I grab the glass without argument and slowly tilt it up, letting the wine barely touch my lips, and I slowly open my mouth, letting the deep, dark wine glide over my tongue and slide down my throat. It’s warm, and it makes me tingle all over. I gulp the whole glass. It’s not like any wine I’ve ever tasted, including the 1994 Cabernet Sauvignon—at forty-five-dollars a bottle—that I splurged on while I was a hermit in my mom’s house.
“Hmm,” mumbles Gunthreon, looking at my empty glass, “you downed that a little fast.”
“No worries. Thanks for sharing it with me,” I say, aware that he’s worrying over nothing. “Can I help you with anything? I’m actually no stranger to the kitchen. My mom got sick when I was younger, and I did a lot of the cooking at home. She taught me many a trick.” I expect him to ask about her, but he just nods while he slices a few strawberries and throws them in a bowl. Out of the blue, I suddenly feel a bit lightheaded and unsteady. “Whoa,” I groan.
“Too fast,” he jabbers under his breath. “How about you finish setting the table for me, please.” He points toward the door I followed him through on that first unforgettable evening, then hands me two silverware settings.
When I walk through the door a bit unstable, I see the room that we entered on Friday, in which a lovely urn had sat atop a small table, but now the room is set up as a dining room. In the center is an extraordinarily long dinner table with several chairs set around it. The chairs are upholstered in a lovely fabric, which I determine I have to admire closely. The fabric feels like silk, and there are tiny little hand-embroidered hydrangea and buttercup flowers sewn randomly throughout it. The table’s runner matches, and includes larger versions of the flowers.
On the wall are what seems like hundreds of lovely photos of different people of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some are happy, and some just seem sad. But there is one thing they have in common: They all hold an urn—in fact, the same urn I saw when I first entered this room several nights ago, and the same urn now set upon the center of the table, embraced by plumes of hydrangeas. As I start to examine the pictures on the wall, I notice the urn seems to fit magically into each person’s hands, perfectly.
My mind suddenly registers that the dining room table is already set with plates, but not for two—for three. The chair for the unknown guest is covered in plastic, and sitting on the top plate is a rather large piece of raw meat.
Turning around quickly—quicker than I should be moving right now—I practically run over Gunthreon and the bowl of au gratin potatoes he’s carrying. He dodges me and shuffles the plate as if he just stepped out of a Jackie Chan flick.
“Kailey, please sit.”
“No way!” I sit despite my spoken rejection. “What’s on that plate? It’s disgusting! And you never told me there would be another guest. Why am I really here? Surely not just to eat a good meal. Did you drug me?” It’s the only possible reason why I’m feeling so shaky.
“Our other guest may or may not show up. That depends on you. You must trust me, please. All questions will be answered later.” He then looks right in my eyes and I trust him, but not without thinking some choice words. “I did not drug you,” he states.
“My damn lamb had better be cooked, because I don’t feel like ending up in the hospital with salmonella,” I prattle.
He proceeds to carry in each lusciously ladened dinner dish, one at a time. The dishes are an unmatched set, but each is lovely and distinct in its own way. My great aunt—Numa—we called her, had teacups and saucers that she gathered from around the world, and these remind me of her collection. As a child, I was mesmerized by their beauty. I always wanted to play tea party—Bear would have loved it—with them, but was forbidden. So now, I make sure to touch each one, satisfying the once-deprived child in me.
He serves me from each plate, almost knowing that I will not say no to any of it.
As he then fills his own plate, he very briefly glances toward our guest’s. His frown scares me a bit, as well as the sense of nervousness I feel from him.
I decide it’s time, so I reach in my purse and take out the pendulum. I move to put it in his hands, but he pulls them back. “Kailey, you are now the rightful owner. You cannot give it back to me,” he says. “Please keep it and enjoy.”
“For real?”
“For real.”
“Thanks, Gunthreon,” I say. “I was beginning to get attached to it.”
“That’s what I was hoping for,” he says. “Did you learn anything?”
“I learned who my spirit guide was. Can you have more than one?”
Surprise flashes across his face. “Yes, you can,” he says. “You learned fast, didn’t you? Perfect.” He smiles at me as he see my reaction—one of caution. As we stare at each other, I take a quick bite of the lamb, and it’s the most tender my mouth has ever touched. The homemade gravy is to die for.
As I think about what I want to say next, he speaks before I can. “Enjoy your meal in peace first, and then we will talk about why you are here,” he says. “Let’s just talk some small talk. Tell me about your mother.”
Finally—something I can go on and on about. I tell him all about my childhood and my mom and all the great things she’s done in her life for others. I tell him about her debilitating kidney disease, how the doctors are amazed at how she’s still alive and breathing, how she’s the most important person in my life, and how I don’t know what will happen to me if she passes away before me. I end my dialogue with how my mother has taught me about every living creature’s connection to each other and how we should all treat each other with respect and love.
I never feel the tears flowing until Gunthreon hands me my clean napkin. I wipe my face, and I notice the napkin is so white it appears to be glowing. He takes it from me, then holds both my hands.
“Thank you, Kailey.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For trusting me. It’s very important that you do.”
“I have plenty reason to not trust strangers.” I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. “But you feel like a long lost friend... Does that make any sense?”
“Those before you have felt the same,” he tells me with a gentle shyness. He pauses a bit, then asks, “Would you be willing to join a quest...for a friend? Simple question, and not a request.”
“A quest?” I forget about my mom, intent on deciphering his words. Why would anyone want me in a quest? And who even uses the word quest these days.
“Let’s just say you might be helping to save the world.”
I stand up and walk towards the door. “No need to play with the vulnerable, Gunthreon. Thanks for the delicious dinner.”
“You have not realized your power yet, have you?” he says, quickly, just as I walk into the doorway. I stand with my back to him. “You have to let her go,” he says matter-of-factly. “Just know that she will never be gone forever.”
I turn back around, suddenly angry. “Let who go, where? And power?” I laugh, a bit maniacally. “I don’t think so.” I laugh again.
“You must concentrate and think about what I am going to tell you. I can guarantee it will be tough to grasp, but please listen, at least.” He stares at me, longingly.
“Ugh! Fine! Try me. This is your last opportunity to get in my head.”
I catch a brief lift of the corner of his mouth before he says, “Sit then”. I sit, despite the lingering feeling I may have missed a joke of Gunthreon’s. “During your unfortunate attack you let out a scream that was heard around the world,” he hesitates, “and into other ‘realms,’ if I may call them that.” My mouth opens to say something, but nothing comes out. “It was a cry for help to anyone who could hear.” As my eyes fill with tears, he continues, knowing he has my full attention. “I am told you captured a certain entity’s interest, and they, in turn, fully awakened something in you—something that hides in your brain—something that retreated when you were younger.” He pauses enough for me to shake my head no. “In return for the help
you were granted, you were given certain powers back, as well as a job to go with them: a quest. You have such potential, Kailey.”
“Stop!” I yell. “If you expect me to believe any of this crap you are trying to feed me, you are indeed in need of mental help. Who put you up to this? Is this a cruel joke? Was it him—it? My heart thumps violently as I begin to shake; the synapses in my brain attempt to make logical connections, but get nowhere—I don’t know what to do.
Gunthreon presses forward, ignoring my questions. “You are now what we call a karmelean—an energy manipulator of sorts, if you will. A deliverer of karma,” says Gunthreon. “You help dish out what people truly deserve by reading them. You use people’s energies.”
“That is nonsense, Gunthreon,” I grunt, shaking my head.
“Everyone emits sorts of vibrational energies, and you my friend, can read or feel these energies.”
“This is insane,” I say as I bite my fingernails, the anxiety wreaking havoc on my cuticles. I squirm in my seat, not finding comfort in any position. My body just wants to get up and run. And he’s so sure of himself, only heightening my anxiety.
He continues, despite my complete discomfort in his words. “Every living creature’s body exudes energy, it’s been scientifically proven. This energy that’s expelled stays close to our bodies, and karmeleans, like yourself, can feel or sense it. And depending on the individual being read, the energy can be good or bad, happy or sad, good and sad; the possible combinations of emotions are infinite, really. There are so many personality traits that are reflected in one’s energy, too.” He smiles at me, then amazes me by continuing to talk, without any concern of my thoughts, or so it seems. “The extent of your powers, though, we will learn as time progresses. And who, exactly, is still listening for you, particularly, is currently a mystery.” He leans close to me and whispers, “The word ‘coincidence’ isn’t in my vocabulary.”
The extent of my powers.
It stands in front of me, staring, and I sense the evil intentions lingering behind the pitch black eyes. I’m a bloody mess: bruised, cut, and broken—body and mind. I close my eyes, feeling its presence, and concentrate on making it end. It has to end.
Gunthreon stands straight and walks to light one white candle sitting on a small shelf on the wall. “You need simple explanations right now. This will help. Relax while I continue.”
My pulse slows as the candle burns, and a calm peace enters my body. I breathe in deeply, letting the soft scent of lavender relax my head, my joints, my muscles, my heart.
Gunthreon continues. “You see, karma is something like a bank. Everyone either puts good karma in or they take it out by failing to do the right thing. You are, let’s say, the bank teller. Think of people you know who just happen to be very lucky, or unlucky, individuals. Now think of how they say you are five people away from knowing everyone. I’m sure everyone knows, in some way, a karmelean.”
He stares at me as I say, “Gunthreon, how much wine did you drink?”
“The cabbie is one I witnessed personally through my window, and what about the...outcome of your attack?” he continues with raised eyebrows. “Relax, and truly put some thought into it.”
The bloody sludge. Everywhere. Its blood—gooey, black blood, trailing down my walls and sticking to my skin.
I try to wash the thoughts away, but suddenly feel, deep down inside, that I now need to listen to my self—my inner core reaching out to the girl broken by a monster—the girl with innocence lost, the girl with some possibly crazy shit going on in her life. With no shaking, and no fancy to run anymore, I say, “I thought karma just happens though, like the universe itself just does it.”
“No, the universe doesn’t just do it—the universe and special people do,” he says. “There are those like you who influence and help karma along. It’s actually an extra component in your aura. Your aura is equivalent to a beacon, which calls to the higher powers to dish it out. There are good and bad people everywhere, and you help right the world by feeding information from individuals to the Higher Ones.
“Now you must think about your mother,” he holds up his hand as my body wants to suddenly stand and take movement. Towards who, or what, I don’t know. “Yes, I know, a delicate topic. But we must. I know how important she is to you. You are holding her in this realm because you think she deserves to live—but, in reality, you are holding her here for yourself. Think, really think, of how your mom is possibly still here, with us. Her illnesses should have won, long ago. Let her go, Kailey. She has other duties to fulfill, and you do not need the bad karma yourself.”
Memories of numerous visits to the hospital and endless doctor visits come flooding into my brain. “It can’t be possible,” I say crying, still mesmerized by his knowledge of my life. “How the hell do you know my mother?”
He holds up his hand, slowly forming the sign language for “I love you.” He says, “I’ve known your mother for some time now.”
I bury my face in my hands and let the tears flow.
Gunthreon gets up and lays his hand on my shoulder, gently. “The right choices can be the hardest,” he says. “Are you willing to hear the rest of the truth? Are you willing to accept anything I am to tell you and anything I may show you? You have committed in your heart, but I must hear it from your mouth, too.” He stares at me, as if life and death teeter on what I say.
“Yes, Gunthreon.” I feel things falling into place where I never before knew them to be missing.
“Kailey, close your eyes.”
Chapter 8
Pure
The strong scent of grass underneath my nose wakes me up. I pull myself up to a sitting position in a patch of bright green grass and try to see through the fog around me. I recognize this fog and close my eyes, trying to force myself to wake up, this time for real. When I open them again, I see that I’m still in the same place. “Gunthreon? I don’t like this. Are you here?” I try not to be too loud.
I figure that the only thing I can do is try to relax. As I relax, the fog seems to lighten, and I can see further. It’s dusk, and despite the nearness of night, I can see clearly within a minute or so.
Looking down at the ground next to me, I notice something shiny. It looks like a locket, and instinctively, like a magpie, I pick it up. An extremely long chain hangs from the locket, and I wipe the dust off of it, then fumble about trying to open it. Unsuccessful, I put it in my pocket, next to my ring.
A rocky dirt road lies up ahead, so I walk toward it. Along this road, I find old and once-beautiful buildings made of marble and slate, in ruins. I spot one unscathed building off the road, away from all the other buildings and I head in that direction, hoping I might find something or someone of interest, like Gunthreon. I can feel him here somewhere.
The building is smaller than the rest I’ve seen, and not as fancily built, but feels important, so I approach with caution. On each side of the modest wooden doors are finely-detailed, winged gargoyles, also fashioned from wood, with various metal inlay across their face and wings. They are identical twins, the only difference being their expressions. One has warm, pleasant eyes and a smile on its face, while the other looks as though it’s snickering or just plain mean. I touch the one with the more pleasant face, and it suddenly winks at me.
I jump back, and I could swear it giggles softly. The other only stares straight ahead, so I choose to ignore it. As I push on the doors, I find they are surprisingly heavy, and I gather enough strength to nudge them open, giving myself just enough room to squeeze through.
They open to one big round room, and I see that the walls are lined with objects. They seem all to be weapons of sorts—extremely clean, usable weapons. Closest to me is a large, wooden hammer, and I touch it, caressing the wood. It feels old. I try and take it off the wall, but it doesn’t budge. The next object that catches my eyes is a silver Chinese star with eight very sharp edges.
Each object seems to have its own personality and I’m wondering wh
o they belong to. Next to the hammer, is a particularly long sword, inscribed with beautiful, intricately etched characters of an unknown language which seem to sing to me of a battle between the wind and sunshine. Again, it will not move from the wall. I try another, and another, and yet another, with no movement at all. Yet I feel I need one.
Frustrated, I sit, staring straight ahead of me. That’s when my eyes lay upon the oddest weapon I’ve seen thus far. It invites me near, whispering to me, telling me not to be afraid, inviting me to touch. I stand and walk toward it, admiring its uniqueness.
The pole is made of a smoothly-sanded cherry wood, and on one end is a crescent-shaped blade, littered with runes. The opposite end has a flat, spade-like blade, which reflects my complexion flawlessly as I stare into the metal; both are sharp enough to slice hairs. I yearn to touch the wood, but then I sense that something is about to happen, so I hesitate.
As an unexpected warmth flows into the room, running over my feet first, I freeze. It slowly crawls up my body, touching my hands and forcing them to reach forward. As the heat envelopes my head, I suddenly yearn to possess this deadly treasure, so I touch it, and the pole comes off the wall with one pull. I embrace it, suddenly feeling I will never be disconnected from my new lover, because it is me and I am it. I swing, and it is light in my hands. The metal whistles as it slices air, singing its song of perfection—perfect balance.
Suddenly, I am torn from my find by a peculiar noise, accompanied by the faint smell of rotten eggs. I know the smell, and I run to the door, not wanting to be cornered in this room. That’s when I see it standing in the road, and it’s huge—at least eight feet tall and five feet wide, with dark brown skin and fur. I recognize the feet—all three of them, situated like a tripod, with the center leg slightly forward. Its full hideousness is far worse than its feet alone. The huge eyes that take up at least 50 percent of its head stare at me while its mouth, which seems to take up the other 50, quivers, drooling some dark liquid. I can’t be sure, but it looks like it’s hungry. It stares at me as though I’m a huge medium rare rib-eye steak. There are sprouts of fur here and there around its body, and its arms dangle below its waist. It wears a large loincloth and short pants, both shredded on the edges. There is also a band around its waist, somewhat resembling an extra, extra, extra large fanny pack. I stand, frozen with fear at the realization that I’ve been visited by yet another hideous creature. It was not a dream. The delicious meal I just ate starts creeping up my throat, but I swallow, keeping it at bay.
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