Five: A Maor Novel (Maor series)

by Caroline Greyling

  Somebody was speaking to me in a low, coaxing voice, but I couldn’t make out the words. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from that figure.

  ‘No!’ I cried again and this time, the familiar shape, outlined against the flames, turned toward me. Relief poured through me but turned quickly to dread as, too late, I realized my error. I stared in horror as a black silhouette separated itself from the dark trees and began to move forward stealthily. A long, sharp shape separated from the blurred shadow and I let loose a gasp of horror that seemed to emanate from the very depth of my soul.

  Too late, I thought, as I watched the point descend, I’m too late.

  My vision blurred out of focus again and I never saw the moment the point found its mark - but I felt it. Pain, like burning coals lanced through me, starting in my stomach and spreading, like wild-fire through my veins. I gasped and clutched at my abdomen, confused as my hand came away wet and dripping red, and then I began to scream.

  ‘Shaylee! Wake up, baby, you’re dreaming!’

  ‘Open your eyes…’

  I hear the voices of my parents echoing through a distant tunnel as I force my eyelids open. Another wave of pain shakes me and I clutch at my father’s arms, circling like a steel band around me. Mom’s face hovers above mine, eyes wide with terror.

  I know I’m not dreaming anymore but the pain still consumes me. My mouth moves but I cannot draw enough breath for even one word.

  ‘What’s wrong, baby? Oh God, Kaden, do something!’

  My entire body is on fire and my stomach is the centre of the inferno. I claw at it, unable to stop another agonizing scream from escaping between my clenched teeth.

  My vision begins to fade around the edges and my body quakes uncontrollably. I feel my tenuous grip on consciousness slipping. The pain is indescribable, ten-fold worse even than the time I stuck my foot into a bee hive. I’ve reached my threshold, and cannot take any more, so I close my eyes and let go…

  The first thing I notice when I wake up are my parents, standing beside the window, heads bent together, arguing quietly. The fact that they’re in my private sanctuary is cause enough for concern but there is something so disconcerting about the way they are standing, huddled together, that makes me feign sleep to watch them for a while.

  ‘You know what this means, love,’ my father whispers but mom is shaking her head.

  ‘Maybe it’s not -’

  ‘We can’t pretend,’ he takes both of her hands in his, ‘you know it is.’

  The expression of pure horror in my mother’s eyes sends a shiver of apprehension down my spine and I blurt out: ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ my mother breathes, pulling her hands from my father’s and coming to my side with a strange look of relief.

  ‘How do you feel?’ Dad asks.

  I frown at him and raise a hand to my temple. My head feels thick and heavy and I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve forgotten something important, but that’s nothing new since early mornings have never been my forte.

  ‘A little hazy but okay I guess…Why?’

  My parents share a perplexed look and mom perches on the edge of the bed, taking my left hand in hers.

  ‘Do you remember your dream?’ Mom asks, and the instant my brain hears the word ‘dream’, I am flooded with images.

  Fire… Shadows… Pain…

  My hands fly to the flat plane of my midriff, probing tentatively for evidence. I know it’s crazy, I mean, it was just a dream, but it felt so real that I’m sure it has left scars. Mom’s eyes follow the movement of my hands as I reach for the hem of my tank top.

  ‘Don’t,’ she says, in a strangled voice. I hesitate, fingers curled around the stretchy material, waiting for her to continue and terrified that she will because there is something in her expression that tells me this was more than just a dream. When she just sits there, staring at me, I lift the shirt and look down. I inhale sharply, blink my eyes and look down again, then I spring off the bed and hurry to the full length mirror.

  It’s quite impossible, but there, etched onto the smooth skin of my middle, like a faded grey tattoo, is a strange butterfly-like symbol. Four interlocking ovals make up the wings of the creature, with a fifth, at the centre, representing the body. I rub my hand across it, examine my clean fingers, glance at my mother, who is also looking at the mark, and stare at the mirror again.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, flicking my gaze to my parents’ reflection.

  There is a beat of silence, then my mother answers:

  ‘Something we didn’t expect.’

  There is so much emotion in her voice that I automatically step toward her, but I freeze as she crumples to the edge of the bed and buries her face in her hands. My mother is often overly emotional; I’ve seen her laugh at jokes that aren’t funny, rage over a missing television remote and cry over some silly, romance novel; but never in my life have I seen her shoulders slump and shake with the force of her sobs as they do now.

  My father pulls her into his arms and our eyes meet above her head. It’s like a double whammy for me because he wears a mask of pain I’ve never seen before and my confusion and apprehension triples. He schools his expression and clears his throat.

  ‘Tell us about your dream, Shaylee.’

  I drop my gaze from his and focus instead on the comforting pot of violets beside the bed.

  ‘It was just a dream, dad -’ I evade but he interrupts me.

  ‘Tell us,’ he insists, ‘it’s important.’

  I reach out to fondle the violet petals and glance up, meeting my father’s gaze again. I’m going to have to admit the truth and there are so many reasons I wish I didn’t have to.

  ‘It’s the same one,’ I say in a small voice.

  My mother’s breath catches and dad tightens his arms around her, the muscles in his jaw clenching visibly.

  ‘The same one you used to have as a child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long -’ His voice wavers and for a terrifying moment I think he is about to cry but he clears his throat and says: ‘I thought you stopped having them years ago?’

  I turn back to the violets, unable to look him in the eye and shake my head, once.

  There is a heavy pause and I glance up to see an odd mixture of hurt, anger and disappointment flash across my father’s reflected face.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

  I am so taken aback by the betrayal in my father’s eyes that I cannot speak, so instead, I focus my gaze on the reflection of my mother’s back. Her shoulders still tremble as she cries into my father’s shirt. Dad’s gaze follows mine and his lips pull into a tight line.

  ‘Get dressed.’

  He leads my mother gently from the room, shutting the door softly behind them. For a full minute, I just stand there, staring at the closed door, and then I mentally shake myself and face the mirror again, trying to understand what has just happened.

  I remember the dream vividly: the screaming, the fire, the shadow and the pain - but it doesn’t make any sense. Dreams don’t leave physical memoirs like this symbol. I rub my hand over the faded ink again, once, twice, three times. Maybe if I can erase it from my skin, I can erase the look in my father’s eyes too.

  With a growing sense of desperation, I walk to the en-suite bathroom, pulling off clothes as I go. I climb into the shower and turn on the taps, making the water scalding and then I scrub. I scrub and scrub and scrub until my abdomen glows raw and red - but the symbol remains.

  When my skin feels too tender to touch, I drop the sponge and tilt my head up into the scorching spray, letting the water run down my face alongside the tears.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  I stand reeling in the centre of the lounge, looking from one parent to the other, trying to make sense of what they’re saying. My mother is perched on the edge of the black leather sofa opposite our wide-screen television and Dad stands beside her, rubbing his hands soothingly over her shoulders. She is st
ill visibly upset and this should make me feel compassionate toward her, instead, all I can manage is annoyance. I’ve come for answers but all I’ve gotten from my parents, is another bomb-shell.

  ‘It will only be for a couple of months,’ Dad says, ‘we’ll join you as soon as I can get out of my contract.’

  I press my fingers to the dull throb that still lingers at my temples and groan.

  ‘But I don’t understand why and you still haven’t explained what this is.’ I lift the hem of my camisole and crochet shirts in emphasis, revealing the marking beneath and my mother flinches.

  ‘We can’t explain that now, Shaylee,’ Dad says, squeezing mom’s shoulder and his action just serves to inflame my mounting anger. Why is he comforting her? Shouldn’t I be the one he is comforting?

  ‘You can’t explain what it is but you can send me to another country because of it?’

  ‘Shaylee, please -’

  ‘No,’ I say, in a rising voice, ‘I won’t go. I’m not leaving my entire life behind to go and live in some little-hick town on the other side of the world just because you -’

  ‘You don’t have a choice, Shaylee.’

  My father’s voice is quiet, even as he interrupts me, but the effect is like a gunshot in the room. I’ve heard this particular tone of voice before and I know what it means; if he has to tie me up and drag me onto the plane, I will be going to Aylburton.

  I stare, unseeing at the painted ostrich egg perched on the oak coffee table as I try to gather my thoughts, but it’s like playing pick-up sticks.

  ‘But what about my dancing - and my friends? I can’t just leave everything,’ I say in a small voice, feeling the warning prickle of tears, gather in my eyes.

  My mother makes a small sound of distress and stands.

  ‘It’s the only way we can protect you, baby.’ She holds her arms out to me but I step away, folding my arms across my chest and ignoring the hurt in her eyes. I blink away the moisture in my own eyes and focus on the injustice of this decision, because if I fill my heart with anger, there will be no space for tears. I will not cry. I will not show weakness. I will not be like my mother.

  ‘Protect me from what?’ I demand.

  Mom gives Dad a questioning look but he just shakes his head.

  ‘You just need to trust us, Shaylee,’ he says.

  ‘Aahh!’ I groan my frustration and throw my hands in the air. ‘Why are you being so secretive? What could I possibly be in danger from?’

  ‘It’s going to be ok,’ mom says. She puts one hand on my shoulder but I shrug it off.

  ‘When do I leave?’ I demand in a tight voice, tapping my heel agitatedly against the floor.

  There is a slight hesitation.

  ‘Next Wednesday,’ Dad says.

  I stare at him in shocked silence for a heartbeat and then the words escape in a blast of air from my lungs.

  ‘A week? You’re giving me one week?’

  ‘You’re in danger here. The sooner you get to Aylburton, the better.’

  ‘What danger?’

  ‘Shaylee -’ my father warns with a sharp look and I know my voice is rising again but I’m past the point of caring.

  ‘This is my life, damnit -’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Dad’s voice booms loudly off the walls and wooden floors and I immediately fall silent, although I continue to seethe inside. ‘We’ve made this decision for your own good and there will be no more discussion. I’m going to get you into a bridging course at the Royal Forest of Dean College, so that you can do a Literature course next year. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Nan is already preparing your old bedroom for you and mom and I will be there as soon as we can.’

  As I stare, dumb-founded at my father, some of my anger begins to fade as reality sinks in.

  ‘But what about my friends?’ I whisper.

  ‘You’ll make new ones, baby,’ Mom says.

  Her answer infuriates me. She knows I’ve never found it easy to make friends.

  ‘Easy for you to say, you’re not the one who has to start over in a new country - alone.’

  ‘You won’t be alone.’ My mother clasps both hands tightly together, as though to stop herself from reaching out to me again. ‘Nan will be there and it’s not a new country; you did spend the first seven years of your life there.’

  ‘It’s not like I can remember that mom.’

  ‘But you know Nan.’

  ‘Having a couple of telephone conversations every few weeks is not the same as living with someone.’

  My father shoots me another warning look but I pretend not to see. I feel nauseous and hot, sick with the reality of the life that overnight, is falling to pieces around me. How can they expect me to leave now, just when my dreams are beginning to take shape?

  ‘How long before I can come home again?’ I ask, gripping my upper arms painfully in an attempt to keep my composure.

  My mother drops her gaze to the plush, cream rug beneath the coffee-table and there is a moment of awkward silence; Dad clears his throat and steps around the couch.

  ‘We won’t be coming back to South Africa, Shaylee, we’re moving back permanently to Aylburton.’

  ‘What?’

  I take an automatic step backwards and sink to the edge of the leather chair behind me, my mind reeling and all the air whooshing out of my lungs. Dad reaches out and brushes a hand over my hair.

  ‘You know we’ve been thinking about going for a while.’

  ‘For a visit – yes, not – permanently…’

  ‘You’ll understand soon enough.’

  His words are distant and meaningless. Moving permanently… Never coming back… My mind is stuck like a broken disk, repeating these words over and over again as precious memories flash through my mind, the way I imagine they will when I die.

  There will be no more dancing with Luke, no movies with Jenne, no summer pool parties, no lazy Sunday afternoon braais and definitely no School of arts next year. Every routine I have established, every friendship I have nurtured, every dream for my future is about to be bleached off the canvas of my life.

  And nobody will tell me why.

  It’s you, I think, glaring daggers at my mother, you always want to run my life, to make me do things your way, to live out your dreams.

  I feel the burn of suppressed tears in my throat and I know that I’m either going to burst into angry tears or explode, neither of which I am willing to do in front of my mother.

  I take a step forward; look her straight in the eye and say:

  ‘I’ll never forgive you.’

  As her face crumples, I turn and flee from the room.

  Chapter 5

  Incapacity

  Tastes like: Your tongue after three ice lollies.

  Smells like: The sour breath of a predator.

  Sounds like: Glass shattering in the middle of the night.

  Feels like: The graze of twine against your wrists.

  Looks like: The expressions on the faces of on-lookers seconds before two trains collide.

  ‘Mom, you’re being ridiculous!’

  ‘It’s not safe, Shaylee.’

  ‘It’s less than a kilo down the road, what could possibly happen?’

  ‘You need to -’

  ‘Trust you – yeah, whatever…’ I ignore the way my mother’s breath hitches in her throat and insist: ‘Luke’s waiting. I’ve already put him off two days and I can’t just leave without saying anything. I owe him an explanation.’

  ‘You can’t tell -’

  ‘Relax mom, I won’t say anything about the mark or the dream,’ I say, and add more to myself: ‘It’s not like he’d believe me anyway.’

  Mom sighs and leans her palms on the edge of the kitchen counter, while I stand, hand on hip, glaring at her from the doorway.

  ‘I’ll take you myself,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, come on -’

  ‘That’s my condition, take it or leave it. And you need to take some of the medicine
I picked up from Dr Theron before we leave.’

  ‘But I feel fine!’

  ‘It’s not negotiable, Shaylee.’ Mom gives me a stern look and holds out the small crystal vial, filled with amber liquid.

  I close my eyes, trying to reign in my frustration. If I’d thought my parents were over protective of me before, it’s cake compared to the way they’re acting now.

  With an annoyed sigh, I march across the kitchen, snatch the vial from my mother’s out-stretched hand and tilt half its contents into my mouth. The sickly-sweet medicine trickles down my throat, leaving a warm trail in its wake. Dr Theron has tried to mask the bitter herbs with raspberry extract, but I can still taste traces of garlic, lemon grass and caraway. I swallow quickly, and glare at my mother.

  ‘Happy now?’

  She gives a curt nod and grabs her car keys from the glass dish on the counter, almost knocking over the vase of lilies beside it in the process. She ignores the vase, which wobbles precariously for a moment before settling back onto its thick base as she turns and heads silently through the interconnecting garage door. I blink after her, stunned. She has no make-up on. A chill races down my spine as I follow her into the garage.

  I climb into the Mercedes, glance once at my mother’s weary profile and turn away. There is something uncomfortable simmering below the surface of my anger when I see her in this state. It feels a lot like guilt, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I’m the one who has been wronged.

  As we drive down the street, I stare out of the window at the familiar houses in our street and deliberately turn my thoughts away from my mother to the task at hand.

  Luke.

  We’ve been training so hard for this competition and now he’s going to have to find himself another partner, impossible at such a late stage. As for me…well there is a very distinct possibility that I might not be able to continue my dancing. I take a fortifying breath and shove the thought away. Dancing is not an option, it is a necessity. I will find a way.

  Luke’s Polo is parked outside the school hall when we pull up. I leave my mother waiting in the idling car and traipse toward the door, rehearsing the words that will break Luke’s heart.