“You weren’t dreaming.”
“Go away,” Lisen ordered, punching her fist into the water with a splash.
As the warm water settled, Lisen pressed the wet cloth covering her eyes down harder. The voice of the Other, the possessor, would drag her back, and she didn’t want to go back. Ever. She allowed her body and her mind to slip further into the waters of oblivion.
“I’m singin’ in the rain, just singin’ in the rain….”
She sang softly, her voice echoing off the tiled walls. The warm washcloth over her eyes, her guilt and frozen loss invited a memory from her other world, the memory which had started her singing.
Ah, she thought, “what’s it going to be then, eh?” An often-stated query in a favorite movie, a favorite book, a story about choices. She smiled, drifting home—home.
Little Alex, she thought with a grim grin, the “humble narrator” of A Clockwork Orange, played to sociopathic perfection by Malcolm McDowell in the movie, lounging in the bath—just like me—worn, beaten, demoralized, filled with self-pity and soaked after running through the rain for help. And then the hot bath where all the sweat and mud and blood had melted into nothingness, meaningless nothingness. Glorious Little Alex.
“What a glorious feeling, I’m happy again,” she sang.
Ah, Little Alex and his love of all classical music, especially Beethoven’s Ninth. How he’d loved its powerful climax, its “Ode to Joy.” Little Alex and his ultra-violence—which had gotten him into all that trouble in the first place. Lisen understood that better now than all the times she’d watched the movie. There were different reasons why people did bad things, but Little Alex lacked a conscience. They’d tried behavior modification on him, poisoning the “Ode to Joy” for him in the process, but it had ultimately failed. He could never stop loving the blood and the terror before the kill.
Is that me? Lisen asked herself, terrified of the creature inside who had killed with so little remorse. Am I Little Alex?
“Wake up, Lisen!” the inner voice ordered, and Lisen sat up, holding the wet cloth in place, ineffectual protection against the throbbing which only increased each time Jozan spoke.
“I’m awake,” she responded through clamped teeth.
“Where are you? Do you know where you are?”
Lisen could feel the marble at her back. She knew the bathtub stretched out to the size of a large wading pool, filling nearly the entire room. Water continued to flow in—hot, relaxing water—as the tub had only been half full when the sister of her possessor—if Lisen thought her name, she’d never escape—had guided Lisen in.
“Yes, I know where I am,” Lisen replied slowly, then allowed herself to slip beneath the water, her loose hair floating above her head like a copper crown.
Soon Mom will come into my room, wake me up and rescue me from this awful nightmare. Soon I’ll be free of pain and grief, of death and loss. Daisy Holt will save me from myself, and I’ll sit up and tell her all about it while she nods sympathetically. This is one of those dreams that Dr. Holt likes to share with her psychiatrist friends for interpretation, but this time I’ll tell her no. This is too personal.
Her head surfaced in the water, and she placed the cloth over her eyes again and allowed her other hand to rest on her belly, on the slight protuberance of her virgin pouch.
“Let the stormy clouds chase, everyone from the place….” The singing, echoing off the tiled floor, walls and ceiling, calmed her.
“Home.”
Lisen let the voice drift through. Resistance only made it stronger. “Come on with the rain, I’ve a smile on my face.”
“You have to let me talk to them.”
“Bad idea.” Lisen pressed the heels of both hands against her forehead.
“They’re so sad,” Jozan pleaded. “If they knew I was all right.”
“But you’re not all right, are you. Nothing’s all right. It’s all wrong, and I’m wrong, and I have no idea who I am anymore.” Lisen Holt. Lisen of Solsta. Ariannas Ilazer. Which one had killed? Which of those multiple personalities had pushed?
“I know who you are. You’re the Heir of Garla, and I’m the heir of Minol.”
Lisen shook her aching head slowly. “No. You’re dead. Your soul is locked inside of me, and it’s going to destroy us both.” Wasn’t it enough that she desperately wanted, needed, desired her mother—her real mother—not the one she’d known for only a moment before death had taken her away? Wasn’t it enough that she had been dragged repeatedly from one strange place to another even-stranger place without anyone ever noticing that her soul was growing thin and less and less capable of coping? Wasn’t it enough that this damn possession would likely destroy her? No, these things were nothing to the losses piling up one on the other, culminating in the loss of what innocence had remained when she confronted that spy in Halorin.
“Lisen?”
She jumped, water splashing everywhere. It was the sister, and Jozan rose up to answer as Lisen tried to still the troubled waters in the tub.
“Yes?” she replied.
“Bala. Bala, I’m here.”
“No!” And Lisen, realizing too late that she’d replied out loud, clapped her hand over her mouth.
“What?” Bala asked as she approached the bath. She cradled what looked like towels in her arms.
“Nothing,” Lisen replied. “Nothing at all.”
“I’ve brought you towels and a clean tunic.”
“Thank you.” Lisen rose, water dripping from her hair and upper body, and reached out to the grieving noble. Her grief is all my fault, Lisen thought. How could she ever redeem herself? Bala handed her a towel and then sat down on the bench beside the tub. Lisen dried what parts of her didn’t remain in the bath water, then stepped out of the tub to complete the process.
“Father’s explained,” Bala said, eyes down. “If I’d realized….”
“If you’d realized what?” Lisen asked, irritated at what she perceived as coy hesitation.
“That you’re Flandari’s Heir,” Bala responded, brows furrowed as she scrutinized Lisen.
“Well, I am,” Lisen tossed off abruptly as she dried herself. “It’s my so-called destiny, not my idea at all,” she continued gruffly.
“Oh.”
Lisen sensed Bala’s withdrawal. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was…cold.”
“No. No. It’s not you.” The young woman looked so sad, so…empty. Lisen had made a mess of everything, lost everything, and now this.
“She’ll survive,” Jozan reassured her gently. “Bala’s tough. Not so sure about you, though.”
“Thanks.”
Lisen sighed. Postponed grief hovered, and the constant mental intrusions made her jumpy, easily distracted. She figured that eventually she’d find it impossible to remain in the present, and then the present would become the distraction. The reality she sought, whatever and wherever it may be, would elude her, and poof! she would disappear. No longer either of the Lisens—neither Holt nor Ariannas—just a shell. An experiment in somebody’s lab some place, that’s me. Proposition: Sanity cannot survive the onslaught of the wrenching away of the familiar along with the complication of possession by a displaced soul. That’s how Simon Holt would have put it at the dinner table.
“Here,” Bala said, drawing Lisen back to the now. The noble handed her the tunic. “I’ll leave so you can dress.” Bala rose and started for the door.
“No. Wait.”
Bala halted but did not turn.
“Please, bring her back. Talk to her. Let me listen. I won’t interrupt.”
Lisen couldn’t fight Jozan any longer. “Stay,” she said to Bala. “I…I’d like for you to stay.”
Bala’s presence comforted Lisen. Or it comforted Lisen Holt who missed her best friend. Or maybe it comforted Lisen-as-Jozan who wanted more time with her sister. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not anymore.
Bala returned to the bench and sat down, and Lisen began dressing, fi
rst slipping into the pristine undergarments, wondering absentmindedly off in some unused chamber of her brain who they belonged to.
”I didn’t mean for her to die,” Lisen said softly, her apology muffled by the tunic as she pulled it on over her head. She’d chosen this moment to apologize because she wouldn’t have to look at Bala as she said it.
“Of course you didn’t. It’s her way, always into some sort of trouble. Always creating some kind of chaos.” Bala’s smile faded. “At least it used to be her way.”
“I can fix this.”
“No.” Lisen managed to maintain control, but Jozan grew harder and harder to resist. So tempting to soothe this young woman’s pain with a loving hug and some word of endearment known only to the two of them. “No!”
“I found her very giving,” Lisen managed, recalling Jozan’s willingness to listen to an incredible story about a place known as Earth. Jozan had believed Lisen in spite of all logic and then had offered her the gift of grief, comparing Lisen’s abrupt separation from family and friends—not to mention Eloise denying her any hope of return—to death. Lisen wished Jozan had never mentioned grief. I’m an orphan, she thought. Me and Harry Potter. Lisen couldn’t handle it, not all at one time. It was going to destroy her.
“That’s Jo,” Bala replied, oblivious to Lisen’s crumbling rationality. “She got herself into trouble more than a few times with that giving nature of hers.”
“Ah.”
“Shh.”
“She saved my life,” Lisen said, struggling to speak well of someone whose vice-tightening soul would soon shatter Lisen’s mind into tiny, useless pieces. “She distracted the spy long enough for me to figure out what to do.”
“Maybe, after you’ve rested up a bit, of course, you can tell us about Jo’s last days. I’m sure my father would….” But it seemed the thought of her sister’s “last days” became too difficult to bear, and Bala broke into tears. Jozan wailed within, and Lisen surrendered, sitting down on the bench beside the beloved sister and taking her in her arms. With all the will left to her, Lisen struggled against Jozan’s will, but she knew she couldn’t hold out forever, not while she was surrounded by Jozan’s family, not here where Jozan had grown up. I have to leave.
“No. This is my home,” Jozan countered obstinately, an edge of anger creeping out which Lisen hadn’t sensed before.
“I need a necropath. How far away is that haven? Erinina, isn’t it?”
“Why do you need a necropath?” Jozan’s tone, if you could call it that, had gone from anger to resistance.
“I think it’s my only chance,” Lisen pleaded, unsure if there was any chance at all but sure that if there were one, only a necropath could help. “How far is Erinina?”
“Too far.”
The answer came too swiftly, and Lisen suspected it was a lie. Perhaps hope, at least partial hope in the form of Erinina’s necropath, awaited her, closer than Jozan would admit.
“I won’t let you leave.” Jozan, or the semblance of sanity that had been Jozan, was dissolving.
“You’re not in control,” Lisen countered. “Not yet.”
“In enough control for one little word.”
“Sweetness,” Lisen heard herself say and realized she had succumbed to Jozan’s desire.
Bala pulled away, out of her arms, and stared at her. “What did you call me?” she asked.
“Damn.” Lisen started and rose, horrified. “I have to go. Please tell your father that I’m sorry.” She paced in the tiny drying-off area of the bath, her mind swirling in the desperate desire to keep moving.
“Which way?” she demanded of her inner companion.
“You’ll never know.”
“You owe me. You owe us.”
“You can’t go,” Bala said, and Lisen struggled to juggle the two conversations—the one within and the one without.
“I have to.”
“You arrive here, covered in blood, full of horrible news.”
“I had nowhere to go,” Lisen replied hastily. No time. There’s no time.
“You tell me that my sister has been murdered but give no details.”
“I can’t stay. Really,” Lisen responded with a grimace.
“I’ve just lost my sister and now you’re going to leave?”
“You don’t understand!” Lisen shouted and then covered her mouth with one hand.
“Now you’ve done it,” Jozan stated bluntly.
“I’m sorry,” Lisen whispered.
Bala sighed deeply, stood up, put her hands on Lisen’s arms and gazed deep into her eyes. “Then explain it to me,” she said.
A knock at the door rescued Lisen from another vague response.
“Come,” Bala said, never releasing Lisen from her hold or her eyes.
The door opened, and the voice of Jozan’s father intruded. “Bala, Lisen, we have company.”
“Who?” Lisen asked, alarms ringing in her mind from every angle.
“It’s Nalin. He’s brought Jozan home.”
Lisen gasped. She couldn’t face Holder Corday.
“Father, give us a moment, will you?” And still Bala held Lisen firm.
“A moment only,” the holder allowed and then turned and left, closing the door behind him.
“Now, what is it I don’t understand?” Bala asked. “Tell me.”
“If I stay, the stuff bouncing off the inside of my head will never stop.”
“Why?”
“Because….” Lisen closed her eyes.
“Yes,” Jozan encouraged. “Tell her.”
Lisen took a deep breath and then continued. “Because your sister’s soul is inside me, inside my head. I began the passing, but then somebody came up the stairs. I’m not trained, and I ran away without completing it. I think…no. I’m possessed. If I stay here with all that’s familiar to your sister, I’ll never be rid of her.” There. She’d said it. Aloud. To another person. She dropped to the bench, her head down. She hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone, especially anyone Jozan loved.
Bala sat down beside her. “All right.” She shook her head. “All right. If you say so. I’m sure there’s more, but I suspect you’re beyond explaining it right now.” She didn’t sound convinced.
Lisen nodded. Jozan clambered towards the surface, pushing aside all the other crap which eventually would have her if Jozan didn’t.
“So. You can’t stay here, but there must be somewhere where you can get the help you need,” Bala said.
“Erinina,” Lisen muttered.
“Just across the river,” Bala replied, studying Lisen’s face.
“I need a necropath.”
Bala shook her head. “They don’t have a necropath right now. Besides, you need the best, and the best is at Rossla.”
“Too far away.” From what Lisen could remember, it was easily two weeks’ ride from here. An airplane or, at the very least, a car would have given her a better chance of getting to a necropath on time, but nothing faster than a horse and buggy was available in this backward place. “Too much time.”
“You have to try,” Bala urged, sounding nearly as desperate as Lisen felt. “But you can’t go alone. You need to tell Father and Nalin.”
Holder Corday. How do I face him? But Lisen nodded. Nothing about her life belonged to her anymore, not even this.
“They’ll know what to do.” Bala rose and reached out to Lisen, but Lisen hesitated. She felt disconnected, unrelated to her surroundings. The room swirled and she nearly dropped to the tiled floor, Bala only catching her inches away from injury. “Are you all right?” Bala asked as she helped Lisen back up to the bench.
“I…I think so. Where am I?” Lisen didn’t know. She watched people she knew floating past her eyes, people she knew from Earth and people she knew from Garla—if Garla were real, which she was beginning to doubt again. She could see the young woman squatting down in front of her, sensed the substance of her, knew she could trust her, but couldn’t remember who she was. “Who
are you?”
“Oh, Creator,” the young woman said and rose up, putting Lisen’s arm over her own shoulders, supporting not so much Lisen’s weight but her balance, and led Lisen wherever it was she was meant to go. Lisen didn’t know, nor did she care. Wherever she wound up, she wound up. Lisen’s mind kept pulling rabbits out of hats and sawing ladies in half, playing its sleight of hand on her, leaving her hopelessly confused. She was aware of a short hall, a couple of steps down and finally a large room, some sort of main hall or something. She looked up, still leaning on Jozan’s beloved Bala whom she could remember now, and saw Holder Tuane and Holder Corday sitting in the two chairs in front of the fire. The two men rose, and Holder Corday started to step forward. Lisen halted, tried to pull back behind Bala, but Bala took Lisen’s hand and pulled her forward gently.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m here,” she whispered in Lisen’s ear as they moved closer to the two holders.
“Thanks,” Lisen whispered back, but within, the possession began ripping away at Lisen’s defenses. It wouldn’t be long before Lisen could no longer access reason. She could barely find it now.
Bala and Lisen reached the holders, and before anyone could say anything, Bala spoke. “The situation is more complicated than we thought.”
“How’s that possible?” Holder Corday asked.
“Lisen?” Bala said.
“Tell them,” Jozan nudged, a bit of the best of her peeking through.
But how much? It was rhetorical; there was no answer, no good answer, no right answer to that question. She couldn’t tell Holder Corday here in front of the others about…about the place she’d come from…about how she was no hermit and certainly no necropath and had had no idea what she was doing with Jozan. Or with Empir Flandari, for that matter. All that was left was the possession. He’d brought his friend’s body home so he must know what had happened in Halorin. At least the secret, the secret of her existence was still a secret. But the other thing…the possessor.
Fractured (Lisen of Solsta Book 1) Page 22