by Abra Ebner
“Wow, looks like you got pretty far today,” he half laughed as he said it.
I wiped the sorrow from my face before he could notice, reverting back to confidence as I prepared myself to take on his sarcastic barrage of emotionless banter. “Thanks Sam,” my voice was sharp, but mused.
“So why don’t you just do it, pour salt on the wound so you can move on? I know you’re stronger than this, besides, you keep talking in your sleep about how uncomfortable the couch is. And frankly, you’re boring,” he smirked.
I pushed my brows together, “Do you watch me sleep? Come on Sam, that’s creepy.”
He laughed, “Of course I watch you, it’s my job. And I like being creepy, goes well with my superhero image.”
I pursed my lips and shook my head. It had taken some practice, but I was learning to hide my thoughts away from him. I had found a special room in my head that even he couldn’t penetrate and I was sure it was beginning to frustrate him. He was used to the minds of weak humans, so revealing. But I was more than human now, I was immortal, and my powers could somewhat rival his, though I still wasn’t as strong. At least my intelligence and sharp intuition kept him challenged.
I narrowed my eyes at him, “No, I think you’re trying to read my thoughts. You can’t stand not knowing my every whim, can you?”
He fidgeted with his hands as he held them behind his back. His wings were entirely withdrawn into his shoulder blades to the point that you would never be able to discern him from a human, other than the fact that his skin was cold as ice and his eyes were heavily shadowed in a light mauve.
He finally smirked, snorting in a delicate manner which suggested he was guilty, “Maybe, I just like to hear your thoughts, makes me feel alive again. Human thoughts are so boring, what to eat, what to watch on TV, what should I do to poison the earth today. You on the other hand, you’re thoughts are fascinating.” His eyes suddenly lit up with joy.
I narrowed my eyes even further, exhaling sharply. I pushed myself off the cold floor and stood as Henry and Isabelle trotted toward my bedroom doors. They stopped and looked at me as though urging me to follow, but I shook my head in defiance, “Not today guys, tomorrow, I promise.”
They both looked at me as though telling me I’d promised them that a dozen times already.
Sam snorted, “Yeah, that’s exactly what their thinking.”
I turned my gaze to Sam. I had allowed him that thought. “You can’t hear what they’re thinking, so stop pretending you can. You can’t pull that one on me.”
Sam shrugged, “True, but I can feel their emotion, and right now they seem pretty disappointed.”
“Whatever,” I replied tartly. “You’re just upset that I can beat you at your own game, you’re such a poor loser Sam.”
He chuckled, “Whatever.”
I sighed as I darted across the top landing of the stairs to the shelf and grasped the Edgar Allan Poe notebook as though I were walking on hot coals. The thick old leather felt rough between my fingers as I bounded down the stairs as though being chased by the ghosts of my past. I did not want to run away from reality, I just wasn’t ready to face it.
Sam laughed again, “That was some serious Indiana Jones action there, very impressive, but you forgot to replace the idol with a bag of sand. Better watch out, some evil gremlin will likely attack,” he pointed to the stairs behind with sarcastic humor.
I felt a sudden urge to punch him as my bare feet landed like an expert on the foyer floor, and in fact, that was just what I did. As my fist landed hard against his cold bicep however, I felt my fingers crunch and a sharp pain pulse through my arm as though I’d punched a marble statue.
Sam looked at me with sly eyes, my punch no more than a brush of a feather to him, “Whoa there missy, better be careful.”
I grasped my hand as it throbbed and stung. Glowering at him, I rubbed my broken knuckles in rueful silence as I molded them back to normal in slow gentle strokes.
“I don’t get why you choose to inflict pain on yourself like that, time after time. I get the point, you resent me, but get over it, I’m not leaving unless Edgar releases my bond to you.” He paused as he smirked, my heart crumbling like rocks as he said his name. “And I don’t see that happening anytime soon,” he added, an extra twist of the dagger now stabbing at my guilty sad soul.
I growled at him, “Shut up Sam.” My hand was feeling much better and I twisted on one foot and stormed toward the kitchen, a sharp angry beat in my step.
He followed like a soundless ghost, “Oh come on Elly. I didn’t mean it. I’m not used to being polite.”
“Well then get used to it. You’re acting like a monster, not an angel.” His comment still stung in my heart. Any time he uttered Edgar’s name it hurt as though the dagger had stabbed me instead.
“I’m trying, but it’s hard to remember what feeling emotion is like. I still don’t understand why you chose to get your soul back. All it does is complicate things.”
I plopped down on a stool and thumped my elbows down onto the copper island, “Well try harder,” I spat.
“Ok, let me make you some lunch. What would you like?” the desperation in his voice was working, and I began to feel guilty, he simply didn’t know any better.
“How about some sympathy with a side of comfort?” I smarted.
“What’s in that?”
He sounded genuinely confused and I rolled my eyes at him. You would think he could at least smell his own sarcasm being thrown back at him.
“Just never mind.” I sighed, “Go in the upper cabinet, there should be a box of macaroni and cheese, just follow the directions.”
He eyed me with an annoying smirk, I know he knew what I had been talking about, but he was a good actor. I only wished I had been so sarcastic and talented with conversation when I didn’t have a soul, maybe I wouldn’t be as miserable as I was now because I would have never come here, never met Edgar, and I could have lived on in my oblivious depressed darkness.
The box made a dull jingling sound as he tilted it down out of he cabinet and the noodles shifted inside. I thought about my eggs and syrup and wished Edgar was here to make it for me, only he knew how. I was never much of a cook, and my appetite hadn’t really been great anyways. I was still sick over the loss, and I wondered if the sinking feeling of sadness would ever leave. Often they say time heals all wounds, but so far, I felt as though my wounds were still gaping, gushing sadness and blood at every painstaking moment.
Sam eyed me with a knowing glare. I had allowed him the torture of that thought, letting him know how much I resented his attempts at filling the gap Edgar had left. Failed attempts, like eating sugar when you’re starving. There was an abrupt and odd look on Sam’s face and I analyzed it with discretion. I had never seen a look like that before, and I almost compared it with real remorse.
I was proud of myself. Fixing Sam had become a sort of pet project, no man should forget what he died for, as he had seemed to. I knew who he used to be, based on Edgar’s story of how he gave his life for a young girl he barely knew. I had never confronted him though. I was afraid of the outcome, afraid he wouldn’t remember why he was here and become frustrated. As hard as it was to admit, I needed him, otherwise by now, I would have already gone crazy.
Sam was watching me with nervous eyes over the top of the box as he read each direction with diligence, extracting each ingredient and measuring it as though in biology class. Sam didn’t eat either, he didn’t need to. He told me he couldn’t taste it anyways, all earthly desires were stripped from him because of his duty to serve. Nothing must sidetrack him from that. But in my stubbornness, I was determined to change that idea.
He had succeeded in making a pot of water boil as it sat very close to the flames of the fire in the kitchen hearth. I was amazed, even I had never succeeded in that and my mac and cheese was rather crunchy due to that fact. He looked inwardly content with himself, as though he’d accomplished something great.
Maybe Edgar had been right when he said it was easier to be the professor, than pretend to be the student. A professor lead, while a student followed, and it was now apparent, more than ever, that there was no one left for me to follow. I had to face the fact that stepping up to my responsibilities was evident.
I had thought about the college, wondered if Scott and Sarah were still there. It was mid summer, so it was undeniable that they were there. It hadn’t seemed right though, to go back. What was the point beyond re-hashing hurtful memories, and the doldrums of waiting? And for what? Death? Still, it hadn’t escaped my thoughts and I was formulating a time to go, just not yet, not now.
Sam struggled with the packet of fake cheese sauce and I giggled in secrecy. He gave me an embarrassed and reproachful glare before tearing the pack nearly to pieces. He only managed to get about half of its contents into the pot before the rest spilled to the floor.
“Don’t worry about it Sam,” I reassured him, surprised to find him worried and angry with himself. Maybe he really was becoming human again.
His face changed from embarrassment to confidence, “Pfft, what are you talking about? I’m not embarrassed.”
I could see the attempt to lie crossing his face and I chuckled once, looking back down at the copper counter and admiring my reflection. My eyes gleamed like small orbs of luminescent opals, reflecting in sharp rays off the copper and back at me.
“Sam?”
He looked back up at me from the fire, his face pulled together in frustration over the result of his cooking, “Hmm?”
“What happened that day, before I was taken? What did you see?” I had never been able to ask this question, everything else had come first, mostly the fact that Edgar was gone.
“I saw you being stupid,” he replied in a blunt and cold manner. His amber eyes scanned my face, trying to pry into my thoughts.
“Yeah but seriously, you saw the cat, right?” my eyes scanned his and I allowed him to see my thoughts, my blurred memory of the white cat, and then the vicious attack of the ravens.
His face seemed to be torn, as though I’d revealed something painful to him. I realized it was a look of failure, failure because he had lost me that day in the woods, and had let Edgar die. It was silly that he blamed himself for that, it wasn’t even his fault, but I could see his dutiful point. He had failed at the only thing he did well, being a guardian.
“Yeah, I saw the nasty feline,” he spat.
“What was it? Why was it here? Could you feel what it was thinking?” I knew how he could feel Henry and Isabelle, and I’d hoped he had felt the cat too. He had to have noticed something.
“I felt a lot of things Elly. There were the ravens first and foremost, but I suppose I did feel a strange muted undertone of something, but it was strange, as though a mixed signal. I was certain of the fact that it wasn’t normal, if you ask me.” He shrugged as he pulled the soupy noodles away from the fire. I watched as he contemplated over a plate or bowl, finally settling for a bowl after the sour expression on his face recognized the contents of the pot to be closer to soup than noodles.
“But do you think it was part of Matthew’s plan, another pawn in his game to lure me away from Edgar and into his lethal grasp?” My voice was laced with curiosity.
“No, I don’t get that feeling, it wasn’t evil. That would be the first thing I would have noticed. To me the world is black and white, evil and safe.” He pushed a plate toward me, his eyes looking at mine with observant curiosity and I could sense he felt nervous that I would judge his cooking skills.
“Thanks Sam. Looks great,” I smiled.
He narrowed his eyes at me and I could feel him navigating every corner of my brain, coming up empty handed. He grunted, his chest rising as he walked into the sitting room behind me where he threw his body onto the chase lounge.
I picked at the soggy mass before me, urging my stomach to find it somewhat appetizing. I could hear Sam breathing behind me, though I wasn’t sure why he did. Being that he was dead he really didn’t need to, but I suppose for the matter of fitting in, it made sense, old habits die hard.
I had circled my life around three rooms. When I first came back it was hard for me to get past the front hall. But now, I felt comfortable being in the kitchen, sitting room, and entry. Healing was a slow process, and my burden to bear. I never understood how humans managed to move on, often so soon after their loss, but I guess love comes down to a choice: You can either get over it and try to be happy, or roll over a rot, all alone. And let’s face it, no one likes being alone.
Sam came and went as he pleased, but it didn’t seem as though he’d gone into any other rooms either. I suppose it was out of respect for me, if he even possessed a shred of any. He was so rude, that it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been to every room in the house. But as long as he didn’t move anything, I didn’t really care anymore.
I worked down another soggy and watered down load of mac and cheese before giving up. I had a new goal in mind, so after throwing my plate in the sink and grabbing the Edgar Allan notebook from where I’d set it on the counter, I tried my best to slink out of the room unnoticed. There was one place in this house I was certain would be easier to visit than my room, and I now set out on a mission to go there.
My hand grazed along the rough velvety wall paper as I traced toward the library. There was really no reason why I hadn’t yet gone there, and I wasn’t surprised to find it exactly the same. I gripped my hand around the frame, feeling the familiar spot where I had dug my nails into the wood a hundred times. The memory of those last stressful days with Edgar flashed before me, the anxiety, and the waiting.
I took a deep breath and stepped into the room. Sam had not followed me, but I was not so naïve to deny he knew what I was doing. Even though I had impeccable sight and hearing, he had even better. I had noticed how he could watch the air before him, nothing there, but to him, there was always something, a particle of dust, a wisp of silk thread. He always knew, but that didn’t mean he always told me about it.
I ran my hand along the thick leather of the couch, finding it cold, rough, and almost uninviting. The notebook of poems in my hand suddenly felt like a ton of bricks as I set it on the seat of the couch. I looked toward the greenhouse Edgar had built for me, and a lump ached in my throat. That room was still too hard to visit, and even seeing it now was like twisting the dagger in my throbbing heart.
As I diverted my gaze from the tables of dead plants, my sight caught the silky mahogany wood of the ladder to the second tier of the library. My breathing quickened, my body now terrified of what I knew was up there. I had tricked myself into coming here, tricked myself into my insatiable obsession with that tiny room, and the painting.
I took a deep breath, placing one hand on the middle rung. Squeezing my eyes shut, the painful memory of Edgar’s hands around my waist flooded my mind. My sides began to tingle with the residual touch as the breath was ripped from my lungs. I cursed myself for whimpering like a fool as I placed my other hand on the rail. I worked to calm the burning pain in my throat, huffing through my nose in heavy breaths instead. I needed this, it had been long enough. My time for waiting was over and it was time for a new dawn. Opening my eyes, I took a deep breath and moved.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Abra Ebner was born in Seattle where she still lives. Growing up in the city, as well as the mountains of the North Cascades at her family cabin, has granted her the experience of a life full of creativity and magic. Her craving for adventure has taken her into the many reaches of the forest, instilling in her the beauty of a world not our own, in a place where anything can happen and will. Her studies in Australia, as well as travels to England, Scotland, Germany, and Switzerland, have also played as a colorful backdrop to her characters, experiences, and knowledge. Come visit the untouched world of Feather, a place where eternal love, magic, beauty, and adventure are just the beginning.
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Abra Ebner, Feather: Book One