Awakened

by K. G. Duncan

  Abby watched the women from her hidden spot at the forest edge. Their movements were measured and graceful, nothing wasted or overexerted as they flowed in and out of the shady confines beneath the weaving hut, their soft voices rippling amongst them, occasionally punctuated with a burst of laughter.

  Abby smiled when she saw the elder. Sitting in her usual spot near the edge of the stone bluff but still beneath the shade of the house above. It was the perfect spot to watch the children who played down by the river below. She had her loom with her, and her fingers nimbly danced as they worked the colorful threads pulled tautly between the reed and the heald shaft. Abby waited at the edge of the jungle wall for the other women to move away. She wanted to sneak up on the elder and surprise her—it was an old game, one which she never succeeded at. Somehow the old woman always knew she was there.

  The last of the other women had unloaded their baskets and were moving away. Abby seized the opportunity and pounced. She slipped silently between the ferns and the bamboo reeds and stalked catlike towards the old woman. One last stalk snagged on her leg and whipped back with a snap. A bird startled and flew away noisily, squawking in protest. Abby froze in mid-crouch.

  “Avy aiza kaka vanao? Ona leshilahy afaka entiko mandihi, ve iano?” (Who is making such a racket? Did you come to dance with me, little monkey?)

  The old woman spoke, then turned and smiled at Abby. Her fingers still deftly moving along the shuttle of the loom, not missing a beat. Not for the first time, Abby caught her breath as she gazed upon the woman; the dark skin of her entire face crisscrossed with the white and pinkish latticework of scars.

  Like a spider’s web.

  It was the mark of the honored elders, and Abby felt her heart tremble and beat a little faster when she found herself in the presence of this one, so old and wise. The elder clicked her tongue then laughed.

  “You will not catch me today, little monkey. How does such a small one move like a rutting elephant?” The language of the old woman was a mellifluous purr, and without asking why, Abby could understand and speak it.

  Suddenly the fingers of the woman stopped, and she put the loom to the side and turned to look directly at Abby.

  “The work on the mountain top has stopped for the day. It will be time for the evening meal soon,” the old woman continued, “but first we need to talk, alone, without the others.” The smile left the lips of the woman.

  “Yes, Bo M’ba,” Abby replied as she uncoiled herself from her prowling stance and strode over quickly to stand before the elder. A sudden twinge of dread filled her.

  The old wise one regarded Abby soberly, her eyes glittering like deep black pools beneath her protruding, web-scarred brow. Several moments of silence followed before she spoke.

  “Oh, little wanderer, why do you waste my time? Once again, you are not really here.” The old woman smiled slightly then sighed. Abby thought she might fall into the elder’s eyes if she stared back too long. She looked down and fixed her stare on the gnarled and bony fingers folded in the old woman’s lap.

  Abby suddenly gasped when the words of the old woman finally sunk in. She whipped her head up and found ancient eyes that pinned her like a trembling branch to the sky. She took a step and stumbled; her mind suddenly dizzy. She gasped as her knee scraped hard against the stone pavers that circled the weaving hearth. She frowned at the small trickle of blood that seeped forth and tickled its way down her shin.

  The Elder named Bo M’ba Nesh sighed again. Her body wavered and flickered and then began to disappear in front of Abby’s eyes. “Come to me when you are not so busy dreaming,” her voice was loud and clear even as her body faded into blurry light. “We need to talk and perform the rites. It is the only way to stop your brother, before it is too late.”

  Abby’s eyes drifted down to a smooth and polished black bear claw hanging by a necklace around the old woman’s neck. It shimmered and quivered as the old woman’s shape wavered and faded and the blurry light overwhelmed everything.

  And then the elder named Bo M’ba Nesh winked into nothingness.

  From the Audio transcripts of Dr. Joanna Kinsey

  Chief Psychiatrist, CHNOLA Northshore Center,

  New Orleans, LA

  Audio File Transcript #AR10089-17

  June 07, 2022

  Subject: A. B. Rubideaux. Female. Age: 12

  Transcript of recording begins: 11:11 AM EST.

  Kinsey: Fine. Let’s pick up where we left off last time. Miss Rubideaux, can you describe—and please, in as much specific detail as you can—the physical changes to your body? What are the earliest outward signs that the transformation is about to begin?

  A.B.: It always begins in the extremities. The physical aspect that is. Always in the extremities. About six or seven days before the change, you’ll find a scaly patch of skin on your elbow or on the small nub of bone just behind your ear… a build-up of plaque beneath the finger and toenails. A hardening of the skin on the fingertips or on the heels of your feet. Within a day, the hardened skin will start to spread. Those are the early signs. The physical signs.

  Kinsey: Are there any other physical or psychological symptoms besides these changes in your physical extremities. Any discomfort or pain? Any change in mood or emotion? Things like that.

  A.B.: Why yes, doctor. Let me run those down for you, in my most clinically summative manner. (Chuckling.) I’m sorry, doctor. But I really do enjoy our conversations.

  Kinsey: I know, A.B. As do I. And I’ve told you, please, call me Joanna.

  A.B.: Yes, thank you. Joanna. The physical changes are accompanied by an acute loss of appetite, intermittent nausea. There are body aches, muscle cramps, and involuntary, extreme muscle spasms. (Pause) Is this what you want?

  Kinsey: Yes. You’re doing fine, A.B. Please continue.

  A.B.: (Giggling.) Okay. I also experience a dull, throbbing headache, which accompanies the blurred distortions of color and light, but nothing severe in the beginning. Just enough to distract and irritate. The headaches will grow incrementally, both in strength and length, lasting up to several hours—this is usually about the time that my visual and audio perceptions warp and bend dramatically and the whole world starts to swirl and go blurry.

  Kinsey: Yes, we’ve talked about your visual distortions before, and we can return to it later. Right now, I want you to describe only the visible, physical changes to your body, as well as your internal changes.

  A.B.: It’s hard to separate those things. They are all connected. Ok—What I’ve been describing to you—That’s just the physical change. You asked me to describe the psychological component as well, yes? Whether I had any mood or emotional swings. Well, I was about to get to the interesting part. The juicy bits. The scaling of my skin and the vertigo and the pain that comes with it? That’s not really what the change is all about. The best part—the part where I get all tingly inside—now, that’s the main thing. (Giggling.) You ever get all tingly inside, Joanna?

  Kinsey: Well, I’m not sure what you mean. Please, tell me about the interesting “tingly” part.

  A.B.: (Laughs and snorts.) Okay, so, there is so much more that goes beyond my ability to put into words! I can’t even begin to describe… (An audible gasp.) Underlying all of it—everything from the beginning of the first itching in my fingertips right up to the sudden, cataclysmic and bone-splitting transformation itself—underlying all of it is the feeling… of… elation.

  Kinsey: Elation?

  A.B.: Yes. Elation. Pure and unadulterated bliss. That’s what it feels like when I change—when I take my true form. That’s what it feels like to be everywhere and nowhere all at once. It’s what makes me tingle.

  Kinsey: Well, I must confess, what you have described to me doesn’t sound very much like elation. It sounds… excruciating… and terrifying. I’ll have to dig a little deeper to understand it.

 
; A.B.: (Laughter.) Dig a little deeper, Doctor Kinsey. Joanna. But I have a question for you. Have you ever turned into a dragon before?

  Kinsey: No, I can’t say that I have.

  A.B.: Then truly, you don’t have any idea of what I’m talking about.

  Four months Earlier: Feb 4, 2022.

  Ain’t no big thing. Any child could do it. It happened every day. All the time. It’s just imagination. You know, how your thoughts can kind of just slip out the back door, jump off the stoop, and run off all willy-nilly? You could go anywhere you want. Other worlds, even. Other times. There was no limit. The little voice in her head just told her to go. Sometimes Abby didn’t listen, but most of the time, she did.

  Because when you have a dragon inside of you, it is usually wise to listen.

  On this day, at this moment, Abby was trying her best not to listen to her dragon. She was lazing in the window bench just off the dining room. It was her favorite spot in the house. The cushions were just the right mix of firm and soft. She could lean back against the recessed edge of the alcove on the big pillow with blue butterflies stitched on it and read a book. It was the brightest spot in the house, with sunlight all day. She could also stare out the window for hours at the garden below, watching her Momma Bea working in the planter boxes where fresh vegetables and flowers grew. Or she could gaze beyond the garden, where trees draped with Spanish moss marked the boundary of the property line, and beyond that was the shimmering glint of bayou water. Miles and miles of it.

  The sight of that water made the dragon stir deeply within her. Abby wasn’t in the mood to listen to that stirring today. It took every ounce of her will to resist the dragon and not go flying off to plunge into that water and maybe catch a few fish. She’d learned in her few short years that there was a proper time and place for the dragon. Like when she was alone. And in the dark. Yeah, always better to ride with the dragon alone and in the dark!

  Abby brought her focus back to her little window perch. She sighed deeply. It had been a sleepy afternoon, and Abby’s book lay unopened in her lap. She had been watching a plump, yellow and black orb weaver spider spin its web all day. It was a beautiful web—spun meticulously with the grace and perfection of some intergalactic geometry. The spider had been building her web all morning, from beginning to end. Just a little bit of magic here on this earth. And something about watching the spider at work stirred feelings deep inside of her. A sense of somewhere other, where all she had to do was close her eyes and she could be there. She could almost smell it and taste it, for that’s how close it was. If she could just hold on to the thought a little bit longer, then she could vanish and be there. Instead, it was the thought that vanished.

  That’s how it was—how it always had been. Just when things were about to get interesting, she ended up back here… with Momma Bea and Henry. And any thoughts that might transport her somewhere far away and utterly, completely different—well, they just had a habit of disappearing all at once.

  She had once talked to Momma Bea about it. Abby had asked her if she ever had the kind of thought that as soon as she thought of it, it would slip away like wet seeds slipping between your fingers, and some other thought would replace it. Then, before she knew it, she would be brushing her teeth or getting ready for school, or helping Momma Bea in the kitchen, and all of it would be entirely gone and forgotten.

  Just like a dream. But Abby’s dreams were real. And dreams didn’t leave scars.

  Abby looked down at a scab on her knee that she had been absently picking at. She scrunched up her forehead and closed her eyes. There was something very important that she needed to remember, but she couldn’t quite get a hold of it. She rubbed at the scab when she realized that she had picked it open again, and it was starting to bleed. She also realized that she couldn’t remember where she got that scab.

  Somewhere deep within her the Voice rumbled, stirring and growing restless. Abby quickly quelled that rumbling and sent it back down into a still and sleepy place. She sighed again and sank deeper into the pillows of the alcove window. It was quiet, and that was the best thing about Abby’s spot in the window. Its location was placed perfectly by some trick of acoustical engineering as the one and only spot in the house where she could not hear the din of the TV, which her ne’er-do-well stepdad, Henry, always had on. Constant, loud, and blaring, the television could not penetrate her island of calm and silence. It was her sanctuary.

  But Henry didn’t need a blaring TV to find his way into her thoughts and dreams.

  Abby felt that familiar finger of trepidation tracing down the back of her neck. Henry was growing restless and bored. Abby sensed the change in frequency all at once. His reptilian mind was starting to wander and seek out its familiar target.

  Out of sight, out of mind. He’ll think about her less if he doesn’t see her.

  Too late for that. Momma Bea was already there with him. He was already working her. Same old thing. Same sad story. But this time Abby was going to put an end to it. She just needed to let the dragon into Henry’s mind and work on him from the inside. She had to do it. She had to make him stop.

  Henry’s mind was not Abby’s favorite place to be. In fact, she spent a considerable amount of effort every day trying to avoid Henry’s mind. Some things are better left untouched. She could resist the pull into his mind by finding distractions—occupying her mind with various pursuits and entertainment. But he was always there… lurking, like a miserable old, cold-blooded toad that could never feel the warmth of others. He just sat there stewing in bitterness and bringing forth ugliness to the world. He was an energy-sucking toad, and other people were like flies that he would just swallow, sucking down their terrible fly juices. Maybe that was what made him so cantankerous.

  But even with all of that, Abby didn’t hate him—she just felt sorry for him.

  She smiled, and she realized at that very moment that she would never be afraid of papa Henry again. She also smiled because she had decided that it was time to put an end to Henry’s abuse of Momma Bea. Never again. It would end today.

  Now, it wasn’t in Abby’s nature to go prying or to invade others, but when you have a dragon inside of you, well then you don’t have the normal boundaries that keep people’s minds separate from each other. For Abby, it was always the touch of another person that connected her mind to theirs. Skin on skin—feeling the pulse and the vital energy of another. Then the flood gates would open. But in this case, no touch was necessary. For folks like Henry and Momma Bea, it was constant proximity and, in the case of Henry, unfortunate familiarity.

  So, deep breath. Find a place of calm. A quiet mind. Abby began reaching out. It came almost immediately. Henry’s frequency always felt to Abby like a violation of what was normal and natural. It slammed into her like a fist to her belly. Like so many people, his mind, not conscious of itself, was like a greedy, little child, grasping and desperately seeking the attention he longed for.

  Now, what happened next is difficult to explain in real time. Let’s just say that it was like a slide show of Henry’s life—his vivid memories, buried deep but still informing him on a daily basis—also his aspirations, his fears, his obsessions. Everything real or imagined that had happened or could have happened or might not have happened yet—an entire life actually lived or merely made up in a matter of seconds. Abby could process it all in a few moments.

  Slide number one began with Henry’s birth. Maybe this was the way it actually went down. Or maybe it was just a version of the story, endlessly recounted, refined and edited for those to whom it was being told. Regardless, it was the one that was stuck in Henry’s mind. It was the one he held on to, so it was the version Abby could know.

  Flick. Henry Thierrey came into this world butt-first. The appropriate medical term for that is “breach baby,” but “butt-first” seems more appropriate here because Henry was indeed a butthead of the first degree. He was j
ust plain mean. Normally, folks don’t put much stock in the prophetic nature of these kinds of things, but when Henry’s slippery and pink baby behind came squishing and squeezing unapologetically into this world, it was an omen of profound proportion, way beyond the domain of chance or mere pedestrian coincidence. Although there was no official documentation, it seemed clear that Doc must have pulled Henry Thierrey out by his baby cheeks and slapped him upside the head because he had been angry and taking exception ever since.

  Ah, Abby could hear Henry’s mother’s voice. This was the family joke. She was fond of telling this story at family gatherings. It was a strong theme that Henry took a sort of twisted pride in. He didn’t mind that it made his other family members laugh—mostly at his expense. He didn’t mind because it was acknowledgement. It was all about him, it was most likely the truth, and he totally owned it.

  Abby flicked past the temptation to linger—There were too many rabbit holes to go down. She was looking for something else and needed to move on. And so, the kaleidoscope reel began:

  Flick. His daddy, an ornery and spite-filled drunk, lifting his hand and striking his mother. Then daddy just gone—a door closing, floorboards creaking, and him never coming back.

  Flick. The corner of a blanket hanging down from the table-top. It was a cream-colored fleece with yellow edging and a pastel green and yellow lamb print. His brother lying on top, gurgling, cooing, and making happy baby sounds. Henry’s hands moving toward the blanket… hands tugging on the corner… consuming, burning thoughts of jealousy and rage. Henry could feel the weight of his brother on top of the blanket. The blanket slowly moving. Thoughts of making little brother go away… Thoughts of murder. If he could just pull on it a little more before his momma came back into the room… Woosh! Too late. A whirl of skirts. Momma pushing him out into the hallway. The door closing. The hardwood floor, so cold on his little bare feet.

  Flick. Abby moving on, delving, searching… Little brother Chucky, older now—maybe four or five—rough-housing with Henry. The bigger, stronger Henry holding him down, pinning his arms back, awkwardly, painfully. Henry laughing, then muttering in Chucky’s ear, “Say it. Say it, you wussy! Little pussy! Say uncle!”