Mind Over Psyche

by Karina L. Fabian

  “Devil’s spawn!” He spat at him. “You’ve brought nothing but evil to this family since the day your father took my little girl. You think I don’t know—I saw her change, you still in her. Ruined my lovely daughter—then you killed her. But for you, she’d be alive, successful…And now, you’re the only progeny I get? Get away from me before I do what God should have done!”

  Deryl had fled to his room and cried until he’d fallen into an exhausted sleep.

  That was when the Master had come, offering to teach him to be strong, to take care of himself. He gave him a sword and taught him to use it. He spent hours talking to him, serious lessons he never heard in school. The strong must rule the weak; it is their right and their responsibility. Strength lies in the body and the mind. Aggression is a tool, tempered by skill and cunning. You are chosen to walk a narrow path. Trust your skills. Trust my tutelage. Do not trust others. Do not trust technology. Trust yourself and me, but no one else. The Master was a stern teacher, but Deryl hadn’t cared. He welcomed the distraction from his misery. In those dreamtime sessions, he was special. The Master gave him the attention he’d craved. As the Master became more demanding, Deryl became more determined to prove himself, to please him. Failure brought anger and shame, but success filled him with tangible joy.

  Looking back now, Deryl could see how skillfully he had been manipulated. He hadn’t been aware of it at the time, but the Master’s dreamtime preaching had influenced his attitudes. At first, though, it had seemed to help: He went from broody and withdrawn to haughty, yet began to make friends. He threw himself into sports, quickly making up in skill and determination what he lacked in size. He developed a patronizing disdain for anyone who preached nonviolence. They were the weak; he’d take care of them.

  He took fencing. His body retained the skills and reflexes that he had honed with the Master. His coach stepped him up to more aggressive freestyle lessons he normally reserved for seniors. He praised his competitiveness and even talked about the Olympics.

  Deryl knew better now. The “competitiveness” He’d learned from the Master was predatory, a desire—a need—to draw blood. To wound. To kill.

  Deryl ran his hands partway through his hair, clenched them into fists, and pulled. You didn’t know, he told himself. You couldn’t know. When it got out of control, you realized what had happened, and you stopped. Nonetheless, he couldn’t quite block the memory of his sparring partner with a long gash across his chest, blood staining his fencing tunic, nor of his own fierce joy at having done it. “Bloodlust” was a very accurate term.

  You did stop yourself. You threw down your sword and never picked it up again.

  Yet the Master did not leave him. Training had continued intermittently but with greater intensity. When his psychic powers started to manifest, the Master tried to train him to use them as another weapon. When he had refused, he’d been forced to fight monsters or take painful blows that resulted in real bruises he’d had to hide with long sleeves most of the year. The pleasure the Master had forced upon him as rewards became equally intense, until Deryl had promised his obedience if only he’d not reward him so. Nonetheless, the feelings of well being he pressed upon him instead had been equally addicting. The lectures, too, had continued until he couldn’t even look at a television without falling into a seizure. The school doctor had called it epilepsy and added it to Deryl’s growing list of mental problems.

  Then, his fourth year at school, Deryl had lashed out at Perry, the senior who’d been tormenting him all year. When Perry gasped and collapsed, Deryl realized with horror that he had done more than wish him dead—he’d struck out with his Master-trained reflexes and stopped his heart. As the Master screamed at him to follow through, Deryl had started CPR—he hadn’t known how to wish Perry alive—and when adults took over from him, had run upstairs and tried to kill himself.

  Deryl pulled his hands from his hair and looked at his arms. He’d managed to slice both wrists properly, but he’d forgotten to lock the bathroom door. Again, he had not followed through.

  So instead of dead, you ended up institutionalized. Maybe that was a good thing, after all. There were demons in his soul, hidden insanities that he could never let out. Maybe he didn’t deserve freedom.

  Deserved or not, you have it. So what are you going to do about it? A voice that sounded annoyingly like Joshua’s demanded.

  He could never let Tasmae convince him to fight.

  Defense, he thought. Teach them the shields for defense. She’s right; children can learn this. Save lives; don’t take them.

  And stop this war. The thought came unbidden, but he filed it away to think on later.

  The memories behind him for the moment, his mind began to still. He used a trick Joshua had taught him and channeled his negative feelings out of his body and into the ground. His quaking eased. He took a cleansing breath, disconnected his shields from the ley line and pulled them back into himself. He stood, took another breath, and went in search of Joshua.

  He found him in the healers’ den, laughing as the healer they’d met before held his hands over his. “That is so cool!” Joshua exclaimed.

  “What’s going on?” Deryl asked.

  “Hey!” Joshua turned a big smile to him. “Come here! Terry—show him! This is way cool! Put your hands like this.” He held them palms up.

  Deryl complied, and Terry hovered his hands over Deryl’s and concentrated.

  “Feel that?”

  Deryl shrugged. “Kind of a tingle.”

  His friend snorted. “Please! That’s like comparing ‘Twinkle Little Star’ to Mozart!”

  Terry laughed and backed away. “Psychic or not, Joshua has healing ability. I’m trying to teach him. Perhaps he has come to us to learn.”

  Deryl blinked. Neither he nor Joshua had thought of that; of course, he didn’t really believe in ‘God-given purposes,’ anyway. Still. “About that. I’m sorry about earlier,” he told Joshua.

  “What? Storming out on Tasmae? I was right behind you, dude. She was out of line.”

  Terry motioned him to sit, and took a seat himself. “It could be the Remembrance. You aren’t supposed to come out of it until it releases you. Her healer is worried. Right now, she is…tainted by the memories. And even when released, few recover from their experience of this particular Remembrance.”

  “No?” Joshua asked. “Why not?”

  “Gardianju was…” Terry stopped to consider his words.

  But Deryl knew. “Insane,” he whispered.

  Terry nodded. “I feel that means something different to your people. For us, insanity is not just a personal mental state. It can pass through mental contact.”

  “A contagion.” Deryl resisted the urge to wrap his arms around himself. He stared at his hands clasped in his lap. Silence stretched.

  “So, if it’s a disease—an actual illness—to you, you can heal it, right?” Joshua asked.

  Terry, too, looked at his hands, fingers moving as if over a wound. “It’s too dangerous. We isolate the person; they survive—or not—according to God’s will.”

  I did this. Deryl hugged himself and closed his eyes. “And Tasmae? Will she?”

  Terry shrugged. “It is different with Remembrances, but it is said no Miscria survives the encounter unchanged.”

  Joshua set a hand on his shoulder. Deryl forced out a breath and unclenched his teeth.

  “Slow down,” Joshua said. “What do you mean unchanged? They’re haunted by the memories but otherwise able to function? They end up gibbering in the corner? What?”

  Terry watched Deryl with concern. “Ydrel, you do not know?”

  Deryl shook his head.

  Then he knew, knew as all Kanaan knew in a composite memory/warning. Barin, huge and heavy in the sky. The Miscria, unkempt and wild eyed, “screaming” At the planet while around her plants wilt, crops fail, p
eople and animals falter and collapse around her. Leave us! Go Away! Move! The more she screams, the further the blight spreads—

  Deryl tore himself away. “Why is Leinad making her do this?” Deryl exploded.

  “It’s not his choice.”

  “What?” Joshua demanded.

  “She goes insane and takes out half the planet.” Deryl gasped and tried to catch his breath. I caused this. I caused this.

  “What?”

  “People, animals—even the grass! Then, then she…” He couldn’t say it. He placed his hands over his nose and mouth and breathed slowly, trying to halt his hyperventilating.

  Terry took up the tale, his voice soothing, as if to a scared child. “She dies, but afterwards, there is recovery and a long period of peace. For many years, Barin keeps itself aloof. Then, the cycle starts anew, the Miscria are chosen, and eventually one must sacrifice herself.”

  “Not this time!” Deryl stood up and looked at his friend, the psychiatric intern. “I know your purpose.”

  Chapter 11

  Deryl stood on the slight outcropping of the cliff cave and looked over the scene with satisfaction. On the opposite side, archers worked in the caves, building natural blinds by transplanting the scraggly bushes that grew along the sides of the cliff. Ropes disguised as vines ran from the caves to the top of the mesa, some for climbing, some for hauling weapons down or injured up.

  Beside him, Salgoud watched a vine that lowered a bush to one of the caves. He frowned, and Deryl knew he was worried that in battle, the motion of the vines would alert the Barins to the archers’ locations.

  Deryl projected an image of a quiver of arrows being lowered slowly, with frequent stops at varying moments. It would be noticed by someone with the leisure to watch, but in battle, could easily go unnoticed, especially if the quiver were camouflaged. He further added an image of the archers in camouflage uniforms and face paint, all but invisible, until they started shooting—and if they timed the shots right, the Barins would have a difficult time pin-pointing them.

  He felt Salgoud’s grudging approval, followed by his doubt about how effective these tactics would be in general. Not everywhere had such convenient cliffs.

  Convenient. Deryl snorted. The forty-foot climb down to the tiny ledge had been one of the most harrowing experiences of his life—and he’d had plenty. Once on the outcropping, he’d been relieved to find it bigger than it had looked from above, but it was still too narrow for his taste. He had a dizzying image of standing on the ledge of a skyscraper, looking thirty-three stories down, wind whipping his hair and threatening to sweep him off—

  He leaned back, trying to ignore the lurch in his stomach. Those were not his memories, he reminded himself. Salgoud glanced at him, but Deryl hid his feelings behind his shields. Instead, he replied that the ideas used here—camouflage, hide-and-ambush, attacks from angles the enemy didn’t expect—could be applied anywhere. He never could get Tasmae to understand camouflage in the Netherworld. She kept insisting that the enemy would know they were there. Now, he understood the attitude: As psychics, Kanaan had the natural ability to know where something was.

  But the Barins aren’t psychic. They have to depend on their eyes. You know, Salgoud, when you practice, even the Barin team acts like Kanaan. They need to act like Barins—with the same limitations. Then you’ll see for yourself that you have a natural advantage you should be using.

  YOU HAVE A NATURAL ADVANTAGE OVER THOSE AROUND YOU. USE IT! The words of the Master came echoing back into Deryl’s mind, and he suppressed a shudder that he should be repeating that advice. Just because he was an evil manipulating megalomaniac doesn’t mean he was wrong. He glanced at Salgoud, relieved to find him focused on relaying the Ydrel’s ideas to his people, and not on him.

  Get with the program, Ydrel. Concentrate! Deryl told himself and stepped forward out of the shadows to see how well he could spot the now-hidden archers hunkered down in the holes in the cliff walls—

  —holes in the walls. Spiders crawling out of the holes in the walls. They’re coming after me—

  —They’re after me. They want the secrets I know. I’ll never give in, never! I’ll die first. I’ll kill—

  —kill them all. Who do they think they are? Don’t they know I am God? I’ll make them bow down or they can die, the insignificant—

  —Insignificant. That’s what I am. No wonder no one wants me. Why didn’t they just let me die? Why’d they stop me from jump—

  —jump. I could, you know. It’s okay. I can fly—

  A hand on Deryl’s shoulder jerked him back to reality, and he spun, causing Salgoud’s grip to tighten lest he fall. He realized with a start that he’d been poised on the edge of the cliff. His heart thundered in his chest.

  Voices. Images. Feelings. Vaguely familiar. Not his. And they’d struck without warning. That hadn’t happened with such intensity since he’d first been committed, even before his transfer to SK-Mental. What was going on?

  He searched Salgoud’s face. Had he realized what had happened?

  Fortunately, Salgoud had picked up on his fear, but not the thoughts behind it, and had come to his own conclusions. He peered over the edge and spoke in English. “It’s not the fall that’s so bad, but the sudden stop at the bottom.”

  Deryl laughed incredulously. “We have the same joke on Earth.”

  “So our people share something. Not all are comfortable with heights. Let us see the caves from the other side. If you wish, you may bind yourself to me.” He made the offer matter-of-factly and continued in English to calm Deryl.

  Although grateful for his concern, Deryl nonetheless shook his head. He’d come down halfway on his own. He could handle the rest solo, too. Better not to show weakness to the commander-in-chief of the world’s defenses. He took a firm grip on the rope and lowered himself over the edge, and all the thoughts about voices or the Master vanished in the need to get to the ground in one piece, avoiding any “sudden stops at the bottom.”

  *

  With effort, Tasmae pulled herself away from the drooping fronds of the Remembrance, away from the anguish and confusion. She looked around for the person who she thought had set a hand on her shoulder; but finding no one, she sank back onto her heels, then fell to one side, curling up into a tight ball of misery. Images and emotions continued to overtake her: spiders and people who hated her, feelings of unnatural power and of falling into endless night. Helpless against them, she was dimly aware of Leinad and the healer watching her, even more aware of how neither offered her aid or support. Loneliness and fear crashed down on her. Sobs escaped her throat.

  I’m not ready for this! I don’t know what to do—no one taught me how to handle this. Did my mentor know? Did it die with her? Why didn’t you teach me?

  Tasmae grabbed her hair, pulling at the crown, as if she could tear the experiences out with each yank. She remembered the agony of first experiencing the pain and motions of Kanaan. How nothing those were. There’s too much—too many emotions, too many insanities. Too much!

  Too much crowding her. The walls too close, cold and windowless, square and an unnatural pink. She wanted to run, and couldn’t. Her arms wanted to wrap themselves around her waist. Lying on her side, she tried to rock.

  She thought of the other Miscrias, screaming uncontrollably, falling unconscious for weeks, forever changed. It’s happening to me! No, worse. I’m half trained, half skilled, and all alone. No one will help me.

  Stop it, she scolded herself. I may be a half-trained Miscria, but I am a fully trained warrior. I will fight this! I am not alone. My people are here, and they need me. The Season of War approaches—there is no time for self-indulgences of pity. A wave of despair washed over her but she fought to its surface. They need me. The Ydrel is here. Deryl. I must find out what it means.

  The panic died, leaving exhaustion. She reached for the Remembrance
, but her hand trembled violently and she let it drop. Her tears had stopped; her eyes felt gritty and oh-so-tired. She closed them. She felt her responsibilities call to her, but she couldn’t make herself move. Maybe if she just rested a moment…

  She sensed a stern command to wake up and felt the toe of Salgoud’s boot dig into her side. She rolled over on the hard ground, psychically muttering a plea for just a few more minutes. They’d marched half the night…taken shelter in this cave. It was so cold and close and the rosy color of the rocks frightened her for some reason. She hadn’t been able to sleep before, but was unwilling to wake now. A rock pressed into her side.

  Salgoud’s urgings sharpened. She had a duty. She was the Miscria, and a warrior for her people. She had no time for self-indulgence.

  Again, she protested, shifted away from the rock, which had dug into her painfully. Salgoud’s boot found the same spot. Pain lanced through her, tearing her side, a ripping of the earth—

  Tasmae’s eyes snapped open. An earthquake! She reached out with her powers to heal the wounded land, but she was too drained from the Remembrance. The earth did not obey her command, refused to be gentled by her psychic touch. She sent out an alert, but the shielded room rebounded it upon her. She turned to Leinad and the healer, but they were as shielded as the room.

  “Please!” She rasped. “An earthquake—in the sea—a tsunami—the villages on the coast must be warned!”

  She watched them look at each other, surprised at her coherence, suspicious of her words.

  “Listen to me!” She said desperately. “They have to be warned. They have to run!” She forced herself up. The room spun and her knees threatened to buckle, but she’d fight the two watchers and escape this room if she had to. “I have to tell them.”

  Tell me, the healer finally said. I will relay the message.

  Tasmae leapt upon the offer, ignoring the healer’s fear. She shared the location of the earthquake, the movement of the waves as they grew to deadly strength, the villages that lay in their paths. She watched, trembling, as the older woman relayed the information. After a moment, the older woman nodded. It is done. The villages have been warned. It is evening there and the boats are in. All should be safe. Rest now, but you must continue.