly turned sour as she caught a whiff of a familiar sickly-sweet perfume.

No. Not you. Not now.

“Don’t worry, Fridayweed,” an overbearing voice dripping with sarcasm said, “he is totally into girls with dorky names.”

        Friday groaned. It was Amy Jones, the student council president and her biggest enemy. Their rivalry began in fifth grade when Friday found Amy making fun of a small girl with messy braids and thick glasses. When Friday stood up for the girl, Amy turned on her and shoved her into a patch of dandelions. Amy thought that was so funny that she invented the disgusting nickname “Fridayweed” to commemorate the occasion. Needless to say, the girls had not had a civil meeting since. Friday shook Amy’s arm off her back.

        “I’ve told you a million times, Amy, it’s Fridaewid,” Friday grumbled, glowering at Amy’s disgustingly flawless face, with her perfectly straight chocolate-colored hair framing her sharp chin and piercing eyes. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

        Amy smirked. “What did your mom do? Go back in time and pick out the most obscure name from the medieval era?”

        Friday reddened at the mention of her mother. “Back off,” she muttered angrily. No one made fun of her mother.

        Amy’s painted lips spread into a smug smile. She winked at Friday and walked off with an over-exaggerated sway in her hips. “Catch you later, Weed.”

        Friday balled her hands into fists, digging her fingernails into her palms. She knew she shouldn’t let Amy get under her skin, but it was impossible not to. It was bad enough that Amy was Barbie-doll perfect with muscular legs and dark, lush hair; she didn’t have to go around flaunting it. It certainly didn’t make Friday feel any better about Amy when she made fun of her best friend, Velma, who seemed to be Amy’s biggest target.  

        “FRIDAY!” a voice squealed as someone bounded up and attack-hugged Friday from behind. She screeched in surprise, shaken from her contemplation, and whipped around to see Velma, doubled-over and shaking with uncontrollable laughter. Once Friday realized it was her, her heart stopped racing, and she started to giggle along with her.

        “Gosh, Velma, you scared me half to death!” she cried.

        “Oh, I did?” Velma said with an impish grin. “Guess I need to do it again, then.”

        “Ha, ha,” Friday said, smacking her friend’s arm with feigned indignation.

        After a moment, Velma regained her composure and straightened. “Ready for another day?” she asked brightly, her intense ice-blue eyes sparkling.

        Velma’s enthusiasm begged for Friday to answer with a full-hearted and satisfying “YES!” Yet, as Friday looked at her friend, her heart began to sink. After the paranormal dream that had crippled her and chilled her to the bone, she couldn’t match her friend’s gusto.

“I guess so,” Friday finally responded, her voice leveling out.

        “Hey,” Velma said, looking down at Friday’s leg and frowning, “what happened to you?”

        Friday hesitated, taking a deep breath. She didn’t know how Velma was going to take this story, but she was desperate to talk to someone about it. Slowly, her lips formed words that dropped from her mouth intermittently like lumpy cake batter.

        “I had a, um, really bad dream last night,” she began.

        Velma cocked her head. “I was talking about your ankle.”

        “I know; I know. I’ll be getting to that. Just—just promise me you won’t call me crazy.”

        Velma looked taken aback, but she slowly nodded. “I promise.”

        Friday took a deep breath. “So, I had a really awful dream last night. I was being chased down this dark hallway by a cloaked man. He had the most frightening voice,” Friday shuddered as she thought of it. “I kept running and running, but the corridors kept bending back upon themselves and turning on and on into infinity. Finally, I was cornered at a black gate, and then he got me. Thankfully, that’s when I woke up.”

        “Sounds . . . awful,” Velma said, clearly not understanding how the strained ankle had anything to do with the story.

        “That isn’t the worst part, though,” Friday continued, lowering her voice so that Velma had to lean in to hear her. “While I was running, I tripped and hurt my ankle. And when I woke up, my ankle was all bruised and swollen.”

        Velma frowned. “Did you hurt your ankle in cross country practice yesterday?”

        “No. That’s the thing. I was perfectly fine when I went to bed. Nothing out of the ordinary happened yesterday. I went to bed normal and woke up like this.” Friday gestured to her foot.

        Velma stared at her with intense concern, a strand of dark hair falling over her eyes.

        “Are you sure you didn’t trip or something?” she asked.

        “Velma, I’m positive. I would remember hurting my foot like this.”

        Velma glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening.

        “Friday, this is serious,” she whispered. “Did you talk to your dad about it?”

        “Well, no,” Friday admitted reluctantly. “I know he would get really worried, and I don’t know if there’s anything to be worried about.”

        “Friday. You go to bed, have a nightmare, and then wake up with a strained ankle. That is something to worry about! That isn’t normal.”

        “You think I don’t know that? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do when I have a supernatural dream that twists my ankle!”

Velma screwed her face up in concentration, biting her lip. “Do you think it’s a warning?” she finally asked.

Friday shifted uncomfortably. She wanted to pass off the whole experience as a random freak of nature that meant nothing. But she had grown up for far too long in a culture that thoroughly believed that everything happened for a reason—at least everything of this caliber, anyway.

“Maybe,” she finally said.

        At that moment the bell rang, signaling the commencement of the school day. The chemistry teacher appeared, striding toward them. He inserted a key into the lock on the classroom door, opened it, and allowed the students to file in before him, greeting them each with a big smile and a hearty “Good morning!” He glanced toward the girls, silently inviting them to come in.

        “We better get inside,” Velma said with a sigh. She turned and looked directly in Friday’s eyes. “We’ll talk more later, okay?”

        Friday averted her gaze and nodded. Velma squeezed her hand comfortingly. Then, the girls walked into the room. As she took her seat at one of the lab tables, Friday frowned, thinking about Velma’s last inquiry before the bell: Do you think it’s a warning? She sucked on her teeth nervously. Maybe it is. But what good is a warning if I don’t know what to be wary of?