Transmigration

by Nicholas Maes

  “The sea looks beautiful,” Emma went on, stroking Clara’s shoulder. “Although I wish it were storming. I love it when the waves take shape and crash against the rocks on shore. What about that chocolate, Simon?”

  “Right,” he said, taking the candy from his pocket. He put it on the desk and took several steps back, aware that Clara fidgeted when people got near. “I hope you like Oh Henry! still.”

  She took the chocolate without saying a word. Simon didn’t mind, as he knew she never spoke. She behaved the exact same way with her mother, never speaking and never kissing her back. Emma had never said as much, but her daughter was a mute.

  On the other hand, she had surprising talents. Two years ago a bird had flown into a window and broken both its wings. The resident doctor knew something about birds and had taken time to examine the sparrow, only to conclude it couldn’t be saved. That’s when Clara had intervened, taking the bird into her care. Within days it was healed. And a year ago a nurse had cut her hand badly, severing the artery beside her thumb. She might have lost consciousness if not for Clara. The doctor couldn’t explain it to this day, but she’d somehow managed to staunch the blood.

  “Let me help you with the chocolate, sweet. The wrapping’s hard to tear. Would you like a piece, Simon?”

  “No thanks. I’m fine.”

  Settling back, he studied mother and daughter. They looked a lot alike: both were short, had red wiry hair, and the exact same coral eyes. Like her mother, Clara projected great strength and would pace for hours in the downstairs gym — she never walked outside. Once she’d lifted one of the guards, a big man weighing at least a hundred kilos. And she rarely slept, according to the doctors. Two hours was all she needed, and she would get this in snatches, minutes here, minutes there.

  Still, despite her talents and natural strength, her mind wasn’t normal. Not only was she silent but her stare was peculiar. It wasn’t blank — there was a great depth to it — but it was directed inward, as if the world didn’t interest her. At the same time, her posture was impossibly straight and suggested someone who was on the alert, who was listening for sounds of a possible intruder. Maybe that was why she slept so poorly.

  Overall, Simon liked her. He always felt relaxed in her presence, because she never cared if he spoke or not. No, it was more than that: he felt restored when he was with her, less bothered and more confident. For the first time since he’d awakened that morning, his nerves weren’t strained and the static had grown silent. Emma was happy to do the talking and described her morning routines, the cleaning, cooking, and grocery shopping. Clara was drawing with a pad and coloured pencils.

  Her fingers moved decisively and with practised swiftness. After maybe ten minutes one drawing was done. While nicely executed, it wasn’t easy to make sense of. The swirls of colour depicted a cave, with stalactites and stalagmites and four large boulders forming a table. This cave stood next to the sea, to judge by a series of squiggles in the background and the scene of a shark chasing after a fish.

  As Clara touched her drawing up, Emma said she’d speak to Dr. Brown, the institute’s psychiatrist. Simon shrugged. Emma always saw the doctor on her visits, to check up on her daughter’s progress — or lack thereof. When her mother left the room, Clara began a second drawing.

  Simon stared at the flattened sea. Its tint was deepening as the sun sank lower. His thoughts were wandering. His nerves weren’t nearly as unsettled now, but he wondered why he’d felt on edge to begin with, why his head was full of voice-like static, and why his senses were so finely honed — he could smell meat cooking in the building’s kitchen, which was at least four storeys down in the basement. This wasn’t normal. And why had he mentioned Winston’s mother? How had he known she was sick when he’d never even met her before?

  Minutes passed as he continued brooding. He was on the verge of nodding off, exhausted by his worries, when Clara’s movements startled him awake. He eyed her drawings, then sat up in his chair. What the…?

  She’d finished three sketches and laid them in a row. The first showed shadows flying in a mass, like a flock of birds or swarm of ghosts. There were hundreds of them, thousands, all trapped (it seemed) in a human body. While the picture was a simple sketch, it shimmered with emotion, most notably fear.

  The second was much eerier. It showed two figures sitting arm-in-arm. One was normal and looked like Clara, while the other was ghost-like and floating off. The feeling it projected was one of desperate sadness.

  But the last sketch was shocking. Eyeing it, he blanched and jumped to his feet. His head was pounding and his palms felt damp.

  “How did you know?” he finally spoke.

  Clara didn’t answer. She was busy putting her pencils away. As soon as she’d tidied them, she stood and walked toward a nearby door. Halfway there, she returned to the desk: she’d forgotten to take her chocolate with her. Grabbing this, she struggled a moment then finally spoke a single word: “Woplh.”

  “Woplh,” she repeated, with a very great effort. This said, she turned and drifted past the doorway.

  Left on his own, Simon stared at the drawing. It showed a cage with a transparent lid and a metal mesh on top. Inside the cage was a grey and white rabbit. Its eyes were firmly fastened on Simon and its mouth was open, as if it were speaking.

  That static sound was louder than ever and his nerves felt strained to the point of tearing. As he struggled to contain his fear, he wondered why she’d drawn the rabbit with a pair of vicious fangs.

  Chapter Four

  It was 5:41 p.m. when Simon got home. Emma offered him a cup of tea but he said no thanks and raced upstairs. Entering his room, he emptied out his piggy bank. He stuffed his pockets with bills and change, hurried downstairs, and left the house. He didn’t stop running until he reached Noah’s Pet Shop. It was scheduled to close at six and he’d made it with just minutes to spare.

  He hurried to the rabbit aisle and searched the section frantically. There were white ones, black ones, grey ones, and a Mini Rex, but the talking one with the stain on its paw was nowhere to be seen. Had someone bought it earlier that day? Sickened by the music playing, he ran to the back and scanned the various cages.

  “We’re closing in three minutes,” a clerk announced. He had dyed black hair and studs in his lips. “If you’re buying something, bring it to the cash. Otherwise I’m gonna have to kick you out.”

  “There was a Mini Rex rabbit with a stain on its paw. But I can’t see him.”

  “I don’t keep track of the rabbits we sell. And there are plenty of others …”

  “It’s got to be this one. Please. It’s urgent.”

  “Hey, Sarah!” the clerk yelled, eyeing Simon as if he were nuts. “Do you know about a Mini Rex with a stain on its paw? Some guy here says it’s an emergency.”

  “Monster Bugs?” a girl replied, appearing from the rear. She was holding a cockatoo and stroking its feathers. There was a leather strap on one of its legs and attached to it was a delicate chain.

  “Monster Bugs?” Simon asked.

  “As in ‘Monster Bugs Bunny,’” Sarah replied. “That’s one tough rabbit you’re interested in.”

  “Did you sell it? I can’t see …”

  “Are you kidding? Three customers complained it was possessed or something. I thought they were crazy but it freaked me out too —” She broke off as the cockatoo shrieked.

  “That strap’s too tight,” Simon observed.

  “What’d you say?” Sarah asked, stroking the bird in an effort to calm it. Its shrieking continued.

  “That strap,” Simon said, “it’s chaffing the bird’s leg.”

  “How do you know?” the cool guy yawned.

  “I don’t know. I just do,” Simon replied. He shivered visibly. The background music was rubbing him raw.

  “Look,” the guy said, “it’s getting late. We’re closing in three minutes so …”

  “He’s right,” Sarah spoke, inspecting the band, “the band�
�s too snug. Take Buddy to his cage and adjust it, will you? In the meantime,” she told Simon, “I’ll show you your rabbit.”

  They entered a storage space way at the back. It contained aquaria full of crickets and snails — food for the snakes and lizards around them. Simon felt bad for these bugs and was thinking how brutal nature was, the way it sets creatures eating each other.

  “There he is,” Sarah cried, motioning to a cage in a distant corner. Inside it was a Mini Rex eating an apple. Simon saw the stain on its paw.

  “That’s him all right.”

  “So? Do you want him? You’ve gotta make up your mind.”

  Simon hardly heard her. He was eyeing the rabbit. It was eating the apple and seemed pretty normal. The idea of it talking struck Simon as crazy. After all, how could such an animal speak? It had no larynx, its brain was too small, and …

  He almost gasped with relief. His nerves were strained, the music was horrible, his head ached like crazy, but this rabbit hadn’t talked to him at least. It was one less thing to worry about. His mouth was open to thank the girl and to tell her he wouldn’t be needing the rabbit, when a wheedling voice leapt out at him. “I just about gave up on you. It’s good you’re here. Dat music’s killin’ me.”

  His mouth dropped open as he stared at the creature. It nibbled the apple and showed no sign of having spoken.

  “You takin’ me home?” it went on, giving him a sideways glance. “That lura wants you to make up your mind.”

  “Do you want him or not?” Sarah asked, as if to confirm the rabbit’s statement. “I can’t keep my co-worker waiting forever.”

  “Yeah, I’ll buy him. How much are you asking?”

  “Are you kidding? There’s no charge — I want him out of here. But for thirty bucks, I’ll throw in the cage.”

  Simon looked the Mini Rex over. Should he buy it with the cage or take it as it was? Clara’s picture came to mind, of this very same rabbit with a pair of fangs. The recollection helped him decide.

  “I’ll take the cage,” he said, stifling a shiver.

  The walk from the pet store was far from easy. It wasn’t the distance — a mere six blocks — it wasn’t the cage either, although it was awkward to carry. The hard part was the passenger. The rabbit — he claimed his name was Cletho — kept yelling how it wanted out and was sick and tired of being pushed around. And whenever Simon stumbled slightly, the rabbit would insult him, calling him clumsy, dumb, a lura-lover.

  “What’s a lura-lover?”

  “As if you don’t know.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Let me free and maybe I’ll tell you.”

  “You’ll run away and my questions won’t get answered.”

  “If you don’t free me, I’ll rip your lungs out! Lura-lover! Lura-lover!”

  They were walking by Henry. The bum was drunk as usual, but Simon was sure the shouting would wake him. There were also neighbours milling about and he was certain they would look his way to find out who was making this ruckus. But again no one noticed the screaming.

  “You’re wasting your breath,” Simon said. “These people can’t hear you.”

  “Of course dey can’t hear me. But you can, lura-lover.”

  “I wish I couldn’t. But listen, we’re almost home. If you behave yourself, we’ll talk a little, I’ll let you go, and you can do what you want. Okay?”

  “Okay, lura-lover.”

  “And don’t call me that. It’s really annoying.”

  “Course it’s annoyin’. Dat’s why I’m sayin’ it.”

  Simon climbed the front porch. Setting Cletho down, he opened the door and scanned the hallway to check that the coast was clear. Emma was banging pots in the kitchen, Ian (he knew) was over at a friend’s, and his parents hadn’t returned from work yet. Supper was scheduled for 7:15, giving him time to interrogate Cletho.

  It took him sixty seconds to retrieve the cage, run upstairs, and duck into his room. Once inside, he turned the key in the lock.

  “Okay,” he said, eyeing his “guest,” “I want answers.”

  “I have questions too,” Cletho sneered. Its eyes were on Simon’s and the effect was unsettling. “Who are you ’xactly? What tribe are you from?”

  “Tribe? I have no tribe. My name is Simon and …”

  “Can it, sonny. I want de truth.”

  “That is the truth. Look, just answer my questions and don’t spin me in circles! I’m the human and you’re the rabbit!”

  Cletho narrowed his eyes at Simon. If the scene hadn’t been so crazy, Simon would have laughed. A rabbit was eyeing him like a cop sizing up a possible suspect. Finally it nodded, understanding it was stuck unless it clued Simon in.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” it growled, “I ain’t no rabbit. I’m a kaba, a soul. I needed a vadh or vessel to hide in. I was losin’ steam ’cause I was floatin’ too long. So I finds dis rabbit ’n I takes it over, not knowin’ de owner would stick it in a cage ’n haul it to a pet shop in the city.”

  “Hang on.” Simon was frowning. “Are you saying you’re not part of this rabbit? Instead you’re what, a soul of some kind?”

  “Dat’s what I’m sayin’. I’m a kaba, or spirit, dat can project all over. Transmigration, you luras call it. Only I need a vadh or body to rest in.”

  “Do you always hide in rabbits?”

  “Any vadh’ll do, dogs, elephants, birds, gerbils. So long as de vadh’s larger dan a mouse. If it’s any smaller, I can’t squeeze in. Our leader can, but he’s a Khalkon.”

  “You have a leader? You’re not alone?”

  “I belong to dis group dat calls demselves bolkhs. Dey’re all kabas ’n deys number in de t’ousands.”

  Simon shook his head in disbelief. Having a rabbit talk was crazy enough, but the situation was getting odder by the minute. A spirit was comforting him. A spirit! And he’s called himself what? A bolkh or something? And how was a spirit able to address him?

  “How can you talk to me in spirit form?”

  “Dat’s de question, ain’t it, bud? Bolkhs ’n luras don’t never talk togedder.”

  “You keep saying that word, luras.”

  “Dat’s what we bolkhs call human beins. Like I was sayin’, we don’t talk to luras, ’n dat must mean you ain’t no human neither. Your vadh may be human, but your kaba ain’t. How else could you get bolkhin — dat’s our native tongue.”

  “You’re not speaking English?”

  “Course I ain’t. ’N no one can hear bolkhin ’less he understands it.”

  Simon shook his head. This story was rolling out of control. Luras, kabas, bolkhs, and vadhs. How was he involved in this nonsense?

  “Where do I come in?” he asked.

  “Dat’s what I’m wonderin’,” Cletho answered, “You ain’t no vrindh …”

  “A vrindh?”

  “Dat’s someone who’s a mix of bolkh ’n lura. Dey’s has special properties but deir kabas can’t project. If you can hear me, you ain’t one of dem. ’N you ain’t no limnl neither.”

  “A limnl? What’s that?”

  “A limnl’s a bolkh dat’s been fused wid a shatl.”

  “That’s very helpful,” Simon said impatiently. “What’s a shatl?”

  “Geez, you sure are ignorant! Okay, you’ve got vadhs, right? Dose are bodies dat bolkhs can hide in, like dis rabbit fer instance? So a shatl’s a human vadh. You got dat straight?”

  “I guess.”

  “Okay. De problem wid shatls is dat kabas can’t grab ’em de way we can a dog or rabbit. Lura kabas are too strong to displace, unless deys is lakhn, broken dat is.”

  “Broken?”

  “Drunk or loony or unconscious or drugged. Dose luras we can climb inside. ’N we call dese occupied luras hemindhs. De problem wid hemindhs, t’ough, is dat de occupancy don’t last long. When a drunk gets sober, de bolkh is expelled. Right?”

  “If you say so.” Simon was remembering the night before, when for an instant he’d seen the
world through Henry’s eyes, as the bum had been lying there drunk as a skunk. And earlier, when he’d guessed that Winston’s mom was sick? Was that because of the Ritalin in Winston? Were he and Henry — what had Cletho called it — lakhn?

  “But dere’s a way to sink in permanently. I’m talkin’ about newborns. For de first hour after birth, de lura soul can be taken over. Forever, dat is. If you’re a bolkh ’n be lucky to find a baby lura, den you can kick him out ’n make his shatl yours. Dis bolkh is called a limnl, see? De problem is it don’t happen a lot.”

  “Look,” Simon said, trying to control his irritation, “you still haven’t told me where I fit in.”

  “Yeah, well, you ain’t a lura, nor a hemindh, nor a limnl, nor a vrindh.”

  “Instead of saying what I’m not, how about saying what I am?”

  “Dat’s my point! I’ve exhausted all de assortments! De only udder one is outta de question. I’m talkin’ ’bout a woplh.”

  Simon’s eyes lit up. A woplh? That was strange. It was the word Clara had mentioned earlier. In fact, it was the only word he’d ever heard her speak. He looked at Cletho, who was eyeing him sharply.

  “Youse know somet’in’, bud? I gets de ideer you’ve heard dis word before.”

  “You’re right,” Simon confessed. “Someone mentioned it this afternoon. I’ve never heard it used before, then it’s spoken twice the very same day. What are the chances?”

  “Who mentioned it, bud?” Cletho asked. He was staring hard at Simon now, as if trying hard to see inside him. He was straining against the lid with his paws and the plastic almost snapped beneath this pressure. “Who said it, bud?” he asked again, his black eyes burning.

  “Some girl I know,” Simon answered. Cletho’s intensity had him nervous. “She’s our nanny’s daughter. She’s autistic and can barely speak.”

  “You don’t say,” Cletho said with a chuckle. “How very interestin’.”