Flicker by Anya Monroe Page B

apprehensions about The Light.
    “Sure, Mom.” I’m glad she said I could wait before I say that my hand can flicker with light. Before I mention that my palm can untie rope and cure headaches with a simple touch, I need to understand these people. Honor’s back in the room and I turn my head down towards the test.
    As the assessment begins the women sing an octave higher. The test is several pages, but as I flip through them I realize I have nothing to say in response to the questions. They want to know our knowledge on The Light. I exhale, disappointed that I’m not able to put my considerable knowledge on the history of the world into practice. I take a closer look, realizing this test is a chance for the leaders here to gauge what new Vessels understand about their group. My ability to divide fractions and write a five-paragraph essay means nothing.
    The only portion of the test I can answer are the questions about me. Who I am, where I come from, what day I was born. I’m relieved there’s at least something I can write, although I don’t think Mom would want me to write the entire truth. If I told the truth, I’d have to say the life I lived was a lie, a paranoid farce orchestrated by my father. Instead, I decide to focus on the parts of my story that don’t rely on the individuals I lived with.
    I’m a girl captivated by the sun and I come from the countryside four days from here, never traveling so far from home in my life. I am a child born the day the lights went out, always looking for light. And when the world is dark or confusing, I close my eyes, and things get brighter somehow, reminding me that everything is going to be okay. A light appears within and all the pain and fear and unknowns around me disappear and I can rest knowing there’s a flicker inside me.
    I don’t know if I’ve said too much or too little, but I leave plenty of empty space because the real truth, besides what I wrote, is I haven’t heard or seen or dreamed of much in my life. I don’t know what else there is to smell and taste and touch, because I’ve only just begun. Touching Charlie’s hand is the closest thing to living I’ve done, and that doesn’t count anymore, because he’s left like every other person I’ve known.
    I set the pencil down and sigh. I hadn’t noticed how long I took, but Honor walks over to our table saying, “You certainly had a great deal to say.”
    I don’t answer, instead I just hand my test to her, thankful to be done.
    Basil and Hana rejoin us, and Honor announces it’s dinnertime. While we eat, the tests are reviewed. Women continue to sing gentle melodies, each song soothing my tired body from days of travel.
    We’re served a spread of bread, honey, goat cheese … a delicious food I’d only heard of … and blueberries. We inhale the meal and grow delirious. If Hana and Basil have lived anything like us, food so rich with flavor is intoxicating.
    Hana stuffs her cheeks with berries and, never having been around a girl younger than myself before, I find myself unable to resist laughing at every little thing she does. Basil eats wildly, swiping the cheese with the bread and stuffing it in her mouth. That answers the question I had if she’s been as starved as me. After every bite Mom takes, a slight groan escapes from her lips, as she satisfies herself in a way she hasn’t in over a decade. It’s a decadent scene. We avoid talking, with the test over we don’t know what is to come, but speculating in front of the singing women feels strange.
    Once we’ve demolished all of the food on the table, and a burp comes from Hana’s mouth, we turn around looking for direction on what we should do next.
    Honor strides to the center of the room to address everyone. The room goes flat now void of the singing voices.
    “New Vessels, there’s been a slight setback with one of the tests, but hopefully that will be ironed out before it becomes a problem. So, without further ado, your