by R. T. Kaelin
Turning up the heat, she treated herself to another few minutes of steaming luxury as she thought;
“I do not believe I could live in any other city in this country. Most people do not know it, but the water here in New York is the finest tap water in all the Americas.” Eyes closed, she moved her neck back and forth against the roasting stream, telling herself;
“It is why the bagels taste so good here, better than those made anywhere else. The water…it is just so…pure.”
Obviously such a consideration was more important to her than most others. After all, when anything that comes in contact with one’s skin immediately releases images to their brain, flooding them with every aspect of that thing’s history…purity in anything becomes a huge selling point. One of her acquaintances had gasped when they accidentally noted the total of her water bill. She tried to keep that fact in mind whenever she stepped into the tub to take a shower, but somehow she always ended up simply standing beneath the cascade, eyes closed, enjoying those few, free moments when the world was kept at bay.
Finally removing herself, looking at the time readout on the small battery clock on the shelf above her sink, she smiled sadly as she thought;
“I may have to admit that perhaps I do spend too much time here.”
The woman wanted to chastise herself, thinking of her ever-expanding water bill, if nothing else, but she could not. Because of her ability, it was almost the only place she found relaxing, that could put her at peace. Toweling herself, working the water out of her extremely long black hair, a voice from the back of her mind countered, asking;
“Where else can I be myself—free from prying eyes and random thoughts? Free from the noise and stink and nonsense of the crowds?”
She had no good answer. Beginning to dress, she sighed with each piece of clothing she pulled into place. Her underwear, surprisingly, was frilly. It was not exotic; it was not sexy. She had no need for sexy underwear, having no one close enough for whom she could wear it. But still, it was pretty, charming, and at the end of the day when she would undress, could shed the armor she needed to protect herself from the world’s vision, it allowed her to remember she was still a woman.
She stared at herself in the mirror for a moment, enjoying the idea that she was a female while she could. Then, she realized it was almost time for the world to come crashing in on her, and she bent to the task of covering her legs and arms, body and head, rapidly assembling the skirt and blouse, shawl and socks and gloves and boots and all the formless, drab camouflage she needed to hide herself from the staring, mindlessly gibbering planet all about her.
As she continued to ready herself for the day, her mind brought forth a snippet of memory—a chance moment, hearing a policeman speak about his kevlar vest. It had saved his life, stopping a bullet which otherwise would have killed him. One would think he would have been happy about such a thing, but he was not. The officer had grown to despise the vest. Not because it had saved his life—he was not a disturbed individual. He was merely a sad one.
What bothered him about the vest was his need for it, the fact that he could not go out in public without it. Or, more correctly…it was the fact that he actually could go out in public without it if he so desired…but that he was afraid to do so.
Having finished dressing, feeling the impulses focused on her from the outside, she walked straight for the front door of her building, her hand on the door’s knob even as the doorbell rang for the first time. She was not expecting a client, but she had felt for some time the attention of the person who wanted her help. As she turned the knob—as the motion stretched fabric from her shoulder to her wrist—her mind spoke of the policeman to her.
She understood his fear all too well. After all, the slightest random touch from a stranger could overwhelm her, flooding her with all of their past in an instant. Failed romances, fist fights, screaming matches, all of it, all their pains and humiliations, all their failures and horrible, petty miseries—rammed inside her brain as if she were a child refusing medicine that needed to be forced down her throat. The way the officer felt about his vest, that was how she feel about all clothing.
Pulling the door open as the person outside was about to ring the bell once more, she discovered a woman of Middle Eastern descent. She was a modern woman, not festooned with a burka, but appearing more to be some kind of middle level corporate manager, or perhaps an administrative assistant of some sort.
“Hello,” said the woman on the doorstep. “I beg your pardon, but—”
“Yes, I know. You’ve come in search of The Eyes of God. That is the name by which you know me.”
“You are—”
The woman’s voice dropped off as she who had answered the door turned and began to walk away, leaving the woman standing alone in the doorway. Caught off guard, the woman on the stoop stammered a few syllables, to which she was told;
“Yes, I am she whom you seek. If you would pursue your matter further, enter my home and close the door behind you.”
The woman, only slightly put off, entered the brownstone, shutting the door and following her hostess to the living room. Even though the sun was high in a near cloudless sky, the windows were heavily draped. Several oil lamps were burning to light the room, a convenience the visitor suddenly thought might only have been lit for her. As she stared, her hostess poured tea into two cups, saying;
“I enjoy none of the titles by which I am known. My name is Lai Wan. Please, sit. Have some tea. Tell me your wish.”
“My name is In'da Bin Goden. I…” the woman’s voice trailed off for a moment, then she said, “two cups, as if you were expecting me. At the door, the same thing. I…” Holding her tea cup in her hands, waiting for it to cool just a tad so she might take her first sip, Lai Wan answered;
“I have felt you searching for me for several days. Once I knew you would arrive now, I prepared myself for the ordeal and had my home made ready. Now, please…tell me your wish.”
“My mother is very ill,” said In’da. “The doctors…they don’t know what it is.”
“I was under the impression they had told you she was suffering from a combination of Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s.”
“How?” In'da gasped slightly. Shock in her voice, she stammered, “H-H-How can you, do you…what? I didn’t…”
“Listen to me, In'da Bin Goden; you are an open book to me. I know what you know. If I could not know such a simple thing, why would you have bothered to come here?” Controlling her frustration, trying to remind herself how unnerving a display of her abilities could be, Lai Wan finally allowed herself a sip of tea, then said quietly;
“Now, I will ask you for the last time…tell me…what do you wish?”
In’da unconsciously picked up her tea cup. Holding it close to her chest, clutching it, she said, “I know the doctors are wrong. I can feel it. There is something else going on, something that none of these, these…”
“Westerners.”
And then, In’da began to cry. Lai Wan waited patiently, sipping at her tea, listening as the woman across from her forced her story out as best she could. The psychometrist could tell In’da was a typical modern woman, hating the mother she loved and killing herself for her perceived disloyalty. There was nothing new in it for Lai Wan, except the level of In’da’s suffering and fear. Because of her abilities, she could see the daughter’s entire life within her head. There was nothing about her relationship with her mother that should have been able to cause her such pain. There was also no doubt whatsoever in Lai Wan’s mind that they loved each other.
Indeed, everything she could see and feel told her the pair were simply an ordinary mother and daughter, sometimes fighting, sometimes not. The psychometrist understood this. She knew that just as sons need to prove certain things to themselves by defying their fathers, so too do daughters need to become women in their own right by breaking with their mothers.
“My mother and I did the same dance,” she thought qui
etly, “as she did with her mother, and she with hers.”
But, even as Lai Wan knew that simple fact, she also knew if that was all she had felt when In’da Bin Goden had first started to search for her, her door would never have been opened to the woman. Somehow she knew there was more at work between the daughter and mother than simple guilt—knew that in the back recesses of her mind, that even In’da could feel it.
Once the woman finally made her plea, begging Lai Wan to come to her mother’s hospital, to examine the old woman and make her own diagnosis, the psychometrist agreed. More than a little curious, she dared the outside world to discover what the unusual vibration was she was picking up from the frightened woman in her living room.
At the hospital, Lai Wan did the best she could to shield herself from the pain assaulting her from every room. When they finally reached In’da’s mother’s room, Lai Wan was slightly taken aback at the mother’s condition. The old woman looked brittle to her—like ancient candy, so old its sugar had turned to dust. That was not what disturbed her, however.
Standing next to the mother’s bed, she could feel pain radiating from the old woman. Not the physical pain one expects in a hospital. What she was sensing was something more—something dark and unpleasant.
“This,” the back of her whispered, “is not going to be agreeable.”
In’da, flustered, looking small and weak as she pointed politely to her mother, asked quietly;
“Can you tell anything…I mean…from there, here…er, ah…” In’da forced herself to stop talking, struggling to take control of herself—desperate to understand why she was so flustered. Facing Lai Wan, afraid she might displease the psychometrist and drive her away, she asked in desperation;
“I’m sorry. I’m just…tired, I suppose. Please, excuse me. Just tell me what to do.”
“Stop apologizing for one thing.” Lai Wan said the words softly, her attention on the old woman before her. Not turning from the unmoving form in the bed, she added in a faraway voice, “You were correct to bring me here. Even after these very few moments I am certain of it. Truthfully, I believed that to be so before we left my home.” When In’da responded with confusion, Lai Wan explained;
“You have been here with your mother enough that much of what is at foot here has left its scent on you. You have sensed these things yourself, which is why you sought me out. I tell you now, you were not incorrect.” Moving a step forward, the psychometrist added;
“But, to tell anything more, I must be in contact with your mother. Please move to one side that I might touch her.”
So saying, Lai Wan approached the bed. As her hands moved toward the old woman, she could feel her daughter in the background, taste the panic written across her face. Handing In’da a handkerchief for the tears she could smell rolling down her cheeks, the psychometrist thought;
“Those who call me Mother Voodoo and Second-Sight Sarah, how I wish they had no reason for such labels. There is no doubt this reading will prove disturbing. Misery hangs in the air about this woman like soot around a chimney.”
Her hands but millimeters away from the old woman’s face, Lai Wan reached for the woman’s head, the only exposed skin. Regarding the old woman with suspicious eyes, her hands still not quite touching her, she thought;
“Something is wrong here—something in the air, something that burns with a corruption I have encountered before.
As Lai Wan’s hands finally came in contact with the old woman’s face, she went stock still, all her concentration thrown forth into her probing.
“Something…”
And then, Lai Wan broke contact with the old woman, pulling her hands away from the wrinkled head—quickly—like a child finally learning what it felt like to play with fire.
“Oh, no…”
She stepped back looking shaken—frightened. Staring down at the unconscious old woman in disbelief, her eyes unblinking, her mouth dried on her suddenly, turning her voice to a near silent croaking as she whispered;
“Not again.”
* *** *
Lai Wan and In’da sat in the visitor’s room at the end of the hall. They had left the old woman’s room because, despite her coma, the psychometrist did not want her to hear what she had to tell the daughter. Avoiding looking into the daughter’s eyes, Lai Wan was just about to finally say something when In’da spoke first.
“Please,” she said. “You’re beginning to frighten me. What is it? What did you see, or ah, feel, or…” Finally able to meet the other woman’s gaze, Lai Wan told her:
“When I lay on hands I do not merely gather impressions. I enter that which is another person’s mind and soul combined. I merge within the reality which they create for themselves.”
The psychometrist spoke slowly. Cautiously. In’da Bin Goden was by that point nothing more than a gaggle of wounded nerves. Straining to tell what she must without causing a panic or a scene, Lai Wan continued, saying;
“From this vantage, nothing can be hidden. Not the physical or the mental. Which does allow me to give you some small comfort…Your mother has neither Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s.”
Only as she said the words did the psychometrist realize her mistake. Before any warning could be given, In’da sprang forward unexpectedly, catching Lai Wan up in a strangle hold hug. Horrified, she attempted to pull back, but it was too late to escape the daughter’s clutches, too late to prevent what had to happen next.
Even as In’da sputtered random phrases of thanks and relief, a thing which could only be described as a demon appeared within the room. In truth it was not really there, was actually merely an image the daughter was picking up from Lai Wan. But that was enough to pull comprehension-less screams from the woman.
Horrid as it was, the monstrosity could have been worse. The thing which appeared for only a flashing instant was no soldier demon, not a fighter or a great worker of magicks. It was the most minor of such things—a slob, really—a sneak thief, a generator of boils. A nobody.
Not a thing all muscles and horns and power, it was instead a small creature—some four feet high. It was disgusting, however, all snot and boils and drooping moustache, sharp but crooked teeth, scraggly hair, wild tufts growing out of every part of its body, thick, cracked nails, running sores, drool dripping from its mouth, and so forth.
Its legs and arms were horribly spindly, its abdomen bloated, its rear sloppy with fat. None of that made In’da scream, however. Not its pointed ears or its wild, bushy eyebrows, not its pocked skin or the thick fluids which oozed out of various breaks in its skin. No, what had made In’da Bin Goden scream had been its wildly evil, pathetic eyes, and the misery they promised.
The thing disappeared nearly as quickly as it had appeared. Pushing herself away from Lai Wan as she screamed, curling into a tight sack of tired flesh against the wall, she demanded;
“What was that?! What the hell was that?”
Staring coldly, Lai Wan snapped;
“Never touch me without my invitation—never!”
“I’m sorry,” the woman apologized. “I’m so sorry, but that thing—that thing! What was that?”
“That was an image you picked up from my mind; it is the demon tormenting your mother.” In’da made to protest, but Lai Wan cautioned her to silence, explaining;
“Listen to me carefully. Many of those giving the appearance of Alzheimer’s, Down Syndrome, Tourette, and so forth, are really victims of demonic possession. These diseases really exist, of course, and in the vast majority of cases they are what their victims are suffering from.”
In her most comforting, yet authoritative voice, Lai Wan continued to talk, explaining to In’da that over the centuries various beyond things, for lack of a better term, had learned to torment their victims in manners which allow them to remain undetected. In far earlier times these creatures would have been called demons. But that was back when their antics were obvious—and easily spotted.
“Now, they have refined their aggre
ssion,” the psychometrist explained. “No suspicion of possession means no exorcism.”
“You’re saying my mother needs an exorcist?”
“No,” answered Lai Wan. Entirely calm and self-possessed once more, she answered, “She needs no outsider.
“She needs you.”
“But how,” asked In’da. The woman wanted to help her mother, and although frightened, was ready. “How? I mean, what can I do?”
In control of the situation this time, Lai Wan said simply, “Give me your hand.”
In’da did as instructed and, before she could even blink, let alone question why she should do such, suddenly she found herself along with Lai Wan, the two of them somehow transported to what had once been a fabulous Oriental garden. In truth, if one looked closely, one could still see traces of its one-time glory, but now most of that lay in shambles—overgrown, befouled, tangled. Grey—ruined.
Everywhere the pair looked, they saw intricate fountains festooned with orchids, flower beds surrounding weeping willows, dainty waterfalls and all manner of beauty, now overgrown and made ugly and twisted by some invading force. After a moment, it became evident that there was a central plaza to the garden which had been completely overgrown with thorns and weeds, with thickets bearing poisonous fruit and steam-spewing, pus-covered vines.
Oddly enough, if one looked closely, they could note that the grass and flowers and the such of the garden have not disappeared; they had simply been overgrown. Underneath the alien invasion they still appeared to be perfect. As they wandered slowly through the near silent landscape, In’da asked;
“Wh-where are we?”
“We have not left the hospital,” answered the psychometrist. “You are still sitting in your chair. But we are also on the dream plane. More specifically, we are on that section of the dream plane where it intersects with your mother’s mind. We are, essentially, walking through her self-image.” Looking around wildly, In’da blurted;