Ourselves

by S. G. Redling

  Vet touched Dalle’s arm. “Was there anything unusual in his vision that you could tell?”

  Dalle laughed an unfunny laugh. “You could say that. How about this? He saw Hess.”

  Lucien could barely whisper the words. “That’s impossible.”

  “It has to be a coincidence,” Sylva said. “He heard us talking about him.”

  “Do you ever talk about Hess?” Dalle asked. “Any of you? Because I don’t. I can’t.”

  Vet shook her head. “You must have planted the idea during a thought-circle. After the fact, I mean. Maybe he saw a young man in his vision, but how did he know it was Hess?”

  “Well,” Dalle said, “maybe because the man told him ‘I’m Hess.’ And pulled bees out of his throat. Would anyone like to take a wager on what that might mean?”

  “Bees?” Sylva drummed her fingers on the desk. Like all human dreams, images and objects had their own meaning for the dreamer but certain objects reappeared in Nahan dreams and visions with consistency, like the black stones whenever one dreamed of an acul ‘ad. There was no meaning she could think of for bees. “Do you know if Desara is especially afraid of bees? Maybe they’re a phobia for him?”

  “There’s been no sign of it during meditation. I’d have seen it.”

  Lucien ripped open another candy pack. “What did you say to him about it?”

  “Well, I wanted to start with ‘Help! I’m having a heart attack!’ but I was afraid that would draw too much attention.” Even Lucien laughed at that. “I told him what I could, that Hess couldn’t handle the training.”

  “And that was it?” Lucien asked. “He didn’t ask anything more?”

  “The poison was still shaking him up, rattling him. I couldn’t get him to open up.”

  Vet reached for a candy. “Could that be one of his gifts? Could he be able to read people from objects they’ve touched? To read residual energy?” While all of them were gifted in general, some were endowed with extra gifts, like Vet’s ability to always see colors in the Nahan. Lucien often had prescient dreams, although their hectic and violent nature kept him from calling them an actual gift. Part of the induction and the poisoning was to not only draw out the Vint and judge the candidate’s ability to handle its presence, but to also shock the mind into opening doors that would otherwise remain closed.

  “I suppose it’s possible. Hess did train in the same facility, get locked in the same room. Maybe the trauma of it left some sort of resonant energy that Desara was able to tap into. Maybe he can reach out to Hess.”

  Lucien’s voice cracked as he spoke. “But will Hess reach back?”

  “It’s time for your dinner.” The young woman pushed open the door and carried in a wooden tray. “It’s spaghetti with tomato basil sauce and garlic bread.”

  “Don’t you know we’re not supposed to like garlic?”

  “You seemed to like it plenty last week in your Caesar salad. I also have a nice super Tuscan wine for you. It’s not Barolo, but it’s good, especially with it being so cold out tonight.”

  Hess lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He wished she would stop talking and get out. He had no appetite, although lately he had taken to eating everything on his plate, his body suddenly hungry to build its strength. The girl, a common named Missy or Cassie or Lassie or some such, continued to fuss around the room, laying out his table setting as if he were in a five-star hotel, rather than an isolated house on an isolated island in the middle of an icy lake somewhere in Canada. At least he thought it was Canada. It was cold enough.

  He sat up in bed abruptly. “You know, it’s bad enough I have to listen to the drone all day. Do I really have to listen to your idiotic chatter, too?”

  She adjusted the rose in the vase on the table and smiled placidly. “You might want to eat this right away. Spaghetti is no good cold.”

  “Get the fuck out.” She did and Hess fell back once more onto the bed. At least she no longer offered to join him for meals. He had made his opinion on that topic painfully clear. He pulled the covers back over his legs and searched the ceiling. There, in the shadows of the window, he could hear something small banging against the glass, an insect buzzing, fighting insensibly to break through the glass. Before he could wonder why anything would want out in this cold, the drone kicked on. Then all Hess knew was pain.

  Chapter Eight:

  DI CRUN FETA

  Di Crun Feta – literally, rocks in a puddle; figuratively, a mess below the surface; hidden danger

  “You talked a lot in your sleep, like you were having nightmares.”

  Tomas nodded, watching the highway roll past from the backseat of the town car heading for Deerfield. Stell perched beside him, watchful as she’d been since leaving the complex.

  Nightmares didn’t begin to describe what went on behind his eyes.

  Cold, fear, confusion, exhaustion both physical and mental. Visions of Hess flashed over and over, the pain and horror of the bees worse now that he had returned to the physical plane.

  And worse than that? The doubt. Doubting Dalle hurt almost as much as his mentor’s rough tone, his abrupt withdrawal.

  Almost. Nothing hurt as much as Dalle’s withdrawal. Tomas knew he had become addicted to the attention of his mentor, to his presence. He didn’t know who had mentored Hess but he could understand the strange man’s anguish if his mentor had pushed him away.

  “I was dreaming of someone.” These were the first words he had spoken in hours and his throat felt raw. “About an apprentice who was there before me.”

  “Shelan Hess.”

  He stared at her. “How could you know that?”

  “I’m supposed to talk to you about him.”

  As the highway fell away behind them, Stell related Adlai’s tale of his youth in New Mexico and his friendship with Hess. She ended with Hess’s removal from the complex and Adlai’s warning to Stell about Tomas’s possible fate.

  “Can you help him?”

  Tomas shut his eyes and saw bees pouring from the ruined throat. He opened his eyes again quickly, needing to see Stell’s clear, open face.

  “He’s not right, Stell. There’s all this, this . . . blackness inside him.”

  “It’s been four years since he’s seen his best friend. If you went four years without me, what would be inside of you?”

  A strangling panic made it hard to speak.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t even know where he is.”

  She ran her fingers over his face, smoothing the furrows between his eyes. “You’ll do the right thing.” She kissed his eyelids, then settled in beside him on the leather seat.

  “We’re pulling up to the house, Mr. Desara.”

  “Thank you, Carlson.”

  The house was dark in the early November dusk. “Do they know we’re coming?”

  “I told them not to make a big deal about it. Maybe they’re watching TV in the back of the house.” He hoped so. He wanted the quiet, the calm predictability of his childhood home. He pushed open the door and the room lit up. A chorus sounded.

  “Surprise!”

  A sign hung over the living room: “Welcome Home, Storyteller!” Beneath it, two dozen Nahan neighbors, friends, and family smiled, holding up champagne glasses.

  Tomas squeezed Stell’s hand.

  His parents stood front and center, Beth’s arms out wide waiting for an embrace. To Tomas, the area around her eyes and cheeks glowed an emerald green streaked with glimmering flecks of gold. She looked like a brilliant jewel-toned beacon and he allowed himself to be squeezed tight in her embrace.

  “You shouldn’t have done this, Mom.”

  “Oh, pooh!” She held his face between her hands. “I’m so proud of you I could fly!” She kept one hand on his cheek and turned to address the crowd. “Our son, the Storyteller!” Everyone cheered once more and Tomas laughed graciously. Richard slapped his son on the shoulder and Beth made the goodwill gesture of handing Stell a glass of cham
pagne. The crowd moved forward, hugging and hand-shaking, congratulating Tomas.

  His grandparents hung back from the door, neither wanting to be part of the crush. Tatiana had voiced her opinion that a party at this time would be a bad idea, that it would not be something Tomas would want, but Beth and Richard had disagreed. Seeing Tomas now, Tatiana wished she’d fought harder.

  “Things have changed, no?” Charles whispered. “Look at his face.”

  “He looks tired.”

  “He looks more than that. Watch his eyes.” In the course of his life, Charles had had the occasion to work with two Storytellers and, beyond their expected eccentricities, the one thing he remembered about both of them was their strange pattern of eye contact. It wasn’t quite shifty, just a hair away from bashful. Tomas was acting the same way. His eyes would flit over a person’s face, then down to one side. The longer the person held his hand or demanded his attention, the shorter the sweeps of vision would be. And always, after each encounter, Tomas would raise his eyes to Stell and not look away. It was as if he were breathing through his eyes and all the people in the room were deep bowls of water. He held his breath to see them then turned to Stell to refresh.

  Tatiana watched Stell as well. The change in her was remarkable. Gone was the hesitant, awkward country girl. The woman Tatiana saw stood tall and relaxed. Clad entirely in black, she seemed feline in the way she scanned the room. She remained always at Tomas’s left shoulder, her fingers grazing his arm as he was pulled through the crowd. She spoke very little but not out of the shyness she had shown over the summer. Rather she seemed removed from the noise and a little bored by it. When Tomas would turn from another well-wisher, she would lean close to him, glad to offer him whatever comfort it was he found in her face.

  “It’s like she’s protecting him.”

  “It certainly seems that way.”

  The champagne was still flowing two hours later and Tomas had taken to gripping Stell’s hand tightly for support. So many faces had moved before him. For the most part they’d been happy for him and proud for his parents but among the crowd he had seen flashes of jealousy and resentment and the hunger of people who were looking for ways to exploit their relationship with a Storyteller. Tomas made no sign that he had seen any of these things glimmering across their faces. Sometimes the colors had been vivid, other times like a faint mirage, but after every encounter he had turned to Stell, whose face remained as clear and pale as the day he had met her. She moved through the room with him, ignoring the partygoers as they ignored her.

  At the door to the den in the back of the house, Stell grabbed Tomas by the wrist and pulled the door shut behind them.

  “Let them wonder what happened to their precious Storyteller for ten minutes.” Her hands worked his shirt from his waistband and moved along his skin.

  “Yeah,” a voice called out from the corner, “Nobody will find you here.” They turned to see Louis and Aricelli bent over a computer reading something online.

  Tomas rushed to his cousin. “Louis. Oh, Louis. You’re here. How did I miss you?”

  “Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?” Louis hugged Tomas, then stepped back to examine him once more. “You look like shit, man. What are they doing to you?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me in a thousand years.”

  Aricelli moved in to hug Tomas.

  “You look like shit, man. What are they doing to you?”

  “You did it!” Tomas ignored him, laughing as Aricelli moved in for a hug. He ran his hands over her face, then turned to Louis to stroke his cousin’s cheek as well. He felt light-headed with his relief at seeing them, at being back with them.

  “What?” Louis asked. “I shaved? I’ve been shaving for a while now.”

  “No.” Tomas laughed. “You had your r ‘acul. I can see it in your faces. Am I right? Did you do it together? Oh my god, did you guys hook up?”

  Aricelli leaned in laughing. “It just happened. We were in Boston at this concert and all hell broke loose. The whole city was high that night and we took these two back to our hotel room and the next thing you know, boom, they’re gone, we’re high, and I’m like ‘Oh my god, Louis, you’re totally hot!’ It was the craziest thing. We just—”

  Louis put his hand on her arm to stop her. “That’s enough. You don’t have to tell him anymore, right? You can see it, can’t you?”

  Tomas hesitated, bewildered by the shadow on his cousin’s face that was punctuated by angry stripes of deep red. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t, you know, look for it. It’s just there.”

  “Right there on our faces. Right there for you to read anytime you want, like an email we don’t have to send.”

  “Louis,” Aricelli said, “I don’t think he meant anything by it.”

  “No, of course he didn’t. He’s a Storyteller, right?”

  “What is this, Louis?” Tomas asked. “Are you pissed at me?”

  Louis leaned in close to his face and started to speak but instead made a sound of disgust and turned away. Tomas pulled him back. “No Louis, please, don’t just walk away.”

  “Why not? You did.”

  “That’s it?” Tomas let go of his arm. “That’s what you’re pissed about? That I’m not around? To do what? Be your wingman? Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through in this training? How hard it’s been?”

  “No, I don’t, Tomas. I don’t have any idea. You know why? Because somewhere along the line, I became some guy you used to know.”

  “You’re my best friend!”

  “Bullshit. The Council’s your best friend. The Storytellers.” Louis pushed Tomas away and Stell stepped forward quickly. “And put a leash on your fucking guard dog.”

  Tomas went after Louis, who crossed the room to get his drink. He could hardly breathe. First Dalle, now Louis. “Tell me what I can do to make this right. Please.” They turned their backs to the room, leaning against the desk, and stared at their reflections in the night-blackened window. Tomas spoke so that only his cousin could hear him.

  “They don’t call me Tomas at the complex. I’m only allowed to use my last name. When I asked my mentor why, he told me it’s so that when all the people who have used me have gone, I’ll be able to tell the ones who really knew me. He said that people I’ve been close with won’t be able to look me in the eye and that I may go to the fire without anyone knowing my name.”

  Louis shook his head. “Sounds like a fun place to work.”

  “You have no idea.” He stared at his cousin in the glass. “I don’t mean to see those things, Louis. I haven’t learned how to not see them yet. I wish I could. It’s exhausting.”

  Louis sighed. “Dude, I don’t give a shit what you see in me. Don’t you understand? I’d never hide anything from you. But you’re hiding everything from me. I didn’t even know you were coming home tonight until Aricelli’s mom told me. People keep asking me how you’re doing and I just make stuff up so they think we still talk.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I never heard what happened to you after we stayed out all night. I don’t see you for forever when you go into your training and then we hang out one night and you look like shit—and you still look like shit by the way—and you disappear again. You tell me you’re in all this trouble and I don’t hear a word from you all week. Don’t you think I’d be worried about you? I’ve spent my whole life looking after you, standing in front of you and making sure you don’t walk into walls. I can’t just turn that off.”

  “I know.” Tomas wondered if his cousin could hear his silent begging that Louis never, ever turn that concern off.

  “Dude, I know the word’s gone out and you’ve gotten your Storyteller secret decoder ring or whatever, but are you sure this is what you want? What you want to be?”

  Tomas tried to laugh. “It’s a little late for that. Those cows are so far from the barn, I can’t even tell you.”

  “Screw that.” Louis leaned hard against him, his face s
erious in the dark reflection. “I don’t give a shit what they say. They can give you any title they want—Storyteller or Junior High Prom Queen—you’re my cousin first. Underneath it all, you’re always going to be Louis Besson’s goofy little cousin, got it?”

  Tomas nodded, relieved that this roller coaster of emotion finally seemed to be taking an upswing. “I think the word Aricelli used was daffy.”

  “Dude, are you kidding me?” Louis shook his head in mock disapproval. “You saw her naked and you can even think of another woman? That was almost enough to make me change teams.” Slipping into classic Louis-regaling mode, he filled Tomas in on the more sordid details, making him laugh out loud, until Aricelli stomped across the room.

  “Are you guys talking about me? You are!” She slapped them both and began adding her own details to the story.

  The three friends laughed, finally at ease, leaving Stell alone at the front of the room. She curled up in a leather chair, happy to be away from the chatter, happy to see Tomas relax, and happy to be free of the need to join in.

  Aricelli was loading the dishwasher and Richard was closing the door on the final guest by the time Tomas found his grandparents. Charles and Tatiana sat on the stairs, smiling as Tomas came into the living room carrying a handful of dirty glasses.

  “Remember us?”

  Tomas dropped the glasses on the coffee table and ran into his grandfather’s outstretched arms. “I didn’t think you could make it.”

  Charles kissed the side of his grandson’s head as they rocked in their embrace. “Miss this day? Who do you think you’re dealing with, kid?”

  Tomas pulled away and kissed his grandmother. “It’s not a big day. I don’t know where Mom got the impression that I had graduated or something. It’s really not like that.”

  Tatiana placed her hand on his cheek. “You look perfectly dreadful.”

  Tomas settled on the stair next to her, his grandfather on the step below him. “I know. Louis has told me. Stell told me. Would it help if I told you that I look a lot better than I feel?”