Inkarna

by Nerine Dorman

  Ashton draws away from my inexplicable grief, his distaste for my show of emotion palpable, which doesn’t help in the least. I am so alone, so very, very alone.

  * * * *

  “You’re early,” Lisa says when I arrive at The Event Horizon shortly before lunch. Today she has her mostly blue dreads bunched up on top of her head, so I assume she’s had new extensions. It brings out the cornflower of her eyes.

  I try my best smile, not sure it looks genuine. “I’m at odd ends today, not much to do, was wondering if I could start earlier, that’s if you don’t mind.”

  Lisa narrows her eyes and leans forward on the bar. “Are you okay? A problem with Marlise?”

  “No problem.” I know I could have called her, should have called her today, but I haven’t. “Just moved into my new place and it’s a real dump. Couldn’t really deal with watching the roaches scrabble up the wall and Marlise’s busy, so I reckoned I’d come down here.”

  Lisa raises a brow. It’s pretty clear she doesn’t believe me. “Sure, whatever. Reckon it’s gonna be busy. There’s a rugby match on at two, so we could probably use the extra hands.”

  “So long as I can keep myself occupied, that’s fine. They could march a brass band through here so long as something’s happening.”

  She shrugs and I go drop my jacket in the broom closet in the fire escape that doubles as a staff office. The sorrow has tinged my day grey, leeching all my will. So what if I’m Inkarna? Right now I don’t care. Or, if this is Ashton dragging me down into seeing life from his point of view, I’m too bummed to do anything proactive. Unaccountably I feel like smoking a cigarette but that must be my angry ghost’s impulse for comfort.

  The weather outside the big arched windows matches my mood with a steady sifting inundation. It is midday but already it’s twilight. I bless the fact the rugby match draws its prerequisite crowd of bikers and backpackers, all seated happily cheek by jowl to cheer on their favourite team.

  The venue’s interior is soon muggy and beery, the noise level high enough to drown out the commentator. Gavin invested in a projector a while back, and the sports match glows on the white wall by the stage. If there’s one thing Ashton and I are in accordance, it’s that rugby is possibly one of the most boring games ever invented, just a bunch of guys wearing tight shorts grappling at balls.

  I remember, in another lifetime, in another era, Richard dragging me to a match while we were visiting in England. It was wet, cold and a score of men were running about on a field so muddy I couldn’t tell who belonged to which team.

  The shouting and rumble of voices is so overwhelming today I don’t notice the old man with the brown suit until Ashton pricks at me.

  “Look. There. You know him, don’t you?” Bill.

  The old gentleman stands by the far corner of the bar where the aquarium flashes with the red-gold-red of The Event Horizon’s geriatric goldfish. He holds his hat, turning the brim while he stares directly at me. My stomach contorts and, for a terrible moment, I suffer the urge to vanish into the bathrooms so I can throw up.

  The terrible sadness… Leo’s messenger… How could I not have known?

  I come out from behind the bar and stride to the old man. His eyes are red-rimmed and he swallows hard when I stop before him.

  “Go outside?” Not sure if he heard me, I gesture for the front entrance.

  He nods and follows me. We stand just by the door, sharing space with Viking, who looks none too pleased to be handling door duty on day where the heavens piss down nonstop. The din from inside fades to a tolerable ruckus, though my ears ring at the sudden shift to relative quiet.

  Viking gives us the eyeball then crosses his massive arms over his chest. No one wants to mess with almost seven feet of muscle and attitude.

  “What is it?” I ask my visitor.

  Bill shakes his head and takes a crumpled kerchief out of his breast pocket, which he uses to noisily blow his nose. “She…” The man can’t seem to bring himself to finish the sentence. His hands tremble.

  I half-raise my hands because I want to shake his words out of him in case they aren’t what I expect them to be. “What’s happened to Leo?”

  “She passed this morning.” From the inside pocket of his jacket he retrieves a crumpled envelope. “She came to…see me last night, very late. She sai— She said to give you this first thing today, no matter what happened.”

  My hand stops just before I take the proffered item. Leo knew all along and she didn’t say anything. It was purely by chance that we went to visit her. Lucky coincidence or my instincts as an Inkarna? She knew. She didn’t tell me. And I suspected and hadn’t done enough. A hot flush of anger courses through me only to fizzle out into that heavy sorrow. With a shake of my head, I take the envelope. It contains an object of weight, and the slight clink of metal on metal raises all the hairs on my arms.

  “She wanted you to have this,” Bill says.

  “Thank you.” My voice is thick in my throat. The nausea contracts my stomach again and I swallow hard, wiping at my eyes with the back of my wrist.

  “I’ll be going, then. Need to catch the trains before they become too dangerous.” With those words, Bill turns. He opens a black umbrella and quickly vanishes down the road, his rapid strides belying his age.

  Lisa frowns when she sees me coming back in. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “In a way I have. Do you think you could spare me a cigarette?” If any circumstance requires a smoke, this is one event. Ashton fair wriggles within me at the prospect of subjecting this body to a nicotine rush.

  “Thought you stopped.” Lisa reaches below the counter and slides me a pack of Camel Blacks with a box of matches.

  “I’ve just had some bad news.” Smoking a cigarette is something Ashton would have done at a moment like this and right now, anything that brings comfort to him is a better option than facing the full extent of the setback.

  I’d wanted to meet with Leo again, to at least discuss strategy. It’s too late now.

  Back behind the bar, I stand pressed against the fridges and unfold the envelope, wincing at the tobacco taste and the oily smoke I draw into my lungs. I don’t cough—testament to this Kha’s familiarity with the action.

  Ashton Kennedy is printed in Leo’s neat script in indelible marker. Although I already know what I’ll find when I slit the envelope’s flap, I nevertheless flinch when the winged scarab pendant falls into my palm. The metal is warm to the touch, still carrying the residual body heat from the old man. I turn the thing over to see Nefretkheperi inscribed after Siptah. It’s up to me to have Ankhakhet added to this.

  The tears want to come, but I blink them back. It would do Ashton’s reputation no good if I’m caught snivelling in public. Part of me wants to stomp out into the rain and walk, for hours, in the downpour. My sensible part suggests it’s better to stay busy here, among the beer-swilling throngs.

  “You loved her very much, didn’t you?” Ashton sounds mystified.

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Lisa turns to me. “Eh, did you say something, Ash?”

  “Nothing,” I mutter. I quickly fasten the chain around my neck and tuck the pendant beneath my t-shirt, where it clinks against Ashton’s Anubis. It feels oddly familiar and incredibly comforting to have this touchstone of my previous existence against my skin. Another circle has been completed, with fresh current for the future, fresh current I’m not certain I’m ready to initiate.

  The rest of the afternoon spills into the evening, and I allow more of the old Ashton Kennedy to surface, to give him some enjoyment of work he knows so well. We’re like a team of horses pulling the same carriage and, for once, it feels good to not have to be in control. From time to time I pause in my work, pushing Ashton back so I can touch the scarab pendant through the cloth. It’s there, warm, pulsing almost with a life of its own.

  * * * *

  Sunday dawns overcast and miserable. After my dawn adorations I d
ress as warmly as I can then set out for the train station. It bothers me that Marlise didn’t come to The Event Horizon last night. It bothers me a lot more than I’d like to admit. With Ashton relegated very much to the back seat, I take over full awareness of the Kha, allowing him merely to see and hear.

  “You should get a motorcycle,” he tells me when I pay for a ticket out to Plumstead.

  “Hell no,” I say quietly, so the other people can’t see me talking to myself.

  The ride out is mercifully uneventful, save for the teams of beggars who seem to co-ordinate their turns on the train. A supposedly blind and rather overweight black woman is led by a young boy brandishing a tin cup. I reckon the few passengers this morning most likely give her coins to make her move on instead of having to listen to her plaintive wailing. Her voice is awful, high and reedy, and she can’t hold a tune to save her life. Whatever hymn she belts out is relegated to an unrecognisable caterwauling. The young boy just looks directly ahead, his expression wooden.

  I shift to let them pass, wrinkling my nose at the stench of sweat, personal odour and wood smoke. Within me, Ashton shrinks back from any accidental contact with the pair, but I tamp down on his disturbance.

  Perhaps it would have been better to call Marlise first, but I entertain discomforting visions of her either not answering when she sees an unknown Cape Town number, or putting the phone down on me when she realises who’s speaking.

  Some of the murkiness lifts by the time I step out at the station and, though yesterday’s sorrow is mostly tucked away, I enjoy the walking. This Kha, despite the beating Ashton gave it with drugs and alcohol, is a marvel. I’d forgotten how it feels to be young again, to still believe I’m immortal. Functional immortality, that is.

  A rumble of discontent simmers below the surface. Ashton.

  Marlise’s mother answers the intercom when I buzz the house. “She’s not home,” the woman tells me.

  It would take a bulldozer to get Marlise up on a Sunday morning. The woman is lying. It would be so pathetically easy to force the gate to open, but I refrain from doing so.

  “I think you’re not being truthful with me,” I tell Marlise’s mother. “She’s still in her room.”

  “How dare you!” The connection dies.

  “Bitch!” I say, and stop myself just in time from smashing the gate with my fist.

  Closing my eyes, I reach with my daimonic senses, shivering at the eddy of power that now flows so much easier each time I employ it.

  “Marlise, I’m outside,” I whisper, visualising her curled up in her bed or reading a book. A slight pulling sensation at my temples suggests I’ve sent something. Whether Marlise hears is another.

  “Her parents are full of shit,” Ashton remarks drily. “They used to pull these stunts all the time. You should just use your Jedi mind tricks to open the gate.”

  “What, and get myself arrested? I’m not you.”

  He laughs, sending a burst of uncomfortable energy running down my spine. The spirit somehow offers a flash, some omnipresent viewpoint of me standing before the gate, annoyance written all over my face.

  Not for the first time I wonder whether this union with my angry ghost is such a wise thing. A stab of my anger quietens him and I turn, intent on walking back to the station.

  I’m about to round the corner when Marlise calls my name. She’s running down the road in only her pyjamas, her bare feet slapping on the tarmac.

  “Ash! Ash! Don’t go!”

  A foolish grin plastered to my face, I open my arms to envelop her. “So you still talking to me? I thought I was in the dog box when you didn’t call.”

  She smiles and looks up at me. “I will admit I was being a bit pissy, okay? I’m sorry. Besides, you could have called me.”

  “True. It’s just been…”

  She must note that some of the joy has left my features because her smile fades. “What is it? I woke yesterday morning and I was crying. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sad in my entire life. I phoned Leonora because I didn’t have the number for Sunrise, but no one answered.”

  Crap.

  I sigh, rubbing her back in small circular motions. “How do I…”

  “It’s Leo, isn’t it?” Marlise’s lower lip starts trembling. Oh, she knows.

  I nod. “Let’s not stand out here in the road. It’d be better if we go back to your room. There’s something we need to do. We can mourn Leo later.”

  Marlise leans into me and I refrain from commenting that she’s out here in her nightclothes. Silent sobs wrack her frame, and all I can do is put my arm around her. She is so young, so vulnerable. It’s unnerving that she’s already so in tune with our connections as Inkarna. What have I done?

  Although we don’t meet her family on the way in, I can feel their stern disapproval through the windows. They’re watching us, but I keep my gaze focused on what lies ahead. I won’t dignify their hostility with any of my own. Ashton shifts, wanting to comment, but I clamp down hard, shoving him into the deepest recess I can find.

  Marlise and I sit for a long while in her room. She curls half her body onto my lap and I stroke her hair while she cries herself out. She cries for both of us. What tears I had dried long ago.

  Fare thee well, Ankhakhet. I’ll see you soon.

  Presently Marlise straightens, pushing errant tendrils from her face. Her eyes are puffy, the skin around them red. “Let me make some tea.” Placing her hands on either side of my face, she kisses me lightly on the lips.

  “At least go wash your face before you go in looking like I’ve been beating up on you.”

  She jumps up with a strangled cry of indignation. “You beast!” Marlise rushes into the bathroom, emitting a short shriek when she no doubt views herself in the mirror.

  Laughter is the best response to this scenario. Despite the clinging sorrow, I still need to convince Marlise to take me to Noordhoek. I’ve given my next course of action some thought. I’ll need to get into Kakapo Estate and find the house where the Van Vuurens reside. And, to do so, I’ll need to employ those “Jedi mind tricks” I’ve been teased about again and again.

  * * * *

  “This is crazy, Ash,” Marlise says.

  We both stare at the gated estate, parked far enough down the road where I hope we won’t elicit suspicion. My stomach roils, as though I’ve eaten something bad, but I need to do this thing. Marlise has the book Leonora gave her, a title published by House Pandora many years ago, detailing methods of psychic defence and shielding for beginners. I suspect she considers the book a talisman of sorts. I don’t ask. If it makes her feel somehow safer, then it’s a good thing.

  “I’ve got to do this.”

  “By just walking up in broad daylight and asking to be admitted? It’s not going to work.”

  “Just because I haven’t done this using this body before, doesn’t mean I won’t remember. Besides, I’m not getting any nose bleeds or darned headaches, which suggests I’ve settled in.” I don’t tell her about the other aspect of my plan, which involves letting Ashton loose. I spoke to him while Marlise was making us tea. While he didn’t exactly agree to any of this, I pointed out our continued survival depended on his co-operation, hinting that I could lock him so far away he might as well have been sunk in the Sea of Nun.

  He crackles below the surface, like a current in a seemingly placid ocean. And I can feel what he’s been doing, slowly siphoning energy from the world around us, building and growing until my entire body feels too tight. Like me, he’s becoming stronger.

  Marlise reaches for my hand, squeezing hard, her eyes mirroring the concern prickling at my awareness. Despite the day’s gloom, everything feels too bright. “Be careful.”

  “You, too,” I tell her. “If anyone approaches you, I want you to drive off. Go drink coffee at the mall or something. I’ll find you.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  “Go home. Forget about me.”

  Her expression is pained. “What about
House Adamastor?”

  “Then the House fails until they send someone to replace me. Study. Meditate.”

  “You’re not expendable.”

  “Yes, I am.” We stare at each other for a while and I swallow hard, drinking in her face. I kiss her softly then press her against me. “I’ll be fine. Really. They don’t know who to look for.” How I crave for a time when we don’t have to keep glancing over our shoulders.

  Getting out of the car is possibly one of the most difficult things I’ve had to do this entire day. I don’t look back. Instead I breathe deeply, drawing on my daimonic self amplified by my angry ghost’s writhing.

  Ashton is frightened when he sees the extent of the forces at my command. While he can tap into the material world and steal, vampire-like, mine goes deeper, to the earth, from the sun—not just from the electrical wires and the wind, the slow growth of the poplars bending in the wind. Given time, I’m certain I can reach all the way to the Tuat, like the elders.

  “Do exactly what I tell you,” I say to him, my voice low.

  “You’re going to get this body killed.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I can tell when you’re lying.”

  “Well, obey me and that won’t happen.”

  We reach the gate, the wind whipping my hair loose from its ponytail. The black man seated in the glorified security shed looks up from the western novel he’s reading. Not the best then if he’s distracted from his duties by visions of lone rangers on silver steeds.

  Hastily he shoves the book behind his chair and rises. An older man, in his fifties, I estimate. A subtle shift of perception pulls at my awareness when I quest out, a tightness at my temples. My daimonic self brushes against the man’s mind. He is cold and bored, has been thinking about what he’ll have for lunch soon and whether he should have coffee or tea.

  “Good day, sir,” I say. “I’ve an appointment to see Mr Van Vuuren.”

  The man’s eyes become glazed when I apply pressure, imagining him seeing Leonora’s messenger instead of a six foot something thug dressed completely in black. The last time I’d tried this kind of influence had been in the early 1960s, when I’d tangled with a particularly annoying spy from House Montu and his human associates.