Renhala

by Amy Joy Lutchen

  He walks to the doorway and calls me to him. He grabs my hand and I walk with him into the dining room, toward the wall of pictures. His hand rises and points to one in particular, direct center. My eyes rise and stare in disbelief at the face that so resembles mine as I trace my finger over the innocent eyes. I realize at that moment that my life as I know it is going to change: No more caramel corn, stuffed teddy bears, and Fruit Loops.

  Dead center on the wall, my mother sits, holding the urn with a delicate smile on her face. And now the real test of my strength begins.

  “You have been given your powers back. You must use them to help create the harmony this land once knew,” pleads Gunthreon. “You will find that many around you also have special abilities. Some know how to use them; others do not, yet. Evil creatures are lurking in the darkness, trying to establish a solemn world, of despair, in hopes that all beings will turn to Velopa. And as one who travels between planes, you must remember three things.

  “One, drugs will not work for you, and alcohol will not get you drunk,” he says. My heart skips a beat as I think back to all those hopeless moments I downed bottles of wine and rum, and popped countless pills. It was an attempt to silence my brain, and stop the pain. But, there was actually a solid reason why it did nothing for me—I wasn’t a hopeless wreck.

  Gunthreon continues with, “So sinus medicine, aspirin, pimple cream, whatever, will not help you and you will feel no effects from alcohol. But, you will not get sick as often-” He pauses and looks at the picture of my mom, “-and drugs and alcohol only muddy the senses, anyway. We don’t need drunk idiots traveling between planes on whims.

  “Two, as a traveler, when your body dies, your essence will travel to where you are, or are not, granted a true death by the Higher Ones. We also believe this is when you become a spirit guide, connected to a living individual, but we’re not sure.

  “Three, your weapon is always with you, as it is with most travelers. You may not see it now, but if you relax and let yourself believe it’s there, you can faintly see it strapped to your back. Any questions?”

  “You expect questions right now? I can barely even remember to keep breathing, let alone form questions! I don’t know if I can believe this all.”

  “I’ll wait,” he chirps, standing in front of me, twiddling his thumbs.

  “Fine! About my weapon, what is that thing?” I feel my back and start frisking myself, hoping to land on something. Something solid, I can believe. And of course I don’t feel it.

  “Ah, that was a perfect fit for you, I think. It is called a monk’s spade,” states Gunthreon. “Long ago, monks carried them on their missions through vast lands. They would use the spade as a shovel to bury the dead and the crescent served as a weapon against thieves. Monks would often travel between realms to observe, and write journals of their findings.

  “You are going to need practice using your weapon and I will probably be the one to help you with training, as well as teach you about your powers. Now, to get to Renhala, we must practice as well—”

  “I dropped it!” I wince, preparing for Gunthreon’s anger.

  “Dropped what?”

  “My monk’s spade.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yes,” I say, shaking my head and raising my eyebrows, “I did.”

  He points at my back and I feel warmth on my spine. I relax and slowly reach behind me, and sure enough, I faintly feel the shaft, but cannot grasp it.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll work on that one,” he says.

  I walk around in a circle like a dog chasing its tail. By the sixth round, I’m about to give up when I suddenly cut my finger on the blade. I instinctively shove my finger in my mouth and frown at Gunthreon. “If I’m to believe in karma,” I say, “how come bad things happen to good people? Why was I attacked? What did I do so wrong that I deserved that? And what about my mom—her pain?”

  Gunthreon ponders long and hard. Worn out from too much information, I sit in a dining room chair, waiting for whatever answer he may give me. “Bad things may happen to someone, but not always because that person committed some evil deed,” he says. “It could simply be the butterfly effect. Then, that person’s negative experience changes some other event, entirely elsewhere. Karma has her hands in everything. It’s all about how you respond, and whether you build or deconstruct. Yes, bad things happen to good people, but it’s these experiences that make a good person great! It’s the ultimate test. Unfortunately, karma seems to grow quieter as the days progress. Less and less instances are seen in which positive outdoes negative. Do you understand?”

  Uncertain how to reply, I try to take what Gunthreon says with a grain of salt. I shrug.

  He puts his hand out towards me and I grab it once more. He leads me back into the room with Bu. I glance over at Bu, and he’s not only still snoring, but also drooling.

  We both walk to our previous seats and sit. Bu chuckles in his sleep.

  Speaking to Gunthreon, I whisper, quietly, “You mentioned powers and abilities. What kinds of strange things am I going to be running into if I do join this ‘quest’ you speak of?” I shake at the visions my imagination conjures, like Bu-sized visions of my attacker and killer Venus flytraps. I have a vivid imagination.

  “You might be quite surprised at the similarities between planes, like foods and animals. Those who travel bring certain items between planes, making them commonplace in both planes. Believe it or not, strawberries are native to Renhala,” he says and I raise my eyebrows, “as well as flying squirrels—and cinnamon! And you do know at least one other traveler whose abilities you have witnessed,” says Gunthreon. “My grandson, Russell.”

  Amber! “He better not hurt Amber!” I say, a bit loud. She’s so fragile, despite the act she puts on.

  “Russell is on our side—don’t worry. Actually, he’s used his power to create something wonderful I think, and you will probably agree. Russell is what you may call a sort of ‘cupid’-type traveler. He can become the perfect companion for a willing soul, but can only make this transformation once in a lifetime,” he says. “And Russell has made his choice.”

  My eyes grow wide.

  “It’s not exactly how I thought it would play out, but Russell has picked Amber. He will become exactly what Amber needs as a boyfriend, and someday husband. He really does love her already, but it is up to Amber to realize this and reciprocate the true love he will openly give.”

  “And if she doesn’t return the love?” I say, knowing the probability.

  Gunthreon thinks, then shrugs his shoulders. “I guess I don’t know the answer to that. Hmm.”

  Gunthreon gets up slowly from his seat and covers Bu with a soft chenille blanket. “Kailey, before we conclude for the evening,” he says, “let’s get you to try one thing. Are you willing?”

  “Sure... I guess...”

  Gunthreon walks to the kitchen and I hear what sounds like him rifling through the garbage. My assumption is proven correct as he returns, holding a rancid cantaloupe halve in his hand. He brings it toward Bu’s nose, which twitches. Bu’s mouth also grimaces as it opens to gag.

  “He hates cantaloupe,” Gunthreon whispers.

  “Gunthreon!” I try to whisper, not wanting Bu’s peaceful sleep to be disrupted. Bu’s ears twitch and he begins waking.

  I instinctively reach to Bu with my own energy, closing my eyes as I do so. I think of beautiful thoughts and caress his energy, negating his repulsion, and coaxing him to fall back into peaceful slumber. My own energy vibrates a soothing lullaby as Bu smiles and starts snoring almost immediately.

  Gunthreon smiles widely. I smile back, tears forming in my eyes from a newfound sense of pride.

  “Everything happens for a reason, Kailey,” he says as he approaches to hug me.

  I immediately point to the cantaloupe and hold my nose.

  “Oops, sorry,” says Gunthreon.

  “I should go. I have to check on my dog,” I say, tired.


  After I kiss Bu on the forehead, Gunthreon walks me out, and there is a limo and driver already waiting for me. “Ooh, is this one of my new perks? I could get used to this!” I say, climbing into the car, catching a glimpse of the burly, tanned man behind the wheel. Gunthreon laughs, waves to me, and walks back inside.

  Chapter 11

  Mysterious

  I step out of the car, thank the driver who only smiles in return as he pulls away, and then stand in front of my building for a moment, just admiring the structure. It’s plain, and really nothing special, but I love it. It’s gotta be the inability to draw attention to itself. The apartment sits there before me, happy with its boring red brick and 1960 wrought-iron accents. I think of the possibility of any of the inhabitants knowing of Renhala. The thought makes me twirl around, scoping out the area, for my fear of monsters has increased fivefold since Gunthreon’s chat about Velopa.

  I eye the particularly interesting balcony across from my own. It’s just odd. Several dried herbs hang from the gutters, and there are strange scribblings—most likely made by Sharpie permanent marker—around the balcony door. It’s a door littered with scratches both on metal and glass, like some eager dog tried his damndest to get inside.

  Suddenly, a quick movement of the curtains lets me know that perhaps I am intruding.

  I gather myself and realize I should be feeding and walking Kioto, who now stares a hole through me from my own patio door, most likely cursing me for my time away tonight. And I came back so late.

  My legs carry me speedily up the stairs, and my head spins from the rush of blood. Then, after minutes of searching, I finally find my keys at the bottom of my purse, connected to a few paperclips and hair thingies. Just as I bring the key up to the lock, the dizziness lifts slightly, and I turn to find myself staring at a beautiful little boy, around seven or eight years old—in my guesstimate—with the most gorgeous shaggy blond hair and the deepest brown eyes. The only thing that ruins his perfection is a small scar underneath his left eye. He wears black boxers and a tee-shirt with a skater performing an ollie on the front. He stands before me, motionless. I don’t move, and he bites his lower lip slightly, tilts his head, squints his eyes, and stares at me, intensely. The “sureness” he emits makes me feel as though I’ve underestimated his age, perhaps.

  The staring contest ends when his mother comes bounding up the stairs, her arms filled with groceries from the nearest 24/7 store. “Philip, what are you doing out here in your pajamas? Go back inside,” she says. He turns and walks back, looking at me over his shoulder, throwing me an expression which makes him seem somewhat familiar.

  “I’m so sorry if he bothered you, Miss,” she says. “He should have never have come out here without me home. He usually keeps the door locked until I get back. Hi, I’m Karen, by the way. Nice to finally meet you.” She holds out what she can of her hand.

  “Please, let me help you carry those in, and I’m Kailey.” I motion for one of the bags.

  “Oh no, I can handle it, really.” She moves toward her doorway and starts to enter. With a quick turn, she lets me know that I’m not going to be invited in right now. “It was a pleasure meeting you, and I’m sorry about Philip, my foster child. He’s special-needs. I’ll try and talk to him about giving you your privacy. Have a good evening.” The door is closed, and locks are locked—all three of them.

  I hear Kioto whimpering and scratching the door, so I insert my key into the lock and turn. As I open the door, she sniffs the air anxiously beyond me. Once her eyes meet mine, however, she scrutinizes and instantly scowls at me, rejecting my attempt at a kiss. She turns her head and walks toward the treat cabinet, sits down, and stares out the window. I laugh, and she growls a bitchy sort of growl. How can I help but give her a big sorry hug and two of her favorite treats?

  I get ready for bed and tenaciously crawl under my cozy comforter, resisting a far happier Kioto’s constant nudges to join her in play. She eventually gives up and humphs at me loudly before settling next to my bed. I drop my hand down to her, and she licks it gently.

  As I drift into sleep, my mind keeps wandering to Philip and the judgmental stare he gave me, as though he was trying to decide which crime I was guilty of. It leaves me very unsettled. But still, I slip into a deep REM state, and the dreams begin.

  *********

  Philip stands at the edge of a lake, muddy in his black boxers and skater shirt, continually transforming into several different people: People I’ve never seen, people who seem vaguely familiar, and a few people from my life, including childhood friends whose names I forgot. He emanates confusion.

  Bu sits at an elegant table eating rotten cantaloupe with a rusty fork, and Amber and Russell play catch with a giant beach ball shaped like an embryo. Gunthreon plays chess with himself, and my mom stands in the middle of it all, crying. I try running to her, but hands are holding me back—hundreds of disfigured and non-human hands. They pinch and pull and hurt. I scream at the pain of being unable to reach my mom as I watch her melt into the ground. All that’s left are her eyes and the top of her head, and that’s when she homes in on me, her eyes widening with recognition. Her sorrow suddenly feels like an arrow to my heart.

  I am suddenly released by the hands and thrown upright in bed as I gasp for air, sickened by the images burning in my brain. The sweat has dampened my pajamas, and when I get up to go into the bathroom, I feel the pain in my arms—a horrible soreness in my muscles. I pull up my pajama arms, and then I see the bruises—deep purple, finger-shaped bruises.

  Kioto sits at the front door, sniffing underneath it and wagging her tail. I run to it and peek out the eyehole, only to see Philip’s door close quickly and silently.

  I call my mom immediately. The phone rings only once, and she answers, “Hello?” with no hint of sleepiness in her voice.

  “Mom, are you okay?” I say.

  “Yes, honey, I’m fine,” she says. “You must have had a bad dream. Go to bed.” I don’t. I stay on the line. These days I can’t believe that any insanity I envision, or pain I feel is only a dream. It seems there’s reality in every bit of oddness in my life.

  “I’m scared, mom,” I moan, holding back tears.

  “You need me to come over?” she says, hurriedly and worried.

  I pause while reaching over to pick up the silver ring off my nightstand. I say, “No. No. I will be fine,” as I turn it over and over.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow before you go to work. Go to bed, Kailey,” my mom says.

  I hang up the phone, head to the freezer, grab a bag of frozen peas and try to nurse a few of the bad bruises. I fall asleep holding the bag to my arm.

  Chapter 12

  Deceiving

  “Mom, we have to talk. Are you going to be home tonight?”

  As I chat on the phone, I’m also changing damp, stinky bedsheets reeking of freezer burn.

  “I’ll be home Friday. I gotta run to Frankie’s in Aurora—needs some assistance with picking out new wall colors. Wanna come over then, and I’ll do the cooking?” she says.

  “Can I put in a request?” The drool starts puddling on my tongue from the thought. I can’t help it that food excites me so much.

  “You don’t need to. Steak Diane and honey mustard-crusted potatoes it is.”

  “Yes! Thanks, Mom. You’re awesome!” I can almost see the smile on her face. For a moment, I even forget the purpose of Friday night.

  My next call before I head off to work is to Gunthreon who tells me that he actually had a really good night’s sleep. There are wretching noises in the background on Gunthreon’s end, as if someone is hacking up their lungs.

  “It’s Bu,” Gunthreon states. “I’m thinking he may have eaten something really bad, and considering he eats raw meat and has a stomach of iron—“

  “Gunthreon, my dream—this has to do with my dream last night!” I say. I tell him about the dream, and the bruises on my arms.

  “Was it only us in the dream?” queries Gun
threon. “Was there anyone else you knew besides us?” I hear emotion creeping into his normally indifferent voice.

  “Philip was in it, too.”

  “Who is Philip?”

  “One of my new neighbors. He seems to be quite a strange boy, but he’s beautiful, Gunthreon. He’s special needs, I think, or at least that’s what his foster mom, Karen, says.”

  “What does Philip look like?”

  “He’s about eight, with blond hair and big, brown eyes.”

  “Is there anything different about this boy?” says Gunthreon, who is seemingly trying to squeeze some important information from me. “Maybe an accent, or birthmarks, or anything like that?”

  “No—wait—he has a scar on his face.”

  “Is it below his left eye?”

  I don’t know what to say, so I just sit there, stupefied. “Yes...”

  “After all this time, he’s right beneath our noses!” Gunthreon starts laughing. “Kailey, oh, Kailey, you have no idea what this means.” He laughs even more.

  I’m suddenly scared of Gunthreon’s interest in this boy, which then turns to fear of the boy. “Should I be scared of him?”

  “Oh, yes, be scared of him—be very scared.” He laughs especially hard this time, making me want to hang up the phone, for fear of Gunthreon’s hysterics traveling through the phone waves. “Kailey, you must go over there and talk with him. Don’t let him know you know anything about him. Just pretend you’re being neighborly.”

  “Why are you sending me out to talk with someone dangerous?” I stutter, praying that he doesn’t laugh again.

  “Just trust me. I’ll talk with you later,” says Gunthreon.

  Then he hangs up. He is going to drive me insane.

  My next call is to the office, because there is absolutely no possible way I will be able to work today. I would be a mess, and Amber would see right through me, expecting some logical answer to my odd behavior, which I cannot give anyone right now. I need to keep all this on the down-low, until I can fully grasp what the hell is going on.